Sebastian looked up then, and met Clary's eye. "This doesn't change anything. It can't." His jaw clenched. "Do you understand?"
Clary swallowed, but remained silent.
"Do you understand?"
"He'll kill us," she whispered. "Are you sure?" She addressed her mother, who watched her with shadowed eyes.
"I'm sure." Came the reply. "He's gone."
"Okay." Clary took a breath. "Okay." She tried to gather the obliterated pieces of her sense and piece them back together. "Okay. We keep going from here." She cut a glance to Sebastian. "Do you know if Izzy successfully convinced Simon to help us?"
Her brother ignored Jocelyn's querying look and chimed in, "No. Jon will text me when that happens. Or, I'll call him in a few minutes to tell him everything we've learned. But otherwise, for now, we wait."
"We wait?" She asked incredulously. "We wait and sit and stew in this dump of information we just received?"
"Clary," her brother said. "It's all we can do."
"So, what makes you so sure Simon can help us?" Jace demanded, shifting positions yet again.
It made him antsy, all this waiting. He'd been told that he couldn't participate in this huge plan the Morgenstern siblings had concocted - and he respected that, really, he did. . . but he hated this feeling of being so innately useless. He hated the idea that Clary and Sebastian were out there, putting themselves at risk, and claiming the revenge he'd sought after for so long. Hell, even Isabelle was making herself useful, and going off to convince Rat face to help with some vital part of the plan - though what, exactly, the boy could contribute was beyond Jace - so why was he suddenly the useless one?
"Did Simon or Isabelle or someone ever tell you how Simon's father died? I know it was very traumatic for him." Jon asked, and though, with his legs flung over the armrest of the sofa, his grip relaxed on a book, seeming calm and casual, his words belied his demeanour.
Jace had to blink to keep from confusing the tone of the subject. "No."
"Didn't you hear that charming little titbit Sebastian let slip earlier whilst we were discussing our glorious plan?" Jon asked again, and though his tone was disinterested, the grip on his book turned his knuckles white. "Valentine killed the man who made his computer. Killed him because knowledge about that computer, how to get in, how to operate it, is a valuable commodity. Very valuable indeed. And because such knowledge could lead to his potential downfall, my dearest father had the man who possessed it murdered. Slaughtered in the exact same way that those victims from the list his computer generates are.
"But what Valentine didn't bank on was the man's family." Jon's tone slowed, and became low and ominous. "He didn't realise that whilst his technician was building this do-all or end-all contraption, he was interacting with his two children, with his wife, on a daily basis. Who knows what details he might have let slip before his untimely death?"
"So you're saying," Jace demanded, his brain shooting straight through the loophole in Jon's words, "that we have no definitive proof that Simon can help us at all? That Sebastian and Clary have just entered that place to carry out some insane plan you concocted, with one of the vital parts of that plan uncertain, based on the knowledge that Simon's father was the one who made the thing we're trying to destroy?"
"Don't pretend to care more about my siblings than I do." Jon's voice lost it's carefree edge and became as cool and sharp as the edge of a knife. He put his book aside and flexed his hands, like he was imagining them curling into fists. "You think I'm not just as terrified as you are? But unlike you, I seem able to comprehend that I have no business telling them what to do or not do with their lives. I hold no sway, no power, over their own choices, and if they want to sacrifice themselves to go back into the arms of our murdering father and risk their lives to save countless others, then I have to respect that. I made my choices, and I have to let them make theirs, even if the outcome kills me. And you have no business telling her what to do either, Jace Herondale, not when you made my sister feel like shit just for forgetting you exist for a moment!"
"I-"
"People are dying. Stop with that wounded, self-righteous look, and get your head out of the clouds. Let people focus on the big picture here. Yes, we all know you want revenge. But every. Single. Person here has been wronged by Valentine Morgenstern in some way, so all I have to say to you, is to get in line."
"What about you, Jonathan?" Jace asked quietly. "What did your father ever do to you?"
"He tried to make me a killer!" Jon's fists were clenched now, so hard it looked painful, but his voice was deathly soft. "He tried to make me a killer. And for that, I will never forgive him."
"You burned your family manor to the ground, Jon, with no thought for the people inside it." Jace told him. "You faked your death, and threw no regard to the devastating consequences it would have for your mother and siblings. And now you're sending the two people you claim to love so much to destroy a man's only livelihood." Jace held his chin high, and to his surprise, Jon made his gaze unflinchingly, those his own shone with the promise of tears. "Your father didn't try to make you a killer, Jonathan Morgenstern. Through whatever hatred or compassion you feel for him, you are one."
"Do you think you could help us?" Isabelle asked, and let some of her desperation leak into her voice.
She had to admit it was nice, though, that Simon had ceased glaring at her like he wanted to set her on fire, and instead wore a calculating expression, one that told her he was (hopefully) pondering the matter at hand.
"I'm not sure." He admitted, though that scheming expression didn't leave his face. "But my dad left some of his notes in the attic, where he worked, after he died. We can skim through those and see if there's anything useful."
"Was this what your dad did for a living?" Isabelle asked. "Make computers?"
"I don't know what he did; I was too young when he died. But I guess so, apparently."
Isabelle's gaze drifted to the ceiling, like she could see past the paper lampshade, and the floors above her head, all the way to the old attic she and Simon and Maia had used to play hide and seek only a few years before. "Should we have a look?"
Simon shrugged his noncommittal, but Isabelle knew that feverish gleam to his eye. Knew it and loved it. He was curious. "Well, Rebecca and Mum are away for the day. I guess we could take a peek."
Alec was feeling just as restless as Jace, cooped up in this strange manor even as Isabelle went out to make some sort of bargain with Simon. But upon hearing the rather scathing conversation between his brother and Jonathan, he decided to just wander aimlessly round the manor than intrude on whatever moment they were having.
He heard the doorbell ring, and scurried to answer it, before one of the boys in the other room came storming out in a huff. But who he saw standing on the threshold took his breath after.
His boyfriend froze as they locked gazes, and the curve of his throat bobbed.
Magnus scratched the back of his neck idly. "Hi, Alec."
Never one to mince words, Alec knotted his lips together. His mind raced, searched, for an excuse that he could be here, before he landed on the more important question: what was Magnus doing here?
He asked as much, but the penny dropped before he finished the sentence. "Ah."
His secretive behaviour, creeping away on their date from so long ago, as well as the cryptic mutter "I'm going to kill Jonathan." How he'd never seemed surprised by Alec's stress over the Clave, even if he didn't know what he was stressed about.
And one image was especially vivid in Alec's mind: Magnus's face when he met him at the hospital to visit Max, bloodless and lips wan, with the sort of devastation that only came from the loss of a vital part of your soul.
Magnus had barely known Max. Alec's secrecy over their relationship had kept his boyfriend far away from his little brother, who might have accidentally blabbed to his parents.
That look hadn't been personal loss. It had been the guilt of one who wished with all his heart he could have done something - anything - to avoid this outcome.
The silence stretched between them. "Ah."
Magnus broke first. "Alec, I-" but Alec held his hand up.
"Magnus, wait." He swallowed. "I don't blame you for the lying, the secrecy, any of it."
"You don't?" His boyfriend asked hoarsely, and something in him relaxed until his jovial grin was back in place. It made Alec grin back. "Please tell me there isn't a 'but'? Please please please?"
Alec even laughed at that. "There's no 'but'." He sighed, then stepped forward until there was no longer the doorway between them. He cupped his face in his hands. "I love you, Magnus, and I understand why you lied. I was working for the Clave; you couldn't divulge this sort of information. Who knew what I might let slip, even by accident? You told me all you could. It's not your fault you couldn't tell me more." He kissed him, slow and sweet.
Magnus was shaking as he pulled away, reaching up to cover his hands with his own. "I don't understand." He whispered. "This isn't like you, Alec; you hold grudges at secrecy, and rightly so. What changed?"
Alec's voice was solemn as he said, "These past few days since I've seen you, my sister ripped apart a long-lasting friendship and shut down a relationship that could be good for her before it even began. Don't even get me started on Jace's emotional entanglements; I don't want to find out what's up with him. I just got Max back, and even he seems pretty lost amongst all the shit that's going on." Magnus blinked; Alec rarely swore. "And my father just died, shortly after I found out how unfaithful he's been to my mother and our family." He didn't realise he was crying until Magnus reached out to wipe away a tear. "At least one of us needs to hold on."
"You are so," Magnus's voice cracked, "so brave, Alec." He smiled. "What would I do without you?"
"So, your father wasn't exactly fond of keeping things tidy was he?" Isabelle observed as she clambered up through the trapdoor and into the clutter that lined the attic floor. "I mean, I get that it's been quite a few years, but surely he'd want his workspace, I don't know, clean, whilst he was creating some sort of super computer?"
"From what you've told me, I don't think it was a super computer." He answered candidly, completely brushing over her dig at his father, though a flicker of hurt passed over his face. She flushed violently, ashamed, as she realised what she'd said. She ducked her head, and the fall of her hair hid her burning face from view. She should know better than to speak ill of the dead, especially if they were as close as a father. She cursed herself, even as Simon continued with his monologue, pointedly not looking at her. "It might have just been a computer with a specific task to do, but I don't think it was the sort of massive intellectual thing you have in mind."
Isabelle opened her mouth to ask how he knew what was on her mind, before she shut it again with a snap, cheek burning even brighter than before. Of course he knew what she was thinking. He knew her.
"So, if it's all either stacked away in boxes, levelled under three feet of dust," because indeed, it didn't look as though anyone had set foot up here in years, "or scattered amongst the main clutter, how do you know what you're looking for?"
"I don't." Simon replied candidly, but his hands didn't stop rifling through the boxes anyway. He dug out a small canister, and shook it. A few things rattled - a few loose coins, a whistle, a plastic pencil sharpener - and into his palm dropped a memory stick.
It was plain black, unembellished save for the red sticker wrapped around the base. Simon flipped it in his hands.
"But, I do remember that whilst he never had a penchant for tidiness, he wasn't stupid enough to have no way of organising his things. I also remember that just before he died, he was working on a project for about six months that he colour coded red." He tossed her the stick. "Let's plug that in the computer and see what it rolls out with."
Isabelle caught it, and kept it clutched in her palm as they descended the ladder again and went to Simon's room, where he logged onto his computer and sat in the chair in front of his desk, tapping his fingers impatiently. Devoid of anything to do, Isabelle looked around.
His room was exactly as she remembered it, with various posters of the books and films he liked to watch stuck up on the walls, and his clothes scattered at the foot of the bed. Seeing as there was nowhere for her to sit, she stood rather than perch on the edge of the bed. For some reason that would feel oddly personal, though she'd done it a hundred times before. So instead she just hovered there whilst she waited for the computer to boot up.
Amidst his tapping, Simon raised an eyebrow at her. "You can sit down, you know."
She debated voicing her mixed feelings on the topic, but decided she'd messed up enough and just bit her tongue. She sat down with a plonk. Simon turned back to the computer.
She peered over his shoulder at the sharp intake of breath. "What?"
He scrolled through the document that had opened up on the screen. "This isn't pans for a computer or anything like that," he said. "It's a list of names. Families. Diagrams of family trees stretching back to the 1950s, and no earlier." He touched the screen, like he was trying to reach back in time. He shook his head. "I don't understand-"
"Your father was a genealogist." Isabelle observed with a slight smile. "But what does this have to do with Valentine?"
It was then that her phone began to ring. It was Jon, and when she answered it, he explained everything his brother had told him.