A/N: HEY Y'ALL! 714 reviews. HOLY CRAP. Do y'all realize how amazing y'all are? LIKE REALLY?! That's in only a month. I'm so flippin' overwhelmed to be so supported by y'all. You guys seriously don't know how happy it makes to see y'all actually seem to enjoy my story. It means the world! THANK YOU!

I'll post one more chapter after this, by the way (: SO stay tuned! (:


Chapter Fifty

Jace is gone in the morning before I wake. He doesn't tell me goodbye, only disappears, off with Samuel.

But I don't let myself dwell on the fact that Jace's trust is slightly corrupted. It's not his trust I need right now. It's Samuel's—if I can even trust him, myself.


A Week Later

"And you think this Samuel character can help?" Mother inquires from across the table, in our usual restaurant.

Soft music plays in the corner, dishes clattering softly around us as the cool winter sun just barely passes its apex in the sky and begins shinning in through the huge windows of the restaurant.

"Yes. I think he can—or at least, give me something. Something is going on with him and Celine—some kind of plan. Maybe against Valentine."

"Or maybe for him. Samuel is his brother, Clary," Mother says, her finger tracing the heavy fork she has sitting beside her untouched food.

"Yes, but they don't seem close."

"Valentine isn't close with anyone."

"What else would you have me to do, then?" I snap, irritated. "I'm not getting anywhere any other way. This is a chance to stir things up."

"Lower your voice, Clarissa," Mother orders, giving me a stern look. "Sometimes, we don't need things to be stirred up. Sometimes we must be patient."

"I can't be patient. Valentine expects me to get pregnant, Mother. There's only so long I can go—we're already pushing it, as it is."

"Don't worry about those kinds of things, Clary."

"How can you tell me not to worry about that?" I demand.

"Because I have everything under control."

"But you won't tell me! You won't tell me anything, Mother, and I'm getting tired of it, seeing as how I'm the one in the lion's den, tiptoeing around," I say quickly, lowly, glaring over at her across the table.

"Clary, I am your mother. And sometimes, you just have to trust me," she replies, deadpan. She leans towards me a bit, though, and now her face gets more animated, more fervent. "Do what Samuel asks of you—but be careful not to get caught. Everything could be undone at one false move. Be weary of Samuel, as well, as he may be trying to double cross you or turn you in to Valentine after you've pilfered his things. But, I do believe, this is good. This could help us—at least getting into Valentine's personal things. Look at everything, Clary. Don't leave one stone unturned."

I nod a few times, but Mother isn't done. The frantic light in her eyes becomes brighter, and she's almost smiling at me, though it's a disturbing recreation of the smiles she once gave.

"We're getting close now. Getting close to exposing these bastards for what they are—for taking them down. Valentine will soon be rotting in hell, and we will finally be free."

I agree with her, but after we settle back into our seats, after she gives me the necessary pill to avoid a child, I stare at her and wonder if she'll ever be free. If I ever will be, either.


I spend the next week figuring out the vent systems of the hotel.

Mother gets the Wanderer's blueprints for me from a friend she has in the City Library, and I pour over the plans long enough until I know exactly what vent leads into Valentine's office.

I'm just small enough to shimmy through the air ducts, even if my hips do occasionally get stuck. Now, as I wriggle through the vents, I feel suddenly thankful that I'm not claustrophobic.

It takes me an hour to finally get where I'm going, and then when I finally do arrive, I peep down into the office—and Valentine's there, which I had hoped. I might glean some useful information from him if he didn't know he wasn't being watched.

But he doesn't say a word. He just shuffles through papers I can't fully see with the elaborate vent covering between us. Sometimes he writes in books, the scratch of the pen against parchment the only sounds. And then finally, an hour later, after I'm getting increasingly smothered by the tiny vent, he gets up and leaves—locking the door behind him.

I wait another full ten minutes just in case he decides to come back—but he doesn't.

So, carefully, I undo the vent cover and ease down into the office, dropping lightly on the floor and eyeing the rather large, lavish space with an unobstructed view of the sparkling city below, the city that, thankfully, shines brightly enough that I can see without risking someone seeing a light on in the supposedly empty office.

I creep over to the huge oak desk first, feeling much too vulnerable in the middle of the room, with two walls made up entirely of windows. I crouch behind the desk and begin looking—slow and steady, putting everything back where I found it because it appears Valentine is as obsessive about the order of inconsequential things as Jace is.

Nothing appears important—all memos from Mr. Lamb and others, questions asked, things needing fixing, notes on the border breeches. No journal. No personal information. No interesting information.

I knew there wouldn't be. Even with Valentine's office being locked down tight from the outside, there would be no way someone as paranoid as him would leave vital information lying around for anyone to find. He was, unfortunately, too smart for that—which left me disappointed, but not surprised.

So I began looking just solely for the journal Samuel asked for. I look through all the desk drawers, in all the filing cabinets—even on the coffee table stacked with religious texts.

No journal.

Groaning, I flop down into Valentine's high-backed leather chair behind his desk, my eyes roaming over the city-lit room, at the bookshelves filled with informational tomes (the ones I looked through just in case the journal might be in disguise), at the couch lined up against one of the window walls, at the dark rug I already lifted to see if there was a secret compartment.

Where would he hide such a thing? Maybe he kept it on him? Maybe Samuel had just decided to lead me on a wild goose chase. Maybe he did this, to set me, and maybe, any moment now, Valentine would burst through the doors and promptly toss me out onto the street, all my work for nothing.

I get up quickly, wanting to get away before I can get caught, because now I'm paranoid. And then I hit my knee on the underside of the desk—and something about it seems strange.

Slowly, I kneel down and peep under the desk.

A smile curls my mouth, and I grab for the little hatch, opening it. A dark brown journal drops out, plopping against the hardwoods, and I pick it up, flipping through it rapidly, seeing hundreds of scribbled words that make no sense together—code words.

I find the camera I have hanging around my neck, and I begin the dutiful task of taking pictures of each page, making sure the flash is on so that each word of Valentine's is illuminated for Samuel's prying eyes. Soon, the snap and consequent flash of the camera fills the air, loud and annoying and insistent.

I'm getting increasingly nervous as I flip through the book, unable to hide if anyone where to waltz in. The desire to grab the book and run, to take the pictures in the comfort of my apartment is strong. But I can't risk Valentine coming back and finding the journal missing. I also can't risk him catching me in the act, either.

So I'm torn.

My hands begin to tremble as I find I'm almost done with the book. A sick feeling of foreboding begins to twist in my stomach.

A moment later, I know why.

There are voices outside the corridor, and they send my heart into overdrive, the pounding so loud it's all I can hear.

In a panic, I shove the book back into the panel as best as I can and climb up onto Valentine's chair, gripping the edge of the open vent and trying to pull myself up.

But the voices are at the door now.

The lock is clicking. Unlocking.

My arms seem to be made of noodles, and I can't hoist myself up into the vent. I keep trying and failing.

I blow my sweaty hair off my face and try again because I hear the door creaking open now.

"I just want it done," Valentine snaps. "Don't argue with me—just do it."

"Oh, yes, sir," Mr. Lamb murmurs nervously—from outside the door but rapidly closing in.

I try once more to lift myself up, and I accidently kick the chair away from me. It rolls out from underneath my dangling feet, and I'm just hanging now, my breathing erratic.

"I don't like things like this to go unattended to—they are important for image, Mr. Lamb," Valentine growls, and the door opens a bit more.

A slice of light cuts through the coolly illuminated room, light from the hallway.

He can see me now if he looks.

"Oh, God," I whisper, in prayer, and then, with a determined, silent grunt, I yank myself up. I'm halfway inside the vent now, with my elbows on the cool metal of the bottom of the duct, and I look back down, my stomach clenching with both fear and effort as I move my freely hanging leg towards the chair.

I have to scoot it back into the desk because that's the way Valentine left it. He'll notice if it's not done.

Only, just the tips of my toes can touch it.

I bite my lip in concentration, lowering myself a little, my arms wobbling with the strain, and I nudge the chair back into its place.

And then I'm hauling myself all the way in, just as the door opens fully and Valentine walks inside, slamming Mr. Lamb out.

As quietly as I can, I replace the grate on the vent, looking down with bated breath as Valentine appears in my view.

He sighs, sits down, seems to think nothing is wrong.

And then I hear it—a soft thunk underneath his desk.

"What the…" he mumbles, and then he's ducking his head a little, retrieving the journal that has fallen out of its hiding place—the place I didn't put it back in well enough.

Valentine stares down at it a moment, his white head bent over it, and then his head begins to tilt up, as if he can sense my panic and is honing in on it, like a dog to pray.

I scoot back as quickly as I can without making a sound.

I don't breathe.

I can't.

I keep going, back and back and back, shimmying on my stomach silently and breathlessly, hearing Valentine's door open and close beneath me somewhere.

And then it's silent.

Except for the lock of his door clicking into place, ringing through the air with finality.

I suck in a much-needed, shuddering breath and my forehead collapses against the cool vent as I try to compose myself before, finally, I get the strength to worm my way back to the apartment's vent.


What did y'all think? Let me know! As if I have to remind y'all beautiful people! (: