FANDOM



En esta página habrá un compilado de extras, escenas cortadas, historias cortas y otros contenidos adicionales dentro de la serie, publicados junto con Las Crónicas de Cazadores de Sombras o por la misma Cassandra Clare. Estos incluyen escenas borradas, historias compartidas luego de la publicación de la serie, etc.

Ciudad de Hueso

Prólogo original

Fuente: "Escenas borradas" del sitio web de Ciudad de Hueso
Notas de CC: Este era el prólogo original de Ciudad de Hueso. Había querido contar algo de la historia desde el punto de vista de Jace, pero una vez que avancé con el libro me di cuenta de que lo mejor era dejarlo solo desde la perspectiva de Clary. Lo hacía un personaje más misterioso y siempre divertido.

Las Marcas en su piel contaban la historia de su vida. Jace Wayland siempre había estado orgulloso de ellas. Algunas de las otras personas jóvenes en la Clave no les gustaba las letras negras desfiguradas, no les gustaba el dolor ardiente de la estela cuando cortaba la piel, no les gustaba las pesadillas que venían cuando las runas eran grabas muy fuerte en la carne de algunos que no estaban listos. Jace no tenía simpatía por ellos. Era su propia culpa que no fueran fuertes.

Él siempre había sido fuerte. La mayoría de los chicos obtenían sus primeras Marcas cuando tenían quince. Alec había tenido trece, y eso era muy joven. Jace había tenido nueve. Su padre había cortado las Marcas en su piel con una estela hecha de marfil tallado. Las runas deletrearon su nombre verdadero, y otras cosas más. "Ahora eres un hombre", había dicho su padre. Esa noche Jace soñó con ciudades hechas de oro y sangre, con altas torres de huesos puntiagudas como astillas. Él casi tenía diez años y nunca había visto una ciudad.

Ese invierno su padre lo llevó a Manhattan por primera vez. El duro pavimento estaba sucio, los edificios muy cera el uno del otro, pero las luces eran brillantes y hermosas. Y las calles estaban llenas de monstruos. Jace solo los había visto antes en los manuales instructivos de su padre. Vampiros galantes, con rostros muertos blancos como el papel. Licántropos con sus dientes afilados y su olor a lobo. Brujos con sus ojos como los de los gatos y orejas puntiagudas, a veces colas bifurcadas saliendo del dobladillo de una chaqueta elegante de terciopelo.

"Monstruos," su padre había dicho, con disgusto. Su boca curvada en la esquina. "Pero sangran tan rojo como lo hacen los hombres cuando los matas."

"¿Qué hay sobre los demonios? ¿Sangran rojo?"

"Algunos lo hacen. Algunos sangran sangre fina como veneno verde, y algunos sangran sangre plateada o negra. Tengo una cicatriz de un demonio que sangró ácido del color de los zafiros."

Jace miró a la cicatriz de su padre a modo de pregunta. "¿Y haz matado a muchos demonios?"

"Si," dijo su padre. "Y algún día tu también lo harás. Naciste para matar demonios, Jace. Está en tus huesos."

Sería años más tarde que Jace vería un demonios por primera vez, y por ese entonces su padre ya había estado muerto por varios años. Él empujó a un lado su camiseta y miró la cicatriz donde el primer demonios había clavado sus garras en él. Cuatro garras paralelas que corrieron desde su clavícula a su hombro, donde su padre había marcado las runas que lo harían rápido y fuerte, y lo escondieron de los ojos de los mundanos. Ligero como el viento, fuerte como la tierra, silencioso como el bosque, invisible como el agua.

Jace pensó en la chica de su sueño, la del cabello pelirrojo trenzado. En el sueño, él no había sido invisible para ella. Ella lo había mirado con nada más que consciencia; había habido reconocimiento en sus ojos, como si le fuera familiar. Pero ¿cómo una chica humana veía a través del glamour?

Él se había despertado temblando, frío como si su piel hubiera sido arrancada. Era aterrador sentirse tan vulnerable, más aterrador que cualquier demonio. Él podría preguntarle a Hodge sobre runas para protegerse de las pesadillas en la mañana. Quizás habría algo sobre eso en uno de sus libros.

Pero ahora no había tiempo. Había habido informes de actividad oscura en un club nocturno en el centro, cuerpos humanos encontrados drenados al salir el sol. Jace se encogió de hombros en su chaqueta, controló sus armas, sus manos Marcadas tanteando sobre piel y metal. Las Marcas que ningún ojo humano podría ver... y estaba encantado, pensando en la chica de su sueño, el modo en que ella lo miró, como si no fuera diferente de como era ella. Despojadas de su magia, las Marcas de su cuerpo era solo marcas, después de todo, con no más poder que las cicatrices en su muñeca y pecho, o la cicatriz profunda sobre su corazón cuando el asesino de su padre lo había apuñalado cuando tenía diez años.

"¡Jace!"

El sonido de su nombre lo sacó de su ensueño. Los estaban llamando del corredor, Alec e Isabelle, impacientes, ansiosos por la cacería y el matar. Barriendo las pesadillas de su mente, Jace fue a reunirse con ellos.

Juramento de Magnus

Fuente: Tumblr

Una historia que tiene lugar durante Ciudad de Hueso desde el punto de vista de Magnus. La primera edición de Ángel Mecánico viene con ella.

Magnus Bane yace sobre el suelo de su apartamento en Brooklyn, mirando al cielo desnudo. El piso estaba un poco pegajoso, como los estaba casi todo en el apartamento. Vino de hadas derramado mezclado con sangre en el suelo, corriendo en riachuelos a lo largo de las desagradables alfombras. El bar, que había sido una puerta colocada a través de dos latas de basura metálicas abolladas, había sido demolido en algún punto de la noche durante una vívida lucha entre un vampiro y Bat, uno de los hombres lobos de la manada del centro. Magnus se sentía satisfecho. No era una buena fiesta a menos que algos resultarse roto.

Pasos suaves y acolchados pasaron por el piso hacia él y luego algo se aferró a su pecho; algo pequeño, suave y pesado. Él miró hacia arriba y se encontró a si mismo mirando a un par de ojos verdes dorados que encajaban con los suyos propios. Presidente Miau.

Acarició a su gato, quien pasó sus garras felizmente en la camiseta de Magnus. Unas pocas serpentinas cayeron del techo y aterrizaron sobre ambos, causando que Presidente Miau saltara a un lado.

Con un gruñido, Magnus se levantó. Usualmente se sentía así luego de una fiesta - cansado pero muy herido para dormir. Su mente estaba zumbando por los eventos de la noche, pero como un CD rayado, seguía volviendo al mismo punto y se mantenía allí, enviando sus recuerdos en un remolino.

Esos niños cazadores de sombras. Él no había estado sorprendido de que Clarissa lo hubiera rastreado finalmente, él sabía que el recurso provisional del hechizo de memoria de Jocelyn no duraría para siempre. Él se lo había dicho, pero ella había estado determinada a proteger a la niña tanto como pudiera. Ahora que la había conocido, consciente y alerta, él se preguntaba su ella realmente necesitaba toda esa protección. Ella era feroz, impulsiva y valiente, y suertuda como su madre.

Eso era si creías en la suerte. Pero algo debía haberla llevado hasta los cazadores de sombras del Instituto, posiblemente los únicos que podrían protegerla de Valentine. Era una pena que Robert y Maryse se hubieran ido. Él había lidiado con Maryse más de una vez, pero habían pasado años desde que viera a la generación más joven.

Él tenía un recuerdo bago de visitar a Maryse y Hodge, y que allí había dos chicos en el vestíbulo, de más o menos once años, batallando adelante y atrás con cuchillos serafín de entrenamiento. Una chica con el cabello en dos trenzas había estado observándolos y discutía sonoramente por no haber sido incluida. Él había tomando muy poca nota de ellos en ese momento.

Pero ahora, verlos lo había sacudido, especialmente los chicos, Jace y Alec. Cuando tienes tantos recuerdos, a veces era difícil identificar al exacto que querías, como echar un vistazo en un libro de diez mil páginas para encontrar el párrafo correcto.

Esta vez, sin embargo, lo sabía.

Él rastreó a través del desagradable suelo y se arrodillo para abrir la puerta del armario. Dentro, hizo a un lado ropas y varios paquetes de pociones, siendo a través de la pared por lo que quería. Cuando emergió, tosiendo por las bolas de polvo, estaba arrastrando un baúl de madera de tamaño decente. Aunque había vivido un tiempo largo, necesitaba viajar ligero; para mantener cada momento de su pasado. Él sentía que de alguna manera lo tiraban hacia abajo, impidiendo que se moviera hacia a delante. Cuando vives para siempre, solo puedes pasar poco tiempo mirando hacia atrás.

Había pasado mucho tiempo desde que había abierto el baúl, se abrió con un chillido de bisagras que enviaron a Presidente Miau corriendo debajo del sofá, su cola retorciéndose.

El montón de objetos en el interior el baúl parecía el tesoro de un dragón fastidioso. Algunos de los objetos brillaban con metales y piedras preciosas-Magnus sacó una antigua tabaquera con las iniciales WS grabadas sobre la parte superior en rubíes parpadeantes y sonrió ante el mal gusto de la cosa, y también por los recuerdos que evocaba.

Los otros parecían nada especial: una desteñida, cinta de seda de color crema que había sido de Camille; una caja de fósforos del Club de la Nube con las palabras "Yo sé lo que eres" escrito en la cubierta interior por la mano de una dama; una quintilla* firmada OFOWW; un pedazo medio quemado de papel de escribir del club de Hong Kong, un lugar que le había sido prohibido, no por ser un brujo, sino por no ser blanco.

Él tocó un pedazo de soga trenzada casi en el fondo del montón, y pensó en su madre. Ella había sido la hija de un hombre colonial holandés y una mujer indonesia que había muerto al dar a luz y cuyo nombre Magnus nunca había conocido.

Estaba casi en el fondo del baúl cuando encontró lo que estaba buscando y lo sacó, entrecerrando los ojos: una fotografía de papel negro y blanco montado en cartón duro.

Un objeto que realmente no debería haber existido, y no si Henry no se hubiera obsesionado con la fotografía. Magnus podría imaginárselo ahora, agachándose dentro y fuera por debajo de la capucha del fotógrafo, corriendo con las placas húmedas hacia el cuarto oscuro que él había creado en la cripta para revelar la película, gritándole a sus sujetos fotográficos que debían permanecer quietos. Esos eran los días en los que a fin de fotografiarse, debían permanecer quietos por minutos cada vez. Nada fácil pensó Magnus, la esquina de su boca alzándose, por el equipo del Instituto de Londres.

Estaba Charlotte, su pelo oscuro recogido en un moño práctico. Ella estaba sonriendo, pero con ansiedad, como entrecerrando los ojos por el sol. A su lado estaba Jessamine en un vestido que parecía negro en la foto, pero que Magnus sabía que había sido de color azul oscuro. Tenía el pelo rizado y cintas de serpentinas caían desde el ala de su sombrero de paja. Ella se veía muy bonita, pero no como Isabelle: una niña de su misma edad que amaba ser cazadora de sombras, mostraría sus moretones y cicatrices de sus marcas como si fueran joyas, en lugar de esconderse con encaje de Malinas.

Al otro lado de Charlotte estaba Jem, pareciendo un negativo fotográfico él mismo con el pelo plateado y los ojos vueltos casi blancos; su mano descansaba en su dragón de jade con cubierta de caña, y su rostro estaba vuelto hacia Tessa.

Tessa, su sombrero estaba en su mano y sus largos rizos castaños volaban libres, ligeramente borrosos por su movimiento.

Había un débil halo de luz alrededor de Will: como correspondía a su naturaleza y no habría sorprendido a nadie que lo conociera, él no había sido capaz de quedarse quieto para la foto. Como siempre, estaba sin sombrero, su pelo negro rizado en las sienes. Era una pérdida no ser capaz de ver el color de sus ojos, pero todavía era hermoso y joven y un poco de aspecto vulnerable en la fotografía, con una mano en su bolsillo y la otra detrás de su cuello.

Había pasado mucho tiempo desde que Magnus había mirado la fotografía que el parecido entre Will y Jace lo golpeó de repente. Aunque era Alec quién tenía ese pelo negro y aquellos ojos -ese mismo sorprendente color azul oscuro-era Jace el que tenía más de la personalidad de Will. Al menos en la superficie -la misma arrogancia aguda que oculta algo frágil debajo, el mismo ingenio agudo...

Trazó el halo de luz alrededor de Will con un dedo y sonrió. Will no había sido ningún ángel, aunque tampoco había sido tan deficiente como muchos pensaban. Cuando Magnus pensaba en Will, incluso ahora, pensaba en él goteando agua de lluvia en la alfombra de Camille, suplicando a Magnus por ayuda que nadie más podía darle. Fue Will el que le había introducido la idea de que cazadores de sombras y Submundos podría ser amigos.

Jem fue de Will, la mejor mitad. Él y Will habían sido parabatai, al igual que Alec y Jace, y compartían esa misma evidente cercanía. Y Alec y Jem eran ambos inusuales en lo que a Cazadores de Sombras concernía, Alec había golpeado a Magnus de un modo en nada parecido a Jem- Alec era nervioso y dulce, sensible y preocupado, mientras que Jem había sido tranquilo, y rara vez se molestaba, más viejo que sus años- Alec emanaba una inocencia profunda hasta la médula; que era rara entre los cazadores de sombras- una cualidad que, Magnus tuvo que admitir, lo atrajo como una polilla a una flama, a pesar de todo su propio cinismo.

Magnus miró a Tessa de nuevo. Pensó que ella no fue convencionalmente bonita en la forma en que Jessamine había sido bonita, su rostro estaba vivo con energía e inteligencia. Sus labios se curvaban en las esquinas. Ella estaba de pie, como Magnus suponía era apropiado, entre Jem y Will.

Tessa. Tessa, quien, como Magnus, vivía para siempre. Magnus miró los restos en la caja de los recuerdos de amor del pasado, algunas de cuyas caras se quedaron con él tan claramente como el día que las había visto por primera vez, y algunos cuyo nombre apenas recordaba. Tessa, que, como él, había amado a un mortal, alguien destinado a morir de un modo en que ella no lo estaba.

Magnus volvió a poner la fotografía en el baúl. Él sacudió la cabeza, como si pudiera limpiarla de recuerdos. Había una razón por la que él rara vez abría el baúl. Los recuerdos le pesaban, le recordaban lo que él había tenido una vez, pero ya no. Jem, Will, Jessamine, Henry, Charlotte - de una manera que era increíble que aún recordara sus nombres. Pero conocerles había cambiado su vida.

Conocer a Will y sus amigos había hecho a Magnus jurarse a sí mismo que nunca volvería a involucrarse en asuntos personales de Cazadores de Sombras. Porque cuando te preocupas por mortales, ellos te rompen el corazón.

"Y no lo haré", dijo a Presidente Miau solemnemente, tal vez un poco borracho. "No me importa lo encantadores que sean o lo valientes o que tan indefensos parezcan, nunca nunca nunca lo haré -"

En la planta baja, el timbre sonó, y Magnus se levantó a contestar.

El punto de vista de Jace en el Invernadero

Fuente: TMI source
Punto de vista de Jace de su primer beso con Clary.

Besé tus labios y rompí tu corazón

La campana del Instituto empieza a sonar, el profundo latido de corazón de la cumbre de la noche.

Jace deja su cuchillo. Es una navaja pequeña y prolija, con el mango de hueso, que Alec le dio cuando se convirtieron en parabatai. La usa constantemente y el agarre se está desgastando por la presión de su mano.

"Medianoche," dice él. Puede sentir a Clary a su lado, su respiración suave en el frío, el olor a hojas del invernadero. Él no se fija en ella, sino que mira hacia adelante, en los brotes brillantes de la planta de medianoche. No está seguro de por qué no quiere mirarla. Recuerda la primera vez que vio el florecimiento de las flores, durante la clase de horticultura, sentado en un banco de piedra con Alec e Izzy a cada lado de él, y los dedos de Hodge en el tallo de la flor - los había despertado cerca de la medianoche para mostrarles esa maravilla, una planta que normalmente crece sólo en Idris - y recordé el aliento de la captura en el aire de la medianoche invernal, a la vista de algo tan sorprendente y tan hermoso.


Alec e Isabelle han estado interesados, pero no, recuerda, atrapado por la bellezaque había sido. Le preocupa, incluso ahora, cuando las campanas repican, en que Clary sea igual: interesada o complacida, incluso, pero no encantada. Él quiere que ella sienta lo que hay sobre la medianoche, aunque no sabría decir por qué.

Un sonido escapa de su boca, un suave "¡Oh!" La flor está floreciendo: abriéndose como el nacimiento de una estrella, todo el polen brillante y pétalos de oro blanco. "¿Florecen todas las noches?"

Una oleada de alivio lo inunda. Sus ojos verdes brillantes, fijos en él. Ella flexiona los dedos inconscientemente, la forma en que ha llegado a comprender que hace cuando está deseando tener un bolígrafo o un lápiz para capturar la imagen de algo delante de ella. A veces desearía poder ver como ella: ver el mundo como un lienzo para ser capturado en la pintura, tizas y acuarelas. A veces, cuando ella lo mira de esa manera él se encuentra casi ruborizándose, una sensación tan extraña que casi no se reconoce. Jace Wayland no se ruboriza.

"Feliz cumpleaños, Clarissa Fray", dice, y su boca se curva en una sonrisa. "Tengo algo para ti." Hurga, un poco, alcanzando en el bolsillo, aunque no cree que ella se de cuenta. Cuando presiona la piedra de luz mágica en su mano, él es consciente de lo pequeños que son sus dedos - delicados pero fuertes, callosos de horas de aguantar lápices y pinceles. Los callos le hacen cosquillas en sus dedos. Se pregunta si el contacto con su piel le acelera el pulso a ella de la forma en que lo hace hace cuando ella le toca.

Aparentemente no, porque se aleja de él con una expresión que muestra curiosidad solamente. "Sabes, cuando la mayoría de las chicas dicen que quieren un pedrusco, no quieren decir, sabes, literalmente, un pedrusco."

Él sonríe sin querer. Lo cuál es inusual en él mismo, por lo general solo Alec e Isabelle pueden hacerle reír. Sabía que Clary era muy valiente la primera ver la que conoció - caminando en esa habitación después de Isabelle sin armas y sin preparar, tuvo el tipo de valor que no asocian con los mundanos, pero el echo de que ella lo hizo reír aún le sorprende más.

"Muy divertido, mi sarcástica amiga. No es una pierda, precisamente. Todos los Cazadores de sombras tienen una luz mágica. Que te traerá la luz, incluso entre las sombras más oscuras de este mundo y de los demás."

Eran las mismas palabras que su padre había hablado con él, al darle su primera piedra mágica. "¿Qué otros mundos?" Jace le había preguntado, y su padre se había reído solamente. "Hay más mundos a un suspiro de distancia de éste que granos de arena en una playa." 

Ella le sonríe y hace una broma sobre los regalos de cumpleaños, pero él siente que ella se emociona, se desliza la piedra en el bolsillo con cuidado. La flor medianoche ya está derramando sus pétalos como una lluvia de estrellas, iluminando su cara con una iluminación suave. "Cuando tenía doce años, quería un tatuaje", dice. Un mechón de pelo rojo cae sobre sus ojos, Jace enfrenta a la necesidad de extender la mano y quitarlo hacia atrás.

"La mayoría de Cazadores de Sombras consiguen sus primeras marcas a los doce años. Debe haber sido tu sangre. "

"Tal vez. Aunque dudo que la mayoría de los Cazadores de Sombras se hace un tatuaje de Donatello de las Tortugas Ninja Mutantes en su hombro izquierdo." Ella sonríe, de esa manera que hace cuando dice cosas que son totalmente inexplicables para él, como si las estuviera recordando con cariño. Le llega una punzada de celos por sus venas, aunque no está seguro de lo que está celoso. Simon, quién entiende sus referencias del mundo mundano y Jace no puede ser parte él. El mundo mundano en sí al que ella podría volver algún día, dejandole a él y a su universo de demonios y cazadores, las cicatrices y la batalla, ¿con gratitud por detrás?

Se aclara la garganta. "¿Querías una tortuga en el hombro?"

Ella asiente con la cabeza, y su cabello se cae fuera lugar. "Quería cubrir mi cicatriz de la varicela." Quita una tira de la camiseta a un lado. "¿Ves?"

Y lo ve: hay algún tipo de marca en el hombro, una cicatriz, pero ve más que eso: ve la curva de su clavícula, la fina capa pecas en la piel como una capa de oro, la curva suave de su hombro, el pulso en la base de su garganta. Ve la forma de su boca, los labios entreabiertos. Sus pestañas cobrizas, cómo las baja. Y es arrastrado a través de una ola de deseo, un tipo que nunca ha experimentado antes. Él deseó chicas antes, sin duda, y satisfizo ese deseo: siempre había pensado en él como hambre, la necesidad de un tipo de combustible que el cuerpo desea.

Nunca había sentido deseo de esta manera, un fuego limpio que quema el pensamiento, que hace que sus manos - no tiemblen, exactamente, pero vibran con energía nerviosa. Aparta los ojos de ella, a toda prisa. "Se está haciendo tarde", dice. "Tenemos que irnos."

Ella lo mira, con curiosidad, y no puede evitar la sensación de que esos ojos verdes pueden ver a través de él. "¿Alguna vez has salido con Isabelle?", preguntó.

Su corazón todavía late con fuerza. No entiende bien la pregunta. "¿Isabelle?" repite. ¿Isabelle? ¿Qué tiene Isabelle que ver con esto?

"Simon se preguntaba," dice ella, y él odia la forma en que ella dice el nombre de Simon. Él nunca había sentido nada como esto antes: nada lo ponía tan nervioso como ella. Recuerda ir hacia ella en el callejón detrás de la cafetería, la forma en que había querido llamarla a fuera, lejos del muchacho de cabello oscuro con el que estaba siempre, a su mundo de sombras. Había sentido incluso entonces que ella pertenecía  donde él pertenecía, no en el mundo mundano, donde las personas no eran reales, donde pasan más allá de su visión como marionetas en un escenario. Pero esta chica, con sus ojos verdes lo cubrió como una mariposa, ella es real. Como una voz escuchada en un sueño, que sabes que proviene del mundo de la vigilia, ella es real, perforando la distancia que ha puesto tanto cuidado de sí mismo como una armadura.

"La respuesta es no. Quiero decir, puede haber habido un momento en que uno u otro lo considerase, pero es casi una hermana para mí. Sería extraño."

"¿Quieres decir que Isabelle y tú nunca -"

"Nunca".

"Ella me odia", dijo Clary.

A pesar de todo, Jace casi se ríe, como un hermano podría, se toma un cierto deleite en observar a Izzy cuando está frustrada.

"Sólo la pones nerviosa, porque ella siempre ha sido la única chica en un grupo de chicos que la adoran, y ahora ya no es."

"Pero ella es tan hermosa."

"Tu también lo eres", dice Jace, de forma automática, y ve que la expresión de Clary cambia. No puede leer su rostro. Es casi como si nunca le ha dicho a una chica que es muy guapa antes, pero no puede recordar un momento en que no fue calculado. Fue accidental. Le hacía sentir como ir a la sala de entrenamiento y lanzara cuchillos y patadas y puñetazos y luchara contra las sombras hasta que estuviera ensangrentado y agotado, y como si su piel estuviera abierta, esa era la forma en la que estaba acostumbrado.

Ella se le queda mirando, en silencio. La sala de entrenamiento es, entonces.

"Probablemente deberíamos bajar", dice otra vez.

"Está bien." Él no puede decir lo que ella está pasando por su voz, tampoco; su capacidad para leer a la gente parece le ha abandonado y no entiende por qué. Rayos de luz de la luna llegan a través de los cristales del invernadero hacia su camino de salida, Clary ligeramente por delante de él. Algo se mueve delante de ellos - una chispa de luz blanca - y de repente ella se queda parada y medio se vuelve hacia él, y de repente está en el círculo de sus brazos, y es cálida y suave y delicada y la está besando.

Y se asombra. Él no funciona de esta manera; su cuerpo no hace las cosas sin su permiso. Es su instrumento tanto como el piano, y él siempre ha estado en perfecto dominio del mismo. Pero ella sabe dulce, como manzanas y cobre, y su cuerpo en sus brazos es tembloroso. Ella es tan pequeña, sus brazos van a su alrededor, para sostenerla, y se pierde. Entiende ahora por qué los besos en las películas se filman como son, con la cámara dando vueltas sin parar, dando vueltas: el suelo es inestable en sus pies y se aferra a ella, por pequeña que sea, como si pudiera sostenerlo.

Sus manos suaves por la espalda. Puede sentir su respiración contra él; un grito de sorpresa en medio de  los besos. Sus delgados dedos en su pelo, en la parte posterior de su cuello, enredando suavemente, y recuerda la flor de medianoche y la primera vez que lo vió y pensó: aquí hay algo muy bonito que pertenece adecuadamente en este mundo.

La fuerza del viento es audible para él primero, Instruído como está para escucharlo. Se retira de Clary y ve a Hugo, ubicado en el hueco de un pequeño ciprés. Sus brazos están todavía alrededor de Clary, su peso ligero contra él. Sus ojos están medio cerrados. "No te asustes, pero tenemos audiencia", le susurra. "Si Hugo está aquí, Hodge no debe andar lejos. Tenemos que irnos."

Su ojos verdes aletean todo el camino abiertos, y parece divertida. Eso pica un poco en su ego. Después de ese beso, ¿no debería estar ella desmayándose a sus pies? Pero ella está sonriendo. Ella quiere saber si Hodge está espiando. La tranquiliza, pero siente su suave sonrisa con un viaje a través de sus manos unidas - ¿Cómo ocurre eso? - mientras ellos van camino hacia abajo.

Y entonces lo entiende. Él entiende por qué las personas se dan la mano: él siempre había pensado que se trataba de posesión, diciendo: Esto es mío. Pero se trata de mantener el contacto. Se trata de hablar sin palabras. Se trata de que te quiero conmigo y no te vayas.

La quiere en su habitación. Y no de esa manera - ninguna chica ha estado nunca en su habitación de esa manera. Es su espacio privado, su santuario. Pero quiere a Clary allí. Quiere que ella lo vea, la realidad de él, no la imagen que muestra al mundo. Quiere que se acueste en la cama con ella y tenerla envuelta dentro con él. Quiere observar su respiración suavemente durante la noche; verla como nadie la ve: vulnerable y dormida. Para verla y ser visto.

Así que cuando llegan a su puerta, y ella le da las gracias por el picnic de cumpleaños, él aún no suelta su mano. "¿Te vas a dormir?"

Ella inclina la cabeza hacia arriba y puede ver que su boca lleva la huella de sus besos: un color de rosa, como los claveles en el invernadero, y se le hace un nudo en el estómago. Por el Ángel, piensa, estoy tan...

"¿No estás cansado?" pregunta ella, rompiendo sus pensamientos.

Hay un hueco en la boca de su estómago, una irritabilidad nerviosa. Quiere empujarla de nuevo hacia sí mismo, para verter en ella todo lo que siente: su admiración, sus recién adquiridos conocimientos, su devoción, su necesidad.

"Nunca he estado más despierto".

Ella levanta la barbilla, un movimiento inconsciente, rápido, y él se inclina hacia abajo, ahuecando la cara con su mano libre. No quería darle un beso aquí - demasiado público, demasiado fácil para ser interrumpidos -, pero no puede dejar de tocar su boca con la suya con ligereza. Sus labios en los de él, se apoya en ella y no puede parar. Estoy tan -

Es en ese preciso momento que Simon abre la puerta de la habitación y sale al pasillo. Y Clary se aleja de él a toda prisa, volviendo la cabeza a un lado, y él se siente con un dolor agudo como el de una venda que se quita de la piel.

Estoy muy jodido.

No para humanos

Fuente: Cassandra Clare en Tumblr
A short piece Cassandra Clare and Holly Black wrote for John Green's Project for Awesome a few years ago. It's a crossover between Holly Black's Modern Faerie Tale series and Shadowhunter Chronicles. Kaye, Roiben, Corny and Luis are all from Holly's books. This is set before the beginning of City of Bones and tells the story of previously mentioned by Jace about eating faerie food and running naked down Fifth/Madison Avenue with antlers on his head.

Kaye really wasn’t expecting Shadowhunters to come to Moon in a Cup, especially on opening day.

She wasn’t even really sure what Shadowhunters did. They appeared to believe that the world was menaced by demons, wore a lot of weapons, tattooed one another, and didn’t trust anyone who wasn’t one of them. Kaye had once pointed out that she’d never seen a demon and, really, she’d seen plenty of odd things. The Shadowhunter she’d been talking with had claimed her not seeing any demons only proved that the Shadowhunters were doing their job. She’d stopped arguing after that. You can’t prove a negative, Corny had said.

It annoyed her, though, because not only did they believe in demons, but they thought faeries like her were part demon too. That made all the weapon carrying and weirdness a little more nervous-making than it might have been otherwise. But Luis liked them and, besides, Kaye needed customers. She just hoped they didn’t eat the scones. Moon in a Cup was her dream and now that it was nally happening, she was incredibly nervous. She loved the smell of the espresso in the air, the clouds of steam and the sound of frothing milk. She loved all the things that she and her friends had scavenged from thrift sales and from the side of the road. Ratty little wooden tables that she and Valerie and Ruth had decoupaged with postcards and sheets of music and pages from encyclopedias. Gold-painted chairs. Outsider art and weird antlers and a few landscapes with sea serpents painted on top of them. Mismatched cups that ranged from bone china to chipped bowls with pictures of ducks on them to mugs with slogans for businesses long closed. Every single one felt like a treasure to her, but she’d never owned anything before or been very responsible. She’s worried over whether she could handle it – whether she’d even like it once it was real – for months.

And now, finally, finally, finally, the place was open.

Ravus and Luis had painted a big sign announcing their GRAND OPENING, which hung above the register. There, in somewhat organized canisters, were the makings for many things, both mortal and less so. In addition to various coffee drinks, including the terrifying Red Eye, and the Dirty Chai, they were serving herbal teas made from nettle, milk thistle and dandelion, rosehip and sticklewort, bluecap and coltsfoot. Then one of the Unseelie knights, Dulcamara, had sent Kaye a large basket of pastries – scones, muns, all tarts – all baked with faerie fruit, none of which Kaye could picture the knight making herself. Corny had put them out, but marked them NOT FOR HUMANS, which Kaye worried might confuse people who came in off the street. Still, she’d been too busy to do more than promise herself that she was going to keep an eye on them.

The place was already half full by the time the Shadowhunters arrived. There were a ton of faerie folk that Kaye didn’t know — denizens of Roiben’s court, looking curiously around at the décor. Corny was helping Kaye behind the bar, mixing up a pot of seaweed tea for a sharp-dressed kelpie who winked at him. Corny didn’t wink back, probably because Luis was watching him from across the room with an amused expression, flanked by Val, her short red hair growing out in curls, Ravus, and Val’s best friend Ruth with her new girlfriend whose hair was dyed the color of a blueberry.

Luis stopped watching his boyfriend, though, and looked over at the door when the Shadowhunters came in. They tended to attract attention, even though they were often glamoured up like they really didn’t want it. Still, it was hard to ignore a group of tall, heavily armed people whose cheekbones were as sharp as their weaponry.

It was a group of three of them: two boys and a girl. The taller boy had black hair and blue eyes, and wore a quiver of bows slung over his shoulder. His hands were in his pockets and he was glaring like he really didn’t want to be there. The boy next to him was blond, really bright blond, with hair the same color that the gold chairs were painted. He was wearing a long leather jacket so any weapons he had on him were probably concealed, although Kaye was sure they were there. The girl had the same long black hair as the tall boy — siblings, Kaye guessed — though her eyes were dark. She was wearing a owing lacy top and a velvet skirt, and a very unusual sort of golden bangle that curled over and over up her arm.

“Meliorn!” the girl cried out upon entering, and dashed across the room to throw herself into the arms of a faerie knight in white armor. Kaye recognized him as one of the Seelie Court’s knights, kind of a silent, stuck-up type. He returned the Shadowhunter girl’s embrace.

“Isabelle,” he said. “You are as lovely as a willow tree.”

Kaye smirked to herself. Ah, faerie compliments. Some willow trees were lovely and some weren’t, so the compliment didn’t mean much. The Shadowhunter girl, Isabelle, seemed to purr under his words, though; grasping him by his slightly pointed ears — maybe only a half-fae? — she kissed him warmly. Well, that was new. Shadowhunters dating faeries?

The two boys came up to the bar, looking around like they were sure that anyone would be honored to serve them coffee. Kaye wasn’t so convinced. “So what’s a red eye?” asked the blond one.

“It’s a shot of espresso in a cup of coffee,” Kaye explained. “Not for amateurs.” The blond boy grinned. He had that kind of grin that really good-looking people who knew they were good-looking had. It was more than a little intimidating. “I think you’ll find I’m not an amateur at anything.”

“So does that mean you want one, or not?” Kaye always felt awkward around boys like him, sure that they were laughing at her.

“I think it means if you come out from behind that counter and spend a few minutes with me somewhere a little more private, you won’t be disappointed.” Kaye stared at him, open-mouthed. Was he really suggesting they go have sex? Like right then, in the middle of her shift? Or maybe he meant something else. She took another look at him. Nope, probably not.

“Jace,” hissed the boy standing next to him. “Just order a freaking cookie or something.”

“I like cookies,” said Jace, with a particularly charming smile, “but what I really prefer is pretty ladies with green skin.”

“Slow your roll, Captain Kirk,” said Corny. “She has a boyfriend.”

“A serious one?” Jace inquired — he was still smiling in that charming way that made it hard to be irritated.

“He has a seriously big sword,” Corny said. “And he’ll be here any minute.”

Jace’s hand went to his waist. “Well, if it’s seriously big swords we’re discussing —”

The dark-haired boy thunked his head down on the countertop. “Stop this pointless flirting,” he said. “Or I will bash my head through this pastry case.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” said Kaye. “We just had it installed.”

“Calm down, Alec.” Jace shrugged, in a no-harm-trying kind of way and flashed his grin at Corny. “In that case, I guess we’ll have to make do with two Red Eyes and a scone.”

“The scones aren’t for humans,” Kaye protested. “We’re not humans,” said Jace. Kaye was about to protest again, when Corny slid a plate with a scone on it onto the countertop with a flourish.

She wanted to snatch it back – faerie fruit wasn’t wise for anyone – but it would be bad for business to be seen wrestling food away from customers, especially when they were currently in the process of paying for it. Besides, she thought, trying to convince herself, people liked faerie fruit. It made them a little crazy, sure, and there was that one time that Corny had recited all the lyrics to Synchronicity while eating them and that other time that he’d maybe been involved in an orgy, but on the whole, Jace would probably be fine. Shadowhunters were supposed to be different. Maybe they had some control over themselves that ordinary human beings didn’t. The rumor about them was that they were part angel, and Kaye couldn’t imagine angels running around reciting all the lyrics to Synchronicity or getting into orgiastic situations. Then again, she couldn’t picture angels hitting on her either. “Enjoy it,” she said, giving up and setting their coffee drinks on the counter.

Alec took the change she handed out and dumped it in the tip jar. She felt bad for him. It was obvious he had a bit of a crush on Jace, and equally obvious that he was having a pretty bad day.

She watched as they made their way across the shop and sank down on a couch across from Isabelle and Meliorn, who were busy rubbing noses and making cutesy faces at each other. Jace and Alec rolled their eyes.

Another boy came in, staggering a little. His black hair stuck straight up, thick with glitter, and he appeared to be very, very drunk. He had a stack of papers with him and was handing them out to the patrons. Every time someone took one, there was a little electric burst of glitter. Finally he sprawled out in an armchair near Isabelle, and leaned over to her.

She broke away from Meliorn, frowning at him — he seemed to be saying something about his cat’s birthday as he waved another piece of paper at her. Or maybe he was talking about his own birthday, since his eyes looked very like the reective, unblinking eyes of a cat. Kaye wondered what he was. Not a faerie, and not a Shadowhunter either.

“The Magnificent Magnus?” Isabelle said, dubiously, then shrugged. “But, hey, thanks for the invite.” She took the paper, folded it up, and thrust it down the front of her shirt before going back to kissing Meliorn.

For a few minutes, Kaye was absorbed in making another pot of seaweed tea, passing over three espresso shots to a trio of hobgoblins and making one Dirty Chai for a human in a business suit who seemed a little unnerved, as though despite not being able to see through the glamour all around him, he was able to discern that something about the other customers was a little off. He scuttled away as soon as she handed him her drink, clearing the way for her to see across the room —

To where Jace was taking off his clothes. The scone plate on the coffee table in front of him was empty, and he had a dreamy expression on his face – the dreamy expression of a human who had eaten faerie fruit. He had already shrugged off his long coat, and was getting to work on the buttons of his shirt. “Jace,” Alec hissed. “Jace, what are you doing?”

“It’s warm in here,” Jace said, in a slurred voice.

Two knives hit the ground.

Across the room, several faeries began to giggle. Jace kicked off his boots and socks.

“Corny,” Kaye said. “Do something. This is entirely your fault, you know. You gave him those scones.”

Corny was watching Jace undressing with raised eyebrows and an appreciative expression on his face. “I think I might be some kind of genius. You couldn’t pay me to stop this.”

Jace had whipped his shirt off. Kaye squinted and had to admit Corny had a point. You rarely saw a body like that outside of magazine spreads. Some people had six-packs; Jace appeared to have a twelve-pack. It didn’t look humanly possible. “Could be good for business,” she mused and pulled herself an espresso shot. She thought she was going to need it.

“Maybe we could get him to do it every day?” Corny said, as Jace unbuttoned his jeans. Alec attempted to stop him, but Jace moved nimbly out of his way and kicked the jeans off with a flourish.

“Don’t try to stop me, Alec,” said Jace. “This body has to be free.”

Isabelle looked up from kissing Meliorn and her eyes widened. “Holy crap,” she said. “Jace —” She started to stand up, but Jace had already made his way to the door. He paused there and bowed — to not considerable applause — plucked the pair of antlers o the wall, and placed them gently on his head.

Then he darted out the door, just as Roiben came in. Roiben, in his long black cloak, raised both his silver brows and stared after Jace, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. He looked about to ask Meliorn a question and then seemed to think better of it. Then, abruptly, he began to laugh.

“Oh, by the Angel,” Alec said mournfully. “Another place we can never go to again. You’d think, in a city as big as New York …”

Kaye noticed that the boozy Magnus the Magnicent was watching Alec with a gleam in his catlike eyes. It really was too bad Alec seemed too sunk in gloom to notice.

“We should have hung a sign on that guy,” Corny said. “Imagine the advertising.” And right then, Kaye realized two things. One was that Shadowhunters might be good at killing things, but their dating lives were a mess. And the other was that she was going to love owning a coffee shop.

Despierto

Fuente: Cassandra Clare en Tumblr
The scene where Jace and Clary meet for the first time at the Pandemonium club, written from Jace's viewpoint, released in the special, hardcover edition of the City of Bones US repackage from Barnes and Noble.
"It was like he was always half-awake where other people were concerned. And then we met you, and he woke up."
— Isabelle to Clary, City of Glass

A snippet:

Jace glanced over at Alec and Isabelle. Killing a demon in front of a mundane, unless there was an immediate threat, was something of a no-no. Mundanes weren't supposed to know about demons. For one of the first times in his life, Jace found himself at a loss. They couldn’t leave the girl with the Eidolon; it would kill her. If they left the Eidolon alone, it would escape, and kill someone else. If they stayed and killed it, they’d be exposed.

“Knock her out,” Alec muttered, under his breath. “Just … whack her on the head with something.”

“Just go,” Jace said to the girl. “Get out of here, if you know what’s good for you.”

But she only planted her feet harder. He could see the look in her eyes, like exclamation points: No! No!

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “If I do, you’ll kill him.”

Jace had to admit that was true. “What do you care?” He pointed at the demon with his knife. “That’s not a person, little girl. It may look like a person and talk like a person and bleed like a person. But it’s a monster.”

“Jace!” Isabelle’s eyes flashed. They were depthless, black, angry. Isabelle never got angrier than when Jace risked getting himself in trouble or danger. And he was risking both, now. Breaking the Law — talking about Shadowhunter business with mundanes — and what was worse, he was liking it. Something about this girl, her stormcloud of red hair and her snapping green eyes, made him feel as if his veins were filled with gunpowder and she was a match.

As if, if she touched him, he'd burn up. But then, he loved explosions.

Besado

Fuente: Sitio web de Cassandra Clare
— City of Bones

Parado en el hueco de la escalera del hogar de Magnus, Alec observó el nombre debajo del timbre de la pared. BANE. El nombre realmente no parecía encajar con Magnus, reflexionó, al menos, no ahora que lo conocía. Si es que tú realmente pudieras decir que conoces a alguien cuando asistes a una de sus fiestas, una vez, y después ellos salvan tu vida, pero no estás consciente para agradecerle. Pero el nombre de Magnus Bane le hizo pensar en una especie de figura imponente, con grandes hombros y una túnica morada formal de brujo, invocando al fuego y al relámpago. No a ese Magnus, quién era más bien una mezcla entre pantera y un elfo loco.

Alec respiró hondo y dejó salir el aire. Bueno, había llegado tan lejos, que tal vez podría seguir adelante. En lo alto, la bombilla descubierta colgaba como sombras barridas, mientras se aproximaba hacia delante y presionaba el timbre.

Un momento después una voz hizo eco a través del hueco de la escalera. "¿QUIÉN INVOCA AL GRAN BRUJO?"

"Emm" dijo Alec. "Soy yo. Digo, Alec. Alec Lightwood"

Hubo una clase de silencio, como si incluso el mismo pasillo se hubiera sorprendido. Después un sonido metálico, y la segunda puerta se abrió, dejándolo dentro de la escalera. Se dirigió hacia las tambaleantes escaleras dentro de la oscuridad, las cuáles olían como a pizza y polvo. El ascenso al segundo piso era brillante, la puerta al otro extremo abierta. Magnus Bane estaba apoyado en la entrada.

Comparado con la primera vez que Alec lo vió, lucía bastante normal. Su cabello negro todavía estaba en picos, y parecía adormilado; su cara, incluso con esos ojos de gato, muy juvenil. Usaba una camiseta negra con las palabras UN MILLON DE DOLARES colocada a través del pecho en lentejuelas, y vaqueros que colgaban bajos en sus caderas, tan bajos que Alec apartó la mirada, mirando hacia sus propios zapatos. Los cuáles eran aburridos.

"Alexander Lightwood," dijo Magnus. Tenía el leve rastro de acento, uno en el que Alec no podía poner sus dedos en la pronunciación de las vocales. "¿A qué debo el placer?"

Alec miro detrás de Magnus- "¿Tienes- compañía?" 

Magnus cruzó sus brazos, lo que hizo lucir bien a sus bíceps, y se apoyó contra el lado de la puerta. "¿Porqué quieres saberlo?"

"Esperaba poder tener una charla contigo."

"Hum." Los ojos de Magnus lo miraban de arriba a abajo. Realmente brillaban en la oscuridad, como el de los gatos. "Bien, entonces." Se volteó abruptamente y desapareció dentro del departamento; después de un momento de sorpresa, Alec lo siguió.

El desván lucía diferente sin cientos de cuerpos mezclándose en él. Era - bueno, no común, pero la clase de espacio en el que alguien tal vez viviría. Como la mayoría de los desvanes, tenía una enorme habitación central divida en "cuartos" por un grupo de muebles. Había una colección de cuadros, de sofás y mesas ubicadas a la derecha, hacia donde Magnus hizo un gesto a Alec. Alec se sentó sobre un sofá de terciopelo dorado con elegantes volutas de madera en los brazos.

"¿Te apetece un poco de té?" preguntó Magnus. No estaba sentado en una silla, pero se había tendido sobre una otomana con mechones y sus largas piernas estiradas frente a él.

Alec asintió. Se sentía incapaz de decir algo. Algo que fuera interesante o inteligente. Era siempre Jace el que decía las cosas inteligentes e interesantes. Él era el parabatai de Jace y esa era toda la gloria que necesitaba o quería: ser la estrella oscura de un supernova. Pero este era un lugar donde Jace no podía acompañarlo, algo con lo que Jace no podía ayudarlo.

"Seguro."

Su mano derecha sintió calor de repente. Miró hacia abajo, y se dio cuenta de que sostenía una taza de papel encerado de Joe, el Arte del Café. Olía como a Chai. Saltó, y apenas escapó de derramárselo sobre sí mismo. "Por el ángel -"

"Me ENCANTA esa expresión," dijo Magnus. "Es tan original."

Alec lo miró. "¿Robaste este té?"

Magnus ignoró su pregunta. "Así que," dijo "¿Porqué estás aquí?"

Alec tomó un trago del té robado. "Quería agradecerte," dijo, cuando tomo algo de aire. "Por salvar mi vida."

Magnus se inclinó hacia atrás sobre sus manos. Su camiseta rodó sobre su estómago plano, y esta vez Alec no tenía hacia dónde mirar. "Tú quieres agradecérmelo."

"Salvaste mi vida," dijo Alec, de nuevo. "Pero yo estaba delirando, y no creo que realmente te haya dado las gracias. Sé que no tenías que hacerlo. Así que gracias."

Las cejas de Magnus desaparecieron en su linea de cabello. "¿De... nada?"

Alec colocó su té abajo. "Tal vez debería irme."

Magnus se levantó. "¿Después de haber llegado tan lejos? ¿Todo el camino hacia Brooklyn solo para agradecérmelo?" Estaba sonriendo. "Eso sí que sería una pérdida de esfuerzo." Él se acercó y puso su mano sobre la mejilla de Alec, su pulgar acariciando su pómulo. Su toque se sentía como fuego, formando chispas a su paso. Alec se paralizó sorprendido - sorprendido del gesto, y sorprendido del efecto que estaba teniendo de él. Los ojos de Magnus se redujeron, y retiró su mano. "Huh," se dijo a sí mismo.

"¿Qué?." Alec repentinamente se preocupó sobre si había hecho algo mal. "¿Qué es?"

"Es tan sólo que..." Una sombra se movió detrás de Magnus; con fluida agilidad, el Brujo miró alrededor y recogió del suelo a un pequeño y atigrado gato de color gris y blanco. El gato se enredó misteriosamente en su brazo y miraba a Alec con sospecha. Ahora dos pares de ojos dorado-verde lo observaban. "No era lo que esperaba."

"¿De un Cazador de Sombras?"

"De un Lightwood."

"No sabía que conocieras tan bien a mi familia."

"He conocido a tu familia desde hace cientos de años." Los ojos de Magnus buscaban su rostro. "Y tu hermana, ella es una Lightwood. Tu -"

"Ella dijo que yo te gustaba".

"¿Qué?"

"Izzy. Mi hermana. Me dijo que yo te gustaba. Te gustaba. Te gustaba."

"Me gustabas, ¿Me gustabas?" Magnus enterró su sonrisa en la piel del gato. "Perdona. ¿Tenemos doce años? Yo no recuerdo haber dicho nada a Isabelle..."

"Jace lo dijo también." Alec fue contundente; era la única manera que conocía como ser. "Que yo te gustaba. Que cuando él subió aquí arriba, tu pensabas que era yo y te decepcionaste al ver que era él. Eso nunca sucede."

"¿No sucede? Bueno, debería."

Alec se sobresaltó. "No - me refiero a Jace, él es.... Jace."

"Él trae problemas," dijo Magnus. "Pero tú no tienes malicia. Lo cuál en un Lightwood, es una adivinanza. Vosotros siempre habéis sido una familia trazada, como unos Borgia de renta baja. Pero no hay mentiras en tu cara. Tengo el sentimiento que todo lo que dices sincero."

Alec se inclinó hacia delante. "¿Quieres salir conmigo?"

Magnus parpadeó. "Ves, eso es a lo que me refiero. Sincero."

Alec se mordió el labio y no dijo nada.

"¿Por qué quieres salir conmigo?," inquirió Magnus. Estaba frotando la cabeza de Presidente Miau, sus dedos largos doblaban las orejas del gato hacia abajo. "No es que no seas altamente deseable, pero la manera en qué lo has pedido, parecía como si pidieras algún tipo de ajuste -"

"Lo hago," dijo Alec. "Y pensaba que yo te gustaba, y dirías que sí, y podría intentar - quiero decir, podríamos intentar -," Puso su cara entre las manos. "A lo mejor fue un error."

La voz de Magnus fue suave. "¿Sabe alguien que eres gay?"

Alec sacudió la cabeza; se encontró respirando un poco fuerte, como si hubiera corrido una carrera. Pero que podía hacer, ¿negarlo? ¿Cuando vino aquí a hacer exactamente lo contrario? "Clary," dijo, con voz ronca. "Lo que fue... Fue un accidente. Y Izzy, pero ella nunca dirá nada."

"No a tus padres. ¿No a Jace?"

Alec pensó sobre Jace sabiéndolo, y alejó el pensamiento, fuerte y rápido. "No. No, y no quiero que ellos lo sepan, especialmente Jace."

"Pienso que podrías decírselo." Magnus frotó la barbilla de Presidente Miau. "Se rompió en pedazos como un puzzle jigsaw cuando pensó que ibas a morir. Se preocupa -"

"Pienso que mejor no." Alec seguía respirando rápidamente. Se frotó las rodillas de sus vaqueros con los puños. "Nunca he tenido una cita," dijo en voz baja. "Nunca he besado a nadie. Nunca. Izzy dijo que yo te gustaba y pensé -"

"No soy indiferente. ¿Pero te gusto? Porque este tema de ser gay no significa que debas arrojarte a cualquier tío y estará bien porque no sea una chica. Hay gente que te gusta y gente que no."

Alec pensó en su habitación en el Instituto, estando en un dolor delirante y envenenado cuando Magnus entró. Apenas le había reconocido. Estaba casi seguro que había estado gritando por sus padres, por Jace, por Izzy, pero su voz solo podía salir en un susurro. Recordó las manos de Magnus sobre él, sus dedos frescos y suaves. Recordó el fuerte agarre que mantuvo en el pecho de Magnus, por horas y horas, incluso después que el dolor se fuera y sabía que estaría bien. Se recordó mirando la cara de Magnus en la luz del amanecer, el oro del amanecer brillando como oro en sus ojos, y pensando lo extrañamente precioso que era, con su mirada y gracia de gato."

"Sí," dijo Alec. "Me gustas."

Se encontró con la mirada de Magnus de frente. El brujo le estaba mirando con una especie de mezcla de curiosidad, afecto y asombro. "Es tan extraño," dijo Magnus. "Genérico. Tus ojos, ese color -." Se paró y sacudió la cabeza.

"Los Lightwood, ¿sabías que nunca tuvimos ojos azules?"

"Monstruos de ojos verdes," dijo Magnus, y sonrió. Depositó a Presidente Miau en el suelo, y el gato se movió hacia Alec, y se frotó contra su pierna. "A Presidente le gustas."

"¿Es eso bueno?"

"Nunca salgo con alguien que no le guste a mi gato," dijo Magnus fácilmente, y se levantó. "Así que digamos, ¿Viernes noche?".

Una gran ola de alivio llegó a Alec. "¿De verdad? ¿Quieres salir conmigo?"

Magnus sacudió su cabeza. "Tienes que parar de jugar al difícil de conseguir, Alexander. Hace las cosas difíciles." Sonrió. Tenía una sonrisa como la de Jace - no era como si ellos se parecieran, pero el tipo de sonrisa que ilumina todo su rostro. "Vamos, te acompaño a fuera."

Alec se dirigió detrás de Magnus hacia la puerta principal, sintiendo como si el peso se hubiera ido de sus hombros, uno que ni él sabía que estaba llevando. Por supuesto que tendría que sacar una excusa sobre dónde iba a ir el viernes noche, algo en lo que Jace no quisiera participar, algo que necesitara hacer solo. O podría pretender que estaba enfermo y escaparse. Estaba tan perdido en sus pensamientos que casi tropezó con la puerta principal, contra la que Magnus estaba apoyado, mirándolo con ojos entrecerrados como medias lunas. 

"¿Qué sucede?," dijo Alec.

"¿Nunca has besado a nadie?," dijo Magnus. "¿Nadie en absoluto?"

"No," dijo Alec, esperando que eso no le descalificara para salir con él. "No un beso de verdad."

"Ven aquí." Magnus lo cogió por los codos y lo acercó más. Por un momento, Alec estaba totalmente desorientado por la sensación de estar tan cerca de otra persona, la clase de persona de la que él quería estar cerca tanto tiempo. Magnus era alto y delgado, pero no flaco. Su cuerpo era duro. Sus brazos ligeramente musculosos, pero fuertes. Era centímetros más alto que Alec, lo cual era raro, y se complementaban a la perfección. Los dedos de Magnus estaban debajo de su barbilla, levantando su cabeza ligeramente, y entonces se besaron. Alec escuchó un sonido saliendo de su propia garganta y luego sus bocas se fundieron con una urgencia descontrolada. Magnus, Alec pensó encantado, realmente sabía lo que hacía. Sus labios eran suaves, y superaba a Alec en experiencia, explorando su boca: una sinfonía de labios, dientes, lengua,.. cada momento despertando sensaciones que él ni sabía que tenía.

Encontró la cintura de Magnus con sus dedos, tocando su piel desnuda, la cual había estado evitando mirar hasta el momento, y deslizó su mano bajo la camiseta. Magnus se tensó por la sorpresa, pero luego se relajó. Dejó correr sus manos por los brazos de Alec, por su pecho, su cintura, encontrando las tiras del cinturón de Alec, tirando de ellas y acercándolo más. Su boca dejó la de Alec, y Alec sintió la presión caliente de sus labios por la garganta, donde la piel era tan sensible que parecía estar conectada con los huesos de sus piernas, las cuales estaban a punto de desfallecer. Justo antes de caerse al suelo, Magnus lo soltó. Sus ojos brillaban, y también lo hacía su boca.

"Ahora ya has sido besado," dijo, pasando por detrás de él y abriendo la puerta. "¿Nos vemos el viernes?"

Alec aclaró su garganta. Se sentía mareado, pero también aliviado. La sangre corría por sus venas como un coche de fórmula uno, todos los colores parecían brillar. Mientras salía por la puerta, se giró y miró a Magnus, quién le miraba con gracia. Dio un paso adelante y estiró al brujo hacia él. Magnus cayó sobre él, y Alec le besó. Fuerte, rápido, confuso, sin práctica, pero con todo lo que tenía dentro. Atrajo a Magnus más cerca de él, su propia mano entre los dos, y sintió el corazón de Magnus dar un brinco en su pecho.

Dejó de besarle y se apartó.

"El viernes." dijo, y dejó que Magnus se marchara. Dio la vuelta y se alejó por el pasillo, Magnus mirándole. El Brujo cruzó los brazos, se acomodó la camiseta donde Alec lo había agarrado, y sacudió la cabeza, sonriendo.

"Lightwoods," dijo Magnus. "Siempre tienen que tener la última palabra."

Cerró la puerta detrás de él, y Alec corrió bajando las escaleras de dos en dos, la sangre palpitando en sus oídos como si fuera música.

Ciudad de Cenizas

La Corte Seelie

Fuente: Cassandra Clare en Tumblr
"Esta era la versión original que aparecía en Ciudad de Ceniza. Fue eliminada de la versión final ya que ha mi editor no le pareció que fuera información necesaria."

"¿La Corte Seelie?" Clary dejó de bromear, confundida. "¿Pueden decirme que es?"

Fue Magnus quien le respondió. "El mundo de las hadas esta fragmentado en una serie de cortes locales enemistadas, usualmente una Corte Seelie y una Corte Noseelie, o una Corte Brillante y una Corte de la Noche. En teoría los miembros de la Corte Seelie son más amables, pero no estoy seguro de que en realidad sea así. El dicho también aconseja que no deberías ofender a un miembro de la Corte Seelie, pero no tienes que molestarte en ofender a uno de la Corte Noseelie. Desde el principio se presentaran poco amigables."

Porque es amargo

Fuente: Sitio web de Cassandra Clare

La escena que se lleva a cabo durante las páginas 170-174 (177 - 181 en español) de Ciudad de Cenizas, en el capítulo La Corte Seelie, aquí desde el punto de vista de Jace. Incluso le dieron un nombre - "Porque es amargo." Porque bueno, Jace es amargo aquí.

"Pero me gusta
Porque es amargo,
Y porque es mi corazón "-. Stephen Crane

"Sé que no dejare a mi hermana en su corte”, dijo Jace," y puesto que no hay nada que averiguar de ella o de mi, ¿quizá nos hace el favor de liberarla?"

La Reina sonrió. Era una sonrisa hermosa y terrible. La reina era una mujer encantadora; ella tenía esa belleza inhumana perteneciente a las hadas, que parecía más la belleza de cristal duro que la de un ser humano. La Reina no aparentaba una edad en particular: podría haber tenido dieciséis o cuarenta y cinco años. Jace supuso que ahí era donde aquellos le encontraban su atractivo - personas habían muerto por el amor de la Reina - pero ella le dio una sensación de frío en el pecho, como si se hubiera tragado agua helada demasiado rápido. "¿Y si les dijera que puede ser liberada mediante un beso?" 

Fue Clary la que respondió, perpleja: "¿Quiere que Jace la bese" 

Tanto la Reina como la corte rieron, la sensación de frío en el pecho de Jace se intensificó. Clary no entendía a las hadas, pensó él. Habría intentado explicárselo, pero no había explicación, en realidad no. Cualquier cosa que la Reina quisiera de ellos, no era un beso de él; ella podría haberlo exigido sin todo este espectáculo sin sentido. Lo que ella quería era verlos bien cubiertos y luchando como mariposas. Era algo de la inmortalidad, él lo había pensado muchas veces: aplanando tus sentidos, tus emociones, la experiencia, incontrolable, las lamentables respuestas de los seres humanos que eran para las hadas lo que la sangre fresca era para los vampiros.

Algo de vida. Algo de lo que ellos carecían.

"A pesar de los encantos del joven", dijo la Reina, dirigiendo su mirada hacia Jace - sus ojos eran verdes, como Clary, pero no completamente como los de ella - "ese beso no liberaría a la muchacha."

"Podría besar a Meliorn", sugirió Isabelle, encogiéndose de hombros.

La reina movió la cabeza lentamente. "No. A nadie de mi Corte."


Isabelle alzó las manos; Jace quería preguntarle lo que había esperado – besar a Meliorn no le hubiese molestado a ella, así que, obviamente, la Reina no se preocupaba por él. Supuso que había sido bonito por su parte ofrecerlo, pero Iz, al menos, debió haberlo sabido mejor. Había tratado con las hadas antes.

Tal vez no era sólo conocer el pensamiento cultural de las Hadas, Jace se preguntó. Tal vez era saber cómo la gente disfrutaba ser cruel por el bien del pensamiento cruel. Isabelle fue irreflexiva, y a veces vana, pero ella no era cruel. Se echó el pelo negro hacia atrás y frunció el ceño. "No pienso besar a ninguno  de los tres", declaró con firmeza. "Que quede claro".

"Ni falta que hace", dijo Simon, dando un paso adelante. "Si un beso es todo. . . "

Dio un paso hacia Clary, quien no se apartó. El hielo en el pecho de Jace se convirtió en fuego líquido, apretó sus manos a los costados mientras Simon tomaba suavemente a Clary por los codos y la miró a la cara. Ella apoyó sus manos en la cintura de Simon, como si lo hubiera hecho un millón de veces. Tal vez lo hubiera hecho, por todo lo que él conocía. Él sabía que Simon la quería, lo había sabido desde que los había visto juntos en esa estúpida cafetería, el otro chico prácticamente ahogándose por conseguir de su boca las palabras "te amo" mientras Clary miraba inquietamente a su alrededor, sus enormes ojos verdes viendo a todas partes. Ella no está interesada en ti, mundano, había pensado con satisfacción. Piérdete. Y luego se había sorprendido de sus pensamientos. ¿Qué diferencia hacía para el los pensamientos de una chica que apenas conocía?

Eso parecía haber ocurrido mucho tiempo atrás. Ella ya no era una chica que apenas conocía: Ella era Clary. Era la única cosa en su vida que le importaba más que nada, y viendo a Simon poner sus manos sobre ella, donde quiera que él quisiera, le hizo sentir al mismo tiempo enfermo, débil y mortalmente furioso. La urgencia de avanzar hacia ellos y separarlos era tan fuerte que apenas podía respirar.

Clary lo miró, su pelo rojo deslizándose sobre su hombro. Parecía preocupada, lo que era suficientemente malo. No podía soportar la idea de que ella pudiera sentir lástima por él. Apartó la vista rápidamente, y llamó su atención la Reina Seelie, quien brillaba de alegría: esto era lo que ella quería. Su dolor, su agonía.

“No,"  dijo la Reina, a Simon, con una voz suave como el filo de un cuchillo. "Tampoco es el beso que quiero."

Simón se alejó de Clary de mala gana. El alivio golpeó a través de las venas de Jace como sangre, ahogando lo que sus amigos estaban diciendo. Por un momento todo lo que importaba era que él no iba a tener que ver a Clary besando a Simon. Entonces Clary pareció enfocarse: estaba muy pálida y no podía dejar de preguntarse en qué estaba pensando. ¿Estaba decepcionada por no haber sido besada por Simon? ¿Aliviada igual que él? Pensó en Simon besándole la mano más temprano aquel día y lo empujó de su memoria con rencor, sin dejar de mirar a su hermana. Mira arriba, pensó. Mírame. Si me amas, te verás en mí.

Cruzó sus brazos sobre su pecho, de la forma que lo hacía cuando tenía frío o estaba molesta. Pero no levanto la vista. La conversación fue en torno a ellos: quien iba a besar a quien, qué iba a suceder. Rabia desesperada se levantó en el pecho de Jace y como de costumbre, encontró su escape en un comentario sarcástico. 

"Bueno, pues yo no voy a besar al mundano", dijo. "Preferiría quedarme aquí abajo y pudrirme”

"¿Para siempre?," dijo Simon. Sus ojos eran grandes, oscuros y serios. "Para siempre es una barbaridad de tiempo."

Jace volvió a ver a esos ojos. Simon era probablemente una buena persona, pensó. Amaba a Clary, quería cuidar de ella y hacerla feliz. El sería un espectacular novio. Lógicamente, Jace sabía, que era exactamente lo que quería para su hermana. Pero él no podía evitar mirar a Simón sin querer asesinar a alguien. "Lo sabía", dijo groseramente. "¿Quieres besarme, verdad?

"Claro que no. Pero si...- "

"Imagino que es cierto lo que dicen. No hay heterosexuales en las trincheras. 

"Es ateos, imbécil." Simon estaba de color rojo brillante. “No hay ateos en las trincheras.”

Fue la reina quien los interrumpió, inclinándose hacia adelante para que su cuello blanco y los pechos se mostraran por encima del escote de su vestido de corte bajo. "Aunque todo esto es muy gracioso, el beso que liberará a la muchacha es el beso que más desea," dijo ella. “Únicamente ése y nada más.”

Simon pasó de rojo a blanco. Si el beso que Clary más deseaba no era el suyo, entonces… La forma en que ella miraba a Jace, y Jace a Clary, contestó eso.


El corazón de Jace comenzó a latir con fuerza. Se encontró con los ojos de la Reina. "¿Por qué hace esto?"

"Yo más bien creía que te hacía un favor", dijo ella. "El deseo no siempre se ve reducido por la repugnancia. Ni tampoco se puede conferir, como un favor, a aquellos que más lo merecen. Y puesto que mis palabras obligan a mi magia, de ese modo podréis saber la verdad. Si ella no desea su beso, no será libre."

Jace sintió que la sangre le inundaba el rostro. Era vagamente consciente de que Simon argumentaba que ellos eran hermanos, que no estaba bien, pero lo ignoró. La Reina Seelie lo miraba, y tenía los ojos como el mar antes de una tormenta mortal, y él quería decir gracias. Gracias.

Y eso fue lo más peligroso de todo, pensó, mientras a su alrededor sus compañeros discutían sobre si Clary y Jace tenían que hacer esto, o sobre lo que ninguno de ellos estaría dispuesto a hacer para escapar de la Corte. Permitir a la Reina darle algo que quería - realmente, realmente quería - era ponerse en su poder. ¿Cómo no se había dado cuenta antes?, se pregunto. Esto era lo que pensaba, lo que quería, despertó de un sueño, jadeando y sudando. Cuando él pensaba, sobre el hecho de que talvez nunca obtendría un beso de Clary, el quería morir, herirse o sangrar de mala manera, subir hasta el ático y entrenar por horas hasta que estuviera tan agotado que no hubiera más elección que salir, exhausto. Tendría contusiones en la mañana, lesiones, cortes y la piel raspada y si pudiese nombrarlas, todas habrían tenido el mismo nombre: Clary, Clary, Clary.

Simon seguía hablando, diciendo algo, enojado de nuevo. "No tienes que hacerlo Clary, es un truco -"

"Un truco no" aseguró Jace. La tranquilidad en su propia voz lo sorprendió. “Una prueba.” Miró a Clary. Ella se mordía el labio, mientras su mano herida sujetaba un rizo de su cabello; los gestos tan característicos, por lo que una gran parte de ella, rompió su corazón. Simon estaba discutiendo con Isabelle ahora mientras la reina Seelie descansaban atrás y se veía como un gato elegante, divertida.

Isabelle parecía exasperada. "¿A quién le importa, de todos modos? Es sólo un beso."

"Es cierto", dijo Jace.

Clary miró hacia arriba, por último, sus ojos verdes se apoyaron en él. Él se acercó a ella y como siempre el resto del mundo se alejó de ellos hasta dejarlos solos, como si estuvieran en un escenario vacío. El puso su mano en su hombro, volviéndole la cara. Había dejado de morderse el labio, y sus mejillas estaban sonrojadas, sus ojos de un verde brillante. Podía sentir la tensión en su propio cuerpo, el esfuerzo de retenerse, y no atraerla hacia si y tomar esta oportunidad, sin embargo peligrosa, estúpida e imprudentemente, besarla en la forma que pensó nunca podría, en su vida, ser posible de nuevo. 

“No es más que un beso” repitió y escucho la aspereza de su propia voz, y se preguntó si ella lo escuchaba, también.


No es que importara – no había manera de ocultarlo. Era demasiado. El nunca habría querido que fuera de esa forma. Siempre hubo chicas. Se preguntó a sí mismo, en la oscuridad de la noche, mirando a las paredes en blanco de su habitación, lo que hacía a Clary tan diferente. Ella era hermosa, pero las otras chicas también lo eran. Era inteligente, pero había otras muchachas inteligentes. Ella lo entendía, se reía cuando él lo hacía, vio a través de las defensas que puso hasta que las había derribado. No había Jace Wayland más real que él vio en sus ojos cuando ella lo miró.

Pero aún así, tal vez, podría encontrar todo aquello en otro lugar. La gente se enamoraba, lo perdía, y seguía adelante. No sabía por qué él no podía. No sabía por qué ni siquiera quería. Lo único que sabía era que cualquier cosa que le debiera al Cielo o al Infiero por esta oportunidad, lo iba a tener en cuenta.


Se agachó y le tomó las manos, uniendo sus dedos con los de ella y susurrando en su oído. "Puedes cerrar los ojos y pensar en Inglaterra, si quieres,” le sugirió.

Los ojos de ella revolotearon cerrados, sus pestañas parecían líneas de cobre contra su pálida y frágil piel. "Nunca he estado en Inglaterra," repuso ella, y la suavidad, la ansiedad en su voz casi le deshizo. Nunca había besado a una chica sin saber que lo quería también, por lo general más que él, y ésta era Clary, y él no sabía lo que ella quería. Deslizó sus manos sobre ella, sobre las mangas de su camisa aferrándose a sus hombros. Sus ojos permanecía aun cerrados, pero ella temblaba y se apoyaba en él - apenas, pero fue suficiente el permiso.

Su boca cayó sobre ella. Y eso fue todo. Todo el auto-control que había ejercido en las últimas semanas se había ido, como el agua estrellándose a través de un dique roto. Sus brazos se acercaron al cuello y él la apretó contra él, ella era suave y flexible, pero sorprendentemente fuerte como nadie a quien él hubiese sostenido antes. Sus manos se aplastaron contra su espalda, presionándola contra el y ella estaba en la punta de los pies, respondiendo ferozmente a su beso. Paseó la lengua por sus labios, abriendo su boca debajo de la de ella y le supo a sal y dulce, como el agua de hadas. Se aferró a ella con más fuerza, anudando sus manos en su cabello, tratando de decirle, con la presión de su boca, todas las cosas que nunca le había dicho en voz alta: Te amo. Te amo y no me importa que seas mi hermana; no estés con él, no lo quieras, no te vayas con él. Permanece conmigo. Quiéreme. Quédate conmigo.

No sé como estar sin ti.

Sus manos se deslizaron hasta la cintura, asiéndola contra él, perdido en la sensación de espiral que le atravesaba los nervios, la sangre y los huesos, y él sabía que no había nada que hacer ni decir para detenerse o retirarse, pero pronto oyó un siseo de risa – la Reina de las hadas – en sus oídos, y lo sacudió de nuevo la realidad. Se apartó de Clary antes de que fuera demasiado tarde, abrió sus manos alrededor de su cuello y dio un paso atrás. Se sentía como cortando y abriendo su propia piel, pero se apartó.

Clary lo miraba fijamente. Sus labios estaban separados, sus manos permanecían abiertas al igual que sus ojos. Detrás de ella, Isabelle se acercaba boquiabierta, Simón miraba como si estuviera a punto de vomitar

“Ella es mi hermana”, pensó Jace. “Mi hermana”. Pero las palabras no significaban nada. Bien podría habersido una lengua extranjera. Si alguna vez tuvo la esperanza de llegar a pensar en Clary simplemente comosu hermana, esto - lo que había sucedido entre ellos - lo había estallado en miles de pedazos, como unmeteorito colisionando contra la superficie de la tierra. Trató de leer la cara de Clary - ¿sintió ella lo mismo?Parecía como si quisiera simplemente dar la vuelta y huir. “Sé lo que sentiste” intentó decirle a ella con los ojos, y era un medio triunfo amargo y medio suplicante. Sabía que lo sentía, también. Pero no hubo respuestaen su cara, ella envolvió sus brazos alrededor de sí, de la misma forma en que lo hacía siempre cuandoestaba molesta, y se abrazó a sí misma como si tuviera frío. Apartó la mirada de él.

Jace sintió como si su corazón estuviese siendo apretado por un puño. Se volvió hacia la reina. "¿Ha sido eso lo bastante bueno?" inquirió. "¿La ha divertido?"

La reina lo miró: una vista especial y secreta compartida entre ambos. Se les advirtió acerca de nosotros, parecía decir su mirada. Que les haría daño, destrozando como se puede romper a una ramita entre tus dedos. Pero tú, que pensabas que nunca podrías ser tocado – eres el que ha sido quebrado. "Mucho" respondió ella. "Pero no creo que tanto como a ustedes dos."

Del capítulo 14

Fuente: "Escena eliminada" de Ciudad de Ceniza en el sitio oficial
CC's note: This scene was in the ARC for Ashes but was later deleted. It's a good scene for Isabelle, I think, but wasn't really necessary to the story. It begins at exactly the top of page 288 in the hardback US edition of City of Ashes.

"How convenient. Everyone's either unconscious or apparently delirious," said the Inquisitor. Her knife-like voice cut through the room, silencing everyone. "Downworlder, you know perfectly well that Jonathan Morgenstern should not be in your house. He should have been locked up in the warlock's care."

"I have a name, you know," Magnus said. "Not," he added, seeming to have thought twice about interrupting the Inquisitor, "that that matters, really. In fact, forget all about it."

"I know your name, Magnus Bane," said the Inquisitor. "And quite a bit more about you, besides. You were raised by the Silent Brothers of Madrid in the seventeenth century. They named you and turned you out on the world when you were sixteen. I know the things you've done, things you'd rather stayed hidden. It took you this long to build up your reputation; a word from me could tear it down again. So consider very, very carefully, if you wish to remain involved in this situation. You've failed in your duty once; you won't get another chance."

"Failed in my duty?" Magnus frowned. "Just by bringing the boy here? There was nothing in the contract I signed that said I couldn't bring him with me at my own discretion."

"That wasn't your failure," the Inquisitor said. "Letting him see his father last night, now that was your failure."

There was a stunned silence. Alec scrambled up off the floor, his eyes seeking out Jace's -- but Jace wouldn't look at him. His face was a mask.

Luke spoke first. "That's ridiculous," he said. Clary had rarely seen him look so angry. "Jace doesn't even know where Valentine is. Stop hounding him."

"Hounding is what I do, Downworlder," said the Inquisitor. "It's my job." She turned to Jace. "Tell the truth, now, boy," she said, "and it will all be much easier."

Jace raised his chin. "I don't have to tell you anything."

"Really?" The Inquisitor's words were like the flick of a whip. "If you're innocent, why not exonerate yourself? Tell us where you really were last night. Tell us about Valentine's little pleasure boat."

Clary stared at him. She could read nothing in his face. I went for a walk, he'd said. But that didn't mean anything. Maybe he really had gone for a walk. But her heart, her stomach, felt sick. You know what the worst thing I can imagine is? Simon had said. Not trusting the person you love more than anything else in the world.

When Jace didn't speak, Robert Lightwood said, in his deep bass voice: "Imogen? You're saying Valentine is -- was -- on a boat?"

"In the middle of the East River," said the Inquisitor. "That's correct."

"That's why I couldn't find him," Magnus said, half to himself. He still looked stunned. "All that water -- it disrupted my spell."

"But how would Jace even have gotten there?" Luke said, bewildered.

"Shadowhunters are good swimmers, but the river water is freezing -- and filthy --"

"He flew," said the Inquisitor. "He borrowed a motorcycle from the head of the city's vampire clan and he flew it to the boat. Isn't that right, Jonathan?"

Jace had dropped his hands to his sides; they were clenched into fists. "My name is Jace."

"There is no Jace. Jace is a ghost, a construct you and your father invented to fool the Lightwoods into loving you. You're your father's son and you always have been."

The Inquisitor turned to Isabelle. "Go around the side of this house," she said. "You'll find a narrow garbage alley. There's something blocking the far end, something covered with a tarp. Come back and tell us what it is."

"Izzy." Jace's thinned with strain. "You don't have to do what she tells you to."

Isabelle's dark eyes were snapping like firecrackers. "I want to. I want to prove to her that she's wrong about you." She spoke as if the Inquisitor wasn't there as she rose to her feet. "I'll be right back."

"Isabelle--"

But she was gone, the door falling softly shut behind her. Luke went over to Jace and tried to put a hand on his shoulder, but Jace shook him off and went to stand by the wall. The Inquisitor was looking at him greedily, as if she meant to drink every drop of his misery like wine. Vicious bitch, Clary thought. Why is she torturing him like this?

Because she's right. The answer came as if another voice, a treacherous voice, were speaking inside her head without her desire or permission. He did exactly what she said he did, look at his face.

But Jace's face was a blank, his eyes all that lived behind the smooth, unruffled façade. Maybe this was all part of some plan of his to discredit the Inquisitor. Though she didn't look as if she feared discrediting, she looked --

The front door flew open with a bang and Isabelle marched back into the room, her black hair whipping around her face. She looked from the Inquisitor's expectant face to her parents' worried ones, from Jace's set jaw to Alec's furious scowl, and said, "I don't know what she's talking about. I didn't find anything."

The Inquisitor's head whipped back like a king cobra's. "You liar!"

"Be careful what you call my daughter, Imogen," said Maryse. Her voice was calm but her eyes were blue fire.

The Inquisitor ignored her. "Isabelle," she said, lightening her tone with an obvious effort, "your loyalty to your friend is understandable --"

"He's not my friend." Isabelle looked over at Jace, who was staring at her in a sort of daze. "He's my brother."

"No," said the Inquisitor, in a tone that was almost pitying, "he's not." She sighed. "You do realize what a serious breach of the Law denying information to an officer of the Clave is?"

Isabelle lifted her chin, her eyes blazing. In that moment she looked like nothing more than a smaller copy of her mother. "Of course I realize it. I'm not stupid."

"Christ, Imogen," Luke snapped, "do you honestly have nothing better to do than bully a bunch of children? Isabelle told you she didn't see anything; now leave it."

"Children?" The Inquisitor turned her icicle gaze on Luke. "Just as you were children when the Circle plotted the destruction of the Clave? Just as my son was a child when he --" She caught herself with a sort of gasp, as if gaining control of herself by main force.

"So this is about Stephen after all," said Luke, with a sort of pity in his voice. "Imogen--"

The Inquisitor's face contorted. "This is not about Stephen! This is about the Law!" She turned on Isabelle, who shrank back, startled at the fury on the older woman's face. "By defying me, you break the Law, Isabelle Lightwood! I could have you stripped of your Marks for this!"

Isabelle had recovered her composure. "You can take your Law," she said in a measured tone, "and shove it right up your--"

"She's lying." The words were spoken flatly, almost without affect. It Clary a moment just to realize that it was Jace speaking; he moved to stand in front of the Inquisitor, partly blocking Isabelle from her view. "You're right. I did everything you said I did. I took the cycle, I went to the river, I saw my father, and I came back and stashed the bike in the alley. I admit to all of it. Now leave Isabelle alone."

Ciudad de Cristal

Una oscura transformación

Fuente: Sitio web de Cassandra Clare
Volviendose Sebastian: Un texto descartado de Ciudad de Cristal. La historia corta de como Jonathan Morgenstern tomo la identidad de Sebastian Verlac. Estuvo disponible en la edición especial de Ciudad de las Almas Perdidas en Walmart.
Era un bar muy pequeño situado en una calle estrecha y empinada de una ciudad amurallada llena de sombras. Jonathan Morgenstern llevaba sentado a la barra del bar al menos un cuarto de hora, tomando una copa, cuando se levantó y bajó la larga y desvencijada escalera que conducía al club. El sonido de la música parecía querer abrirse camino hacia arriba a medida que él bajaba: podía notar que la madera vibraba bajo sus pies.

El lugar estaba lleno de cuerpos que se retorcían y de un humo que lo disimulaba todo. Era el tipo de local por el que solían merodear demonios. Lo que lo convertía a su vez en el tipo de local que frecuentaban los cazadores de demonios.

Y el lugar ideal para alguien que iba a la caza de un cazador de demonios.

El humo de colores recorría el aire dejando tras de sí un vago aroma a ácido. Las paredes del club estaban cubiertas de grandes espejos. En ellos se vio a sí mismo atravesar la sala. Una esbelta figura vestida toda de negro, con el pelo igual que el de su padre, blanco como la nieve. Por la humedad, el calor y la ausencia de aire, notaba la camiseta empapada en sudor pegada a su espalda. Un anillo de plata brillaba en su mano derecha mientras ojeaba la estancia en busca de su presa.

Allí estaba, en la barra, como si intentara mezclarse con los mundanos.

Un chico. De unos diecisiete.

Un cazador de sombras.

Sebastian Verlac.

A Jonathan no le interesaba la gente de su edad —si había algo más aburrido que los adultos, eran los demás adolescentes— pero Sebastian Verlac era distinto. Jonathan lo había escogido, especial y específicamente del mismo modo en que ciertas personas elegirían un traje caro hecho a medida.

Jonathan caminó lentamente hacia él, dándose tiempo para estudiar al chico. Había visto fotografías, claro, pero la gente siempre resulta diferente en persona. Sebastian era alto, de la misma estatura que el propio Jonathan, y ambos compartían una constitución esbelta. Seguro que su ropa le quedaría perfecta. De pelo oscuro (Jonathan tendría que teñírselo, lo cual sería un engorro, pero no imposible). Sus ojos eran negros también, y sus rasgos, aunque irregulares, formaban un todo armónico: irradiaba una especie de carisma amigable que lo hacía atractivo. Su aspecto dejaba entrever lo poco que le costaría confiar en alguien, o sonreír.

Parecía bobo.

Jonathan se acercó a la barra y se apoyó en ella. Se volvió hacia el chico para que éste pudiera ver cómo lo observaba.

—Bonjour.

—Hola —respondió Sebastian en inglés, la lengua de Idris, aunque con un leve acento francés. Tenía los ojos entrecerrados. Parecía contrariado al saberse observado, como si se estuviera preguntando la naturaleza de Jonathan: ¿un camarada cazador de sombras, o tal vez un brujo sin ningún rasgo reconocible?

«Algo perverso se avecina  —pensó Jonathan— y ni siquiera te das cuenta.»

—Te enseñaré el mío si tú me enseñas el tuyo —sugirió, con una sonrisa. Podía verse sonreír en el mugriento espejo situado sobre la barra. Sabía que la forma en que la sonrisa iluminaba su rostro lo hacía casi irresistible. Su padre lo entrenó durante años para que pudiera sonreír así, como un humano.

La mano de Sebastian se tensó al agarrar la barra.

—Yo no...

Jonathan sonrió aún más y le tendió su mano para mostrarle la runa de clarividencia que tenía en el dorso. Sebastian expiró aliviado y sus ojos brillaron con complicidad, como si cualquier cazador de sombras fuese un camarada y un amigo en potencia.

—¿Vas tú también camino de Idris? —le preguntó Jonathan. Mantuvo en todo momento un tono profesional, como si soliera estar en continuo contacto con la Clave. Otro cazador de sombras dedicado a proteger a los inocentes. ¡Nunca se cansaba de aquello!

—Así es —respondió Sebastian—. Represento al Instituto de París. Soy Sebastian Verlac, por cierto.

—Ah, un Verlac. Una gran y antigua familia. —Jonathan aceptó su mano y le dio un firme apretón—. Andrew Blackthorn —dijo sin pestañear—. Del Instituto de Los Ángeles, originalmente, pero llevo un tiempo estudiando en Roma. Pensé que podría venirme aquí a echar un vistazo.

Había investigado a la familia Blackthorn, una gran estirpe, y sabía que éstos y los Verlac no habían coincidido en la misma ciudad al menos durante los últimos diez años. Estaba seguro de que no le costaría responder a un nombre falso: nunca le costaba. Tampoco es que se sintiera demasiado ligado a su nombre real, quizá porque siempre había sabido que no le pertenecía solamente a él.

El otro Jonathan se había criado en una casa no muy lejos de la suya, una que su padre solía visitar. El pequeño ángel de papá.

—Hacía mucho que no veía a otro cazador de sombras —continuó Sebastian. Llevaba un rato hablando, pero Jonathan se había olvidado de prestarle atención—. Qué alegría encontrarte aquí. Es mi día de suerte.

—Debe de serlo —murmuró Jonathan—. Aunque no todo se debe a la suerte, claro. Supongo que has oído algo sobre un demonio Eluthied que merodea por aquí.

Sebastian sonrió, tomó un último trago de su vaso y luego lo dejó sobre la barra.

—Cuando lo matemos, tomaremos una copa para celebrarlo.

Jonathan asintió con la cabeza e intentó parecer muy concentrado en buscar demonios por la sala. Estaban codo con codo, como un par de compañeros de armas. Estaba resultando tan fácil que casi le pareció aburrido: todo lo que había tenido que hacer era aparecer por allí, y aquí tenía a Sebastian Verlac ofreciéndose le como un cordero que se clava él mismo una espada afilada en el cuello. ¿Quién confiaba en cualquier extraño de ese modo? ¿Quién hacía amigos así de rápido?

Nunca había jugado limpio con los demás. Claro que nunca se le había brindado la oportunidad; su padre los había mantenido a él y al otro Jonathan separados. Un chico con sangre de demonio y otro con sangre de ángel: criarlos a ambos como propios y a ver cuál de los dos hace enorgullecer a papá.

El otro chico había fallado una prueba cuando era más joven y lo habían enviado fuera. Eso era todo lo que Jonathan sabía. Él en cambio había superado todas las pruebas que su padre le había propuesto. Quizá las había superado en exceso, demasiado bien, sin cometer un solo error, sin inmutarse ante la cámara de aislamiento, los animales, el látigo o la caza. Jonathan discernía una sombra en los ojos de su padre de vez en cuando, no sabía si de pena o de duda.

Pero ¿qué podía apenarlo? ¿Qué le hacía dudar? ¿No era Jonathan el guerrero perfecto? ¿No era todo lo que su padre había querido que fuera?

Los humanos eran muy complicados. 

A Jonathan nunca le había gustado la idea del otro Jonathan, de que su padre tuviera otro chico, otro que le hiciera sonreír a veces sin un atisbo de sombra en los ojos.

Una vez, Jonathan cortó las rodillas de uno de los muñecos con los que practicaba lucha, y se divirtió ensañándose con él un día entero: estrangulándolo, destripándolo y abriéndolo en canal del cuello al ombligo. Cuando su padre le preguntó por qué le había cortado parte de las piernas, Joanthan le dijo que quería saber qué se sentía matando a un chico de su propia estatura. 

—Disculpa, pero ahora no lo recuerdo  —  dijo Sebastian, quien por desgracia resultó ser bastante hablador  — . ¿Cuántos sois en tu familia?

—Oh, somos una gran familia – constestó Jonathan -. Ocho en total. Tengo cuatro hermanos y tres hermanas. 

Los Blackthorn eran, en efecto, ocho: la investigación de Jonathan había sido exhaustiva. No lograba imaginarse cómo sería convivir con tanta gente, con tanto desorden. Jonathan tenía una hermana, aunque no la conocía.

Su padre le contó que su madre se había marchado cuando él era un bebé. Estaba embarazada de nuevo e inexplicablemente triste y desolada porque no quería que su nuevo retoño fuera mejorado. Pero escapó demasiado tarde: Padre ya se había encargado de que Clarissa tuviese poderes angélicos.

Hacía tan sólo unas semanas, Padre había conocido a Clarissa por primera vez, y en su segundo encuentro Clarissa había demostrado que sabía utilizar sus poderes. Había enviado el barco de su padre al fondo del océano.

Una vez él y Padre controlaran y transformaran a los cazadores de sombras, echaran a perder su orgullo y su ciudad, Padre había decidido que Madre, el otro Jonathan y Clarissa vivirían con ellos.

Jonathan despreciaba a su madre por haberse escapado. Y su único interés en el otro Jonathan se debía a que le permitiría demostrar cuán superior le era: él era el verdadero hijo de Padre, su hijo de sangre, y su sangre tenía toda la fuerza de los demonios y del caos.

Pero le interesaba Clarissa.

“Clarissa nunca había decidido abandonarlo. Se la habían llevado y obligado a crecer entre mundanos, de todas las asquerosas criaturas posibles. Seguro que sabía que era distinta a todos los que la rodeaban, que estaba destinada a un futuro mejor, con todo su poder y su extrañeza latentes bajo su piel.

Debió de sentir que no había otra criatura como ella en el mundo.

Tenía una parte de ángel, como el otro Jonathan, no la sangre infernal que recorría sus venas. Él era realmente la hijo de su padre, fortalecido y forjado por los fuegos del infierno. Clarissa también era realmente hija de su padre, y ¿quién podría deducir los efectos de la extraña combinación entre la sangre de Padre y el poder del cielo que corría por sus venas? Quizá no fuera tan diferente a él.

La idea le entusiasmaba de una forma desconocida. Clarissa era su hermana; no le pertenecía a nadie más. Era suya. Lo sabía porque, aunque no soñaba muy a menudo (soñar era cosa de humanos), cuando su padre le explicó que su hermana había hundido su barco, soñó con ella.

Jonathan soñó con una chica caminando sobre las olas, su cabello era como una humareda escarlata alrededor de los hombros, enredándose y desenredándose en el viento indomable. Todo estaba oscuro, estaban en medio de una tormenta, y el mar embravecido mostraba restos de lo que había sido un barco y cuerpos que flotaban boca abajo. Ella los miraba con sus fríos ojos verdes y no sentía ningún miedo.

Clarissa lo había hecho: sembrar la destrucción como él mismo haría. En el sueño, se sentía orgulloso de ella. Su hermanita.”

"Y en el sueño reían juntos de todo el precioso desastre ocasionado a su alrededor. Estaban suspendidos sobre el mar; no podía herirlos, ya que la destrucción era su elemento. Clarissa metía en el agua sus manos, tan blancas como la luz de la luna. Al sacarlas estaban manchadas, y así se dio cuenta de que los mares eran de sangre.

Cuando Jonathan despertó de su sueño todavía sonreía.

Llegado el momento, había dicho Padre, estarían juntos, todos juntos. Jonathan debía esperar.

Pero no se le daba demasiado bien esperar.

—Tienes una expresión muy extraña —dijo Sebastian Verlac con voz clara y chillona, elevándola por encima del ruido de la música, al oído de Jonathan.

Jonathan se acercó a el y le susurró a su vez:

—Detrás tuyo. Demonio. A las cuatro.

Sebastian Verlac se volvió y el demonio, en forma de mujer de negra y abundante cabellera, se separó bruscamente del muchacho con el que estaba conversando y se escabulló entre la multitud. Jonathan y Sebastian lo siguieron hasta una puerta trasera en la que podía leerse SORTIE DE SECOURS en destartaladas letras rojas y blancas.

La puerta conducía a un callejón, que el demonio se apresuraba en atravesar para perderles la pista.

Jonathan saltó, tomó impulso en la pared de ladrillos contigua y usó la fuerza de su rebote para abalanzarse sobre la cabeza del demonio. Lo capturó al vuelo, espada rúnica en mano; oyó el silbido provocado al atravesar el aire.

"El demonio lo observó boquiabierto. La cara de mujer empezaba a deshacerse, y Jonathan vio aparecer sus verdaderas facciones: ojos de araña y boca con colmillos abierta de par en par. No le disgustaba. El líquido viscoso que corría por las venas de esa criatura también recorría las suyas.

Tampoco le inspiraba piedad. Mientras sonreía a Sebastian por encima del hombro del demonio, lo atravesó con su espada. Lo abrió en canal como había hecho antaño con el muñeco, del cuello al ombligo. Un grito descarnado resonó en el callejón al tiempo que el demonio se desvanecía, dejando tras de sí unas pocas gotas de sangre negra salpicadas en el pavimento.

—Por el Ángel —susurró Sebastian Verlac.

Miraba a Jonathan por encima de la sangre y el vacío entre ambos, con la cara pálida. Jonathan casi se alegró de ver que era lo suficientemente sensato como para estar asustado.

Pero no era así. Sebastian Verlac siguió sin darse cuenta de nada hasta el final.

—¡Eres increíble! —exclamó Sebastian con la voz rota pero llena de admiración—. ¡Nunca he visto a nadie moverse tan rápido! Alors, tienes que enseñarme a moverme así. En la vida he visto nada parecido a lo que acabas de hacer. 

—Me encantaría ayudarte —dijo Jonathan—, pero por desgracia debo marcharme en seguida. Mi padre me necesita, ¿sabes? Tiene planes. Y no puede llevarlos a cabo sin mí. 

Sebastian parecía decepcionado, por absurdo que resulte. 

—Oh, vamos, no me digas que te vas a ir —le dijo con voz persuasiva—. Cazar contigo ha sido divertidísimo, mon pote. Tenemos que volver a hacerlo algún día. 

—Me temo —respondió Jonathan con la mano en la empuñadura de su arma— que no va a ser posible. 

Sebastian no pareció demasiado sorprendido cuando Jonathan se abalanzó sobre él para matarlo. Notar la espada desgarrando la garganta de Sebastian y su sangre caliente desparramándose entre sus dedos hicieron reír a Jonathan. 

No sería conveniente que encontraran el cuerpo de Sebastian antes de tiempo, estropearía todo el juego, así que Jonathan lo acarreó por las calles como si estuviera acompañando a casa a un amigo que había bebido demasiado. 

En realidad no había tanta distancia hasta el pequeño puente que atravesaba el agua, débil como una verde filigrana o como huesos infantiles y mohosos. Empujó el cadáver hacia un lado y lo observó adentrarse en las aguas negras con un ligero sonido. 

El cuerpo se hundió sin dejar rastro, y ya se había olvidado de él antes incluso de que se hubiera hundido del todo. Vio los dedos curvarse con la corriente, como si volvieran a la vida e intentaran pedir ayuda, o al menos una explicación, y recordó su sueño: su hermana y un mar de sangre. El agua le había salpicado al caer el cuerpo al agua, había mojado sus mangas como símbolo de su bautismo con un nuevo nombre. Ahora era Sebastian. 

Fue paseando desde el puente hacia el barrio viejo de la ciudad, en el que se veían farolillos que escondían bombillas eléctricas, más decorado para los turistas. Se dirigía al hotel en el que se alojaba Sebastian Verlac. Lo había estudiado antes de ir al bar y había comprobado que le sería fácil entrar por la ventana y recuperar las pertenencias del chico. Después sólo le quedaba comprar un bote de tinte barato y... 

Un grupo de chicas con vestidos de noche pasó por su lado, notando su presencia, y una de ellas, ataviada con una falda plateada ajustada, lo miró directamente a los ojos y le sonrió. 

Se unió a ellas. 

—Comment tu t’appelles, beau gosse? —le preguntó otra de las chicas con voz ligeramente seductora—. ¿Cual es tu nombre guapo? 

—Sebastian —respondió rápidamente, sin dudarlo ni un segundo. Era la persona que le tocaba ser a partir de ahora, la que los planes de su padre necesitaban que fuera, en quien debía convertirse para seguir el camino que conduciría a la victoria y a Clarissa—. Sebastian Verlac. 

Miró al horizonte y pensó en las torres de cristal de Idris rodeadas de sombras, llamas y ruinas. Pensó en su hermana esperándolo en algún lugar del mundo. 

Sonrió. 

Supo que le iba a gustar ser Sebastian. 

Una partida repentina

Fuente: Simon & Schuster
The original first chapter of City of Glass, with a commentary by Cassie on what was changed and why she changed it. Check the link above for the footnote commentary.

Clary zipped her backpack closed and glanced around the room to see if she’d forgotten anything. Madeleine had told her it would be cold in Idris due to the high elevation, so she’d packed her long-sleeved shirts, some jeans, and her sweaters. She didn't have a winter coat, but she didn't plan on being in Idris long enough to need one. She was only going long enough to get what she needed to help her mother. Then she’d be back.

For the third time in fifteen minutes, she punched Simon’s number into her mobile phone. It rang and rang, finally going to voice mail.

It was Eric’s voice, not Simon’s, on the recorded message. “Ladies, ladies,” he said. Though it was the millionth time she’d heard the recording, Clary couldn't help rolling her eyes. “If you've reached this message, that means our boy Simon is out partying. But please don’t fight among yourselves. There’s always enough Simon to go around.” There was a muffled yell, some laughter, and then the long sound of the beep.

She hung up with a frown. Where was he? He knew she was leaving today. How could he not be here to wish her a safe trip?

Of course, their last meeting had been a little tense. He’d sat on her bed, watching her with an almost scary detachment as she ranted about Madeleine and Idris and her mother’s cure.

“You see, my mom knew Valentine was going to come looking for her one day,” she’d told him breathlessly. “She knew he'd try to torture the location of the Mortal Cup out of her if he could. She used this potion she’d had a warlock make for her. She brought it to New York with her from Idris. She knew it would put her into a sort of suspended animation, so she’d be no use to Valentine. She must have taken it when she heard the Ravener coming for her. Don’t you see? That's why the doctors can’t find anything wrong with her. The only thing that’ll cure her is taking the same potion again.”

“So where are you supposed to get more of the same potion?” Simon asked. “It doesn't seem like something you can just pick up at the local bodega.”

“It would have to come from the same warlock who made it in the first place.”

“You mean Magnus Bane?” Simon said. “He was the warlock your mom used to use for those memory spells, so—”

“No, it wasn’t Magnus. Weren't you listening? She brought the potion from Idris. It was someone she knew there.”

“So…?” Simon let the rest of the sentence hang delicately in the air.

“I’m going to Idris,” Clary told him.

He blanched. Since he was already very pale, this was impressive. “To Idris? By yourself? Clary—”

“Not by myself. With the Lightwoods. Madeleine says they’re going anyway. They have to: The Clave is recalling all the heads of Conclaves in different cities to Idris for some kind of summit meeting.”

“But going to Idris—it doesn't seem safe, Clary.”

“Safe as anywhere else,” Clary said. "I mean, with no one sure what Valentine is going to do next, or even where he is..."

“Maybe it’s better for you to be with the Lightwoods,” Simon said after a pause. “With Jace, anyway. He’d never let anything happen to you.”

He didn't say, What’s going to happen to me while you’re gone? but Clary knew he was thinking it. Simon had only been a vampire a little less than a week and was still trying to adjust. She was one of the only people he could talk to about it, and she was leaving. She thought of what it must be like for him, keeping that secret, going to school every day, pretending things were all right. "Simon, I’m sorry..."

He waved away her apology. “You have to do what you have to do to help your mother,” he said. “I wouldn't stand in your way.”

“You can hang out with Luke,” she said. “He’ll be here. Mostly at the hospital, admittedly, but he’s around, and you know he doesn't mind if you need someone to talk to.”

“I can talk to Maia,” Simon said.

“Great,” Clary said, with a marked lack of enthusiasm. Maia was also a werewolf. A werewolf with a crush on Simon. Clary had never been able to warm to her, though she’d tried. “I guess she must know what you’re going through, huh?”

Simon didn't answer. “This plan of yours, about going to Idris,” he said. “Does Jace know about it?”

Clary shook her head.

“He’s going to freak out.”

“No, he won’t,” Clary said. “He’ll be fine.”


Jace wasn't fine.

“You’re not going,” he said. He was white-faced, staring; he looked at her as if she’d sneaked up and sucker-punched him in the stomach. “If I have to tie you up and sit on you until this insane whim of yours passes, you are not going.”

“Why not?” Clary said. The straight-forwardness of the question seemed to make Jace even angrier. “Because it isn't safe.”

“Oh, and it’s so safe here?” Clary snapped. “I've nearly been killed a dozen times in the past month, and every time it’s been right here in New York.”

“That’s because Valentine’s been concentrating on the Mortal Instruments that were here.” Jace spoke through gritted teeth. “He's going to shift his focus to Idris now, we all know it—”

“We’re hardly as certain of anything as all that,” said Maryse Lightwood. Clary had nearly forgotten that the older woman was there in the library with them. She was sitting behind what Clary would always think of as Hodge’s desk, a thick plank laid across the backs of kneeling mahogany angels. Sharp lines of exhaustion drew Maryse's face down. Her husband, Robert Lightwood, had been injured by demon poison during the battle last week, and had needed constant nursing since. “And the Clave wants to see Clarissa, you know that, Jace.”

“The Clave can screw itself,” said Jace.

Maryse frowned.

“The Clave wants a lot of things,” Jace added. “It shouldn't necessarily get them all.”

Maryse shot him a look, as if she knew exactly what he was talking about and didn’t appreciate it. “The Clave is often right, Jace. It’s not unreasonable for them to want to talk to Clary, after what she’s been through. What she could tell them—”

“I’ll tell them whatever they want to know,” Jace said. “They’ll be grilling me for weeks as it is.”

“And I hope when they do you’ll be a bit more cooperative and a bit less stubborn,” Maryse said. She turned her blue eyes, so much like Alec’s, on Clary. “So you want to go to Idris, do you?”

“Just for a few days,” Clary said. “I won’t be any trouble. Madeleine even said I could stay in her house. She’s got one in Alicante.”

“I know she does. The question isn’t whether you’ll be any trouble; the question is whether you’ll be willing to meet with the Clave while you’re there. They want to talk to you. If you say no, I doubt we can get the authorization to bring you with us.”

Jace was shaking his head.

“I’ll meet with the Clave,” Clary said.

Maryse rubbed at her temples with her fingertips. “Then it’s settled.” She didn’t sound settled, though; she sounded as tense and fragile as a violin string tightened to the breaking point.

“But—” Jace began.

Maryse waved her hand at him in dismissal. “That’s enough, Jace.”

Jace’s mouth was a hard line. “I’ll walk you out, Clary.”

“I can walk myself out,” she said, but Jace already had her by the elbow and was steering her toward the door. They were barely out in the hallway when he dropped her arm and spun to face her, glowering like a gargoyle. “Didn’t you listen to a word I said, Clary? I told you you can’t come.”

“But Maryse says I can, and you don’t give the orders around here, do you?”

“Maryse trusts the Clave too much,” Jace said. He started off down the hall, making Clary scramble to keep up. “She has to believe they’re perfect—and I can’t tell her they aren't, because—”

“Because that’s something Valentine would say.”

His shoulders tensed. “No one is perfect,” was all he said. They were in the foyer now; he reached out and stabbed at the elevator button with his index finger. “Not even the Clave.”

Clary crossed her arms over her chest. “Is that really why you don’t want me to come? Because it isn't safe?”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face. There were shadows ringing his eyes, Clary noticed without wanting to, and dark hollows under his cheekbones. The black sweater he was wearing only made his light, bruise-marked skin stand out more, and the dark lashes, too; he was a study in contrasts, something to be painted in shades of black, white, and gray, with splashes of gold here and there, like his eyes, for an accent color—

“What do you mean?” Jace said, snapping her out of her mental painting reverie. “Why wouldn’t I want you to come?”

She swallowed. “Because—” Because you told me you don’t have feelings for me anymore, and you see, that’s very awkward, because I still have them for you. And I bet you know it.

“Because I don’t want my little sister following me everywhere?” There was a sharp note in his voice, half mockery, half something else. The elevator arrived with a clatter; he reached around her to push open the ornate gate and the soft wool of his sweater tickled the back of her neck.

“I'm not going there because you’ll be there. I’m going there because I want to help my mother. I told you that.”

“I can help her for you. Tell me where to go, who to ask. I’ll get what you need.”

She stepped into the elevator, turned to face him. “Madeleine told the warlock I’d be the one coming. He’ll be expecting Jocelyn’s daughter, not Jocelyn’s son.”

“So tell her there was a change of plans. I’ll be going, not you.”

She bit her lip. “Madeleine said—”

“Madeleine said, Madeleine said,” he mimicked savagely. “Has that woman brainwashed you?”

“She said,” Clary went on, “that the warlock might even not believe that you’re who you say you are. She said half the people over in Idris think you’re really Valentine’s son. So what makes you think someone who helped her would even help you? I mean, the whole reason my mother took that potion in the first place was to keep Valentine’s hands off her—”

“And I’m not better than him? Is that what you’re saying?”

“What? No, of course not, you know I think you’re nothing like him, Jace—”

“Apparently,” he said, “not enough to pass that information on to Madeleine.”

He slammed the gate shut between them. For a moment, she stared at him through it—the mesh of the gate divided up his face into a series of diamond shapes, outlined in metal. A single golden eye stared at her through one diamond, furious anger flickering in its depths.

“Jace—” she said, again.

But with a jerk and a clatter, the elevator was already moving, carrying her down into the dark silence of the Institute.

That was the last time she'd seen Jace. He hadn't picked up the phone when she’d called him since, so she'd made all her plans to travel to Idris with the Lightwoods using Alec as somewhat reluctant and embarrassed point person. Alec. She sighed and flipped open her phone again. She might as well call him and see what time they were coming to pick her up on their way out of the city.

Since there was no longer a working Portal in the Manhattan area, they were going to have to drive to a location they hadn't disclosed to her and use a Portal there. They were so secretive, Shadowhunters, she thought; it was as if they could never forget that part of her that had been raised to believe it was mundane, ordinary. She would never really be one of them, privy to their secrets.

Alec wasn't answering his phone either. Clary snapped her mobile phone shut and swore. “By the Angel—”

A soft laugh came from her doorway. She whirled around. It was Luke, hands in his pockets, watching her with an expression of fondness mixed with amusement. His flannel shirt was crumpled—he’d probably slept on the plastic chair in the hospital again. “Now you're even swearing like a Shadowhunter,” he said.

“I guess it's catching,” Clary said. She smiled at him. “I'm glad you came to say good-bye to me, at least.”

“We said good-bye last night,” Luke reminded her. It was true. They'd gone to the hospital to see Jocelyn. Clary had kissed her mother and promised that when she came back, she'd have Jocelyn's cure. Madeleine had been there, though she and Luke were strange and stiff with each other and she'd promised Luke she'd take good care of Clary in Idris. And then Clary and Luke had come back to Luke’s house and had pizza and watched TV until midnight, when he'd gone back to the hospital.

“Well, Simon seems to have decided to blow me off, so it’s good to have a second good-bye from someone.”

“He's probably just worried about you going to Idris.”

“You're worried, and you still showed up.”

“I have the benefit of experience which tells me that sulking solves nothing,” Luke said with a grin. “Also that there's no point trying to tell you or your mother what to do.” He reached behind him and brought out a brown paper shopping bag. “Here, I got you something for your trip.”

“You didn't have to do that!” Clary protested. “You've done so much—” She thought of the clothes he'd bought her after everything she owned had been destroyed. He’d given her a new phone, new art supplies, without ever having to be asked. Almost everything she owned now was a gift from Luke.

“I wanted to.” He handed over the bag.

The object inside was swathed in layers of tissue paper. Clary tore through it, her hand seizing on something soft as kitten’s fur. She drew it out and gave a little gasp—it was a bottle-green velvet coat, old-fashioned with a gold silk lining, brass buttons, and a wide hood. She drew it on, smoothing her hands lovingly down the soft material. “It looks like something Isabelle would wear,” she exclaimed.

“Exactly. Now you’ll be dressed more like one of them,” Luke said. “When you’re in Idris.”

She looked up at him. “Do you want me to look like one of them?”

“Clary, you are one of them.” His smile was tinged with sadness. “Besides, you know how they treat outsiders. Anything you can do to fit in . . .”

A spasm of guilt seized her. “Luke, I wish you would come with me—”

“It's not safe for me in Idris. You know that. Besides, I can't leave Jocelyn.”

“But—” Clary broke off as her phone rang. She dived for it, scrabbling around among the tangled bedsheets and piles of discarded tissue paper. She came up gripping it triumphantly.

“Is it Simon?” Luke asked.

She glanced at the number on the screen and her smile faded into a look of perplexity. “It’s Jace.” She flipped the phone open. “Hello?”

“Clary?” His familiar voice sent a shiver up her spine. “Where are you?”

“I'm at Luke's. Where else would I be?”

“Good.” There was a note of relief in his voice that struck her as odd. “Stay there.”

“Of course I’m staying here. I’m waiting for you guys to come and pick me up.” She hesitated. “You are coming to pick me up, right?”

He was silent.

“Jace, what’s going on? Has something happened? Are we not going to Idris—?”

Jace sighed. “We're going,” he said. “But you're not.”

“What do you mean, I’m not going?” Her voice shot up several octaves. Luke winced. “Maryse said I could go! We went over this!”

“There's been a change of plans,” Jace said. “You're not coming after all.”

“But the Clave wanted to meet with me—”

“It turned out,” Jace said, “that there was someone they wanted to meet with more. And I made your not coming a condition of bringing him.”

Clary felt as if she’d stepped in a bucket of ice water.

“Of bringing who?” she whispered.

“Simon,” Jace said.

“What does the Clave want with Simon? He’s just a mundane—”

“He’s not a mundane, Clary. He’s a vampire. A vampire who can walk in the sunlight. The only vampire who can walk in the sunlight that anyone’s ever heard of in the entire history of the Clave. Of course they’re interested in him.”

“Are they going to hurt him?”

“No,” Jace said, impatiently. “Of course not. They gave their official word they wouldn't.”

“I don't believe you,” Clary said. She took a shuddering breath. “Jace, don't do this. I won't come, all right, I promise I'll stay here, but please don't take Simon with you.”

“The danger was all right for you, though, wasn't it?” Jace said angrily. “Clary, Simon won’t be safe here, either. He’s unique. A magical aberration. Already there are rumors shooting through Downworld about his existence. The vampires held a council last night about what to do with him—some were in favor of killing him outright as a dangerous mutation, and others wanted to experiment on him to see if what happened to him could be replicated. Not to mention that he’s the werewolves' public enemy number one—”

“But Luke controls the lycanthropes—”

“Not all the lycanthropes in the world, Clary! What happened to Simon—it’s huge, it’s unprecedented. Everyone’s going to want a part of him. The safest place for him is in Idris, with the Clave, especially when we won't be here to protect him.”

“And you said Maryse trusts the Clave too much. You should talk,” Clary said bitterly. “How could you do this, Jace? My mother—”

“I know what your mother needs to get well,” Jace said. “And I’ll get it for you, I give you my word on the Angel.”

“For whatever that’s worth. I don’t get it,Jace. Why are you doing this?”

He hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, between one breath and the next. His voice, when he spoke, was flat. “I can’t believe you don’t know.”

“Don’t do this,” she said. Some tiny part of her wondered if she was being unreasonable, but it was swamped by her overwhelming sense of abandonment and terror. “Please, Jace—”

“I’m sorry, Clary,” he said, and hung up.

Silence. Clary dialed his number again and got a static busy signal. She hit the button to redial and found the phone gently prised out of her hand. “Clary,” said Luke, his blue eyes full of compassion. “For all we know, he’s probably already gone through the Portal. There’s no point—”

“That’s not true!” she screamed at him. “They weren't even supposed to have left yet! They can’t be gone!”

“Clary—”

But she was already pushing past him, her breath harsh in her ears as she raced out of the house and down Kent Street, heading for the subway.


It took Clary several moments to peel the glamour off the Institute today. It felt as if another layer of disguise had been added to the old cathedral, like a new coat of paint. Scraping it off with her mind felt hard, even painful. Finally it was gone and she could see the church as it was. The high wooden doors gleamed as if they’d just been polished.

She put her hand to the knob. I am Clary Morgenstern, one of the Nephilim, and I ask entrance to the Institute—

The door swung open. Clary stepped inside. She looked around, blinking, trying to identify what it was that felt somehow different about the cathedral’s interior.

She realized it as the door swung shut behind her, prisoning her in a blackness relieved only by the dim glow of the rose window far overhead. She had never been inside the entrance to the Institute when there had not been dozens of flames lit in the elaborate candelabras lining the aisle between the pews.

She took her witchlight stone out of her pocket and held it up. Light blazed from it, sending shining spikes of illumination flaring out from between her fingers. It lit the dusty corners of the cathedral’s interior as she made her way to the elevator set into the wall near the bare altar. She jabbed impatiently at the call button.

Nothing happened. After half a minute went by, she pressed the button again—and again. She laid her ear against the elevator door and listened. Not a sound. The Institute had gone dark and silent, like a mechanical doll whose clockwork heart had finally run down.

Clary took a step back and collapsed into one of the pews. The seat was hard, narrow, and uncomfortable, but she barely noticed. They were gone. Gone to Idris, where she couldn’t follow. Gone out of her life, taking Simon to where she couldn’t protect him. She remembered Magnus saying, “When your mother fled from the Shadow World, it was them she was hiding from. Not the demons. The Shadowhunters.” He had been right, and she had been wrong to trust the Nephilim. She had thought the Lightwoods cared about her, but all that mattered to any of them was their precious Clave. Even Jace—

At that thought, her throat contracted and she felt the tears come in a hot flood. She sat sobbing, clutching the witchlight stone to her chest, where it pulsed and glowed like a luminous heart.

“Clary.” The soft voice came unexpectedly out of the silence behind her, making her whirl around in her seat. A tall figure stood behind her, like an ungainly scarecrow. He wore a black velvet suit over a shimmering emerald green shirt, and a number of brightly jeweled rings glittered on his narrow fingers. There were fancy boots involved as well, and a good deal of glitter.

“Magnus?” Clary whispered.

“Clary, my darling.” His voice was as musical as ever. He sat down next to her in the pew, his cloak moving around him like smoke. “Are you all right?”

“No. They’re gone—and they took Simon—Jace called me and he said—he said—”

“I know,” Magnus said. “It was a dirty trick to play. He has a lot of his father in him, your brother Jonathan.”

A day before, an hour even, Clary would have told him not to say something like that. Now she just bit her lip. “Isn’t there anything I can do?” she burst out. “There must be some way to get to Idris—”

“The nearest airport is a country over. If you could get across the border—assuming you could even identify the border—there would be a long and dangerous overland journey after that, through all sorts of Downworlder territory. You’d never make it, not traveling on your own.”

She turned to him. “But you—”

“I’d have to disobey a direct order of the Clave to take you to Idris, Clary,” Magnus said. “I like you, but not that much.”

She gave a choked laugh. “What about a Portal? If I could get to a Portal?”

“You can’t. The Portals at Renwick’s and Madame Dorothea’s were destroyed, and I’ve no idea where any other Portals might be. That sort of information is closely guarded. And I have to tell you, Clary—”

“Let me guess. The Clave has instructed you not to help me in any way.” Clary spoke bitterly. “I know how they work by now. If Jace made some sort of deal with them, then they were probably pretty thorough in giving him what he asked for.”

“What did he ask for?” Magnus asked, his cat’s eyes sparking with curiosity.

“I think he told them that he’d bring them Simon if they could promise I’d be kept out of whatever’s going on in Idris,” Clary said, almost reluctantly.

Magnus’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “He must really love you.”

“No,” Clary said. “I think he just doesn’t want me around. I make him uncomfortable.”

Magnus muttered something. It sounded like an exasperated expletive followed by the word Shadowhunters, but Clary couldn't be sure. "Look,” he said. “I think Jace is probably right. Stay out of what’s going on in Idris—it's going to be a political disaster area.”

She looked up at him. The light of the witchlight stone caught the edges of his sharp cheekbones and the gold in his cat eyes. “But Simon,” she said. “Do you think he’ll be all right?”

“Didn’t Jace say he’d make sure nothing happened to him?”

“Yes,” said Clary. “He swore on the Angel.”

“Then I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Magnus said, but she had caught the slight hesitation in his voice before he spoke. She said nothing in reply, just turned the witchlight stone over in her fingers, watching the light flicker across the dark green material of her coat. Just an hour ago, she’d been so happy to put it on—

“Simon is something very special, Clary,” added Magnus. “A vampire who can withstand daylight. He’s not helpless. He may not need your protection. He would do well to learn to use the gifts he has.” He stood up, a spectacularly tall and thin figure, dark and spidery in the dim light. “As would you.”

Llegada alternativa de Simon a Alacante

Fuente: Sitio web de Cassandra Clare
CC's Note: In the original version of the story, Simon wound up in Idris as a result of Jace's trickery and not as an accident. I decided I didn't like that -- it made Jace too manipulative and Clary too forgiving of his bad behavior -- so I altered it; this is, however, the original first scene in which Simon wakes up in Alicante and meets Sebastian and Aline. Bonus: inclusion of Simon's mysterious last name. From Chapter 2, The Demon Towers of Alicante.

“Where are we?” Simon hissed through his teeth.

“Alicante,” said Jace. “The City of Glass.” And, when Simon only stared at him, he added with a touch of impatience: “We’re in Idris.” He leaned out the window a little. “See,” he said, indicating the towers, “those are the demon towers. They’re made of the same material our steles and seraph blades are made out of. It’s a demon-repellent —”

“Why have you taken me here?” Simon demanded, interrupting Jace’s lesson in local geography.

Jace’s eyes met his, and for a moment there was something in them — something almost beseeching — and then Jace said, “You agreed. This is for Clary.”

“I didn’t agree to anything!” Simon struck the window ledge with his fist. He'd expected it to hurt, but it didn't; he still wasn’t used to his new strength, and the blow left a dent in the stone. “Wait.” A thought occurred to him. “Clary — you mean she's here?” He whirled around as if half-expecting to see her, but there was only the same stone room. “Where is she?”

Jace pushed his hair back impatiently. “She’s not here — that's just it. I traded her for you.”

“You what? What are you talking about? Why would anyone want me instead of Clary?”

“Search me,” said Jace with a little of his old malice, “I certainly wouldn't, but the Clave is a little peculiar that way. They have their ways —”

“The Clave?” Simon stared at Jace. “You brought me here because the Clave wanted Clary, and you agreed to give them me instead?”

“I know — bit of a dirty trick, wasn't it?”remarked a light voice. Simon turned and saw Isabelle Lightwood standing in the open doorway. She wore dark trousers and a form-fitting white leather jacket against which her hair looked impossibly black. Beside her was her brother, Alec, in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt with a black runic mark scrawled across the front. “Jace didn't tell us that you didn't know about it until we were already well through the Portal,” Isabelle went on, ignoring the dirty look Alec was giving her. “Mom and Dad were livid, but what can they do? The Clave is the Clave and Jace made a deal with them. We couldn't go back on it if we wanted to.”

“I didn’t make a deal,” Simon said. He looked from Jace's impassive face to Isabelle — smiling as if this were all a game — to Alec, who looked at him out of suspicious blue eyes and said nothing. “I didn’t agree to any of this.”

“You did,” Jace said, “when you said you’d do anything for Clary. This is anything.”

Jace was looking at him almost expectantly; Simon felt a spark of rage inside him flicker and then die. “Fine.” He turned away from the window. “I did say I’d do anything for Clary, and it’s true. But tell me one thing: why is it you want Clary out of Idris so badly?”

“Oh, I don’t care one way or the other,” Isabelle said airily, then saw Simon’s expression and threw her hands up. “Sorry, you were asking Jace, weren’t you?”

“Isabelle,” said Alec, in a voice like a groan.

Jace just looked at Simon, steadily. For a moment, Simon thought he wasn’t going to say anything at all. Finally, he sighed. “Look, Simon —”

“Is that the vampire?” came a soft voice from the doorway. A slender teenage girl stood there, a tall, dark-haired boy beside her. The girl was small-boned, with glossy black hair pulled back from her face, and a mischievous expression. Her delicate chin narrowed into a point like a cat’s. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but she was very striking.

The boy beside her was more than striking. He was probably Jace’s height, but seemed taller: he was broad-shouldered, with an elegant, restless face, all sharp cheekbones and black eyes. There was something strangely familiar about him, as if Simon had met him before, though he knew he never had. The black inky swirls of Marks rose up from the collar of the boy’s shirt, and there was a curving Mark on his face, just below his left eye, which surprised Simon — most Shadowhunters were careful to keep Marks off their faces.

“Can we see him?” the girl went on, moving into the room, the boy just behind her. “I’ve never really been this close to a vampire before — not one I wasn’t planning to kill. I can’t believe my parents let you bring him into the house.” She looked Simon up and down as if she were taking his measurements. “He’s cute, for a Downworlder.”

“You’ll have to forgive Aline; she has the face of an angel and the manners of a Moloch demon,” said the boy with a grin, coming forward. He held his hand out to Simon. “I’m Sebastian. Sebastian Verlac.”

It took Simon a moment to realize that the boy was offering his hand for Simon to shake. Bemused, he shook it, and the same strange sensation passed over him that he’d had before: the sense that this boy was someone he knew, someone familiar. “I’m Simon. Simon Lewis.”

Sebastian was still grinning. “And this is my cousin, Aline Penhallow. Aline —”

”I don’t shake hands with Downworlders,” Aline said quickly, and went to stand by Jace. “Really, Sebastian, you can be so bizarre sometimes.” She spoke with a faint accent, Simon noticed — not British or Australian, something else. “They don’t have souls, you know. Vampires.”

Sebastian’s smile disappeared. “Aline —”

“It’s true. That’s why they can’t see themselves in mirrors, or go in the sun —”

Very deliberately, Simon stepped backward, into the patch of sunlight in front of the window. He felt the sun hot on his back, his hair. His shadow was cast, long and dark, across the floor, almost reaching Jace’s feet.

Aline took a sharp breath, but said nothing. It was Sebastian who spoke, looking at Simon with curious black eyes: “So it’s true,” he said. “The Lightwoods, said, but I didn’t think —”

“That we were telling the truth?” Jace said. “It’s true. That’s why the Clave’s so curious about him. He’s unique.”

“I kissed him once,” Isabelle said, to no one in particular.

Aline’s eyebrows shot up. “They really do let you do whatever you want in New York, don’t they?” she said, sounding half horrified and half envious. “I remember the last time I saw you, Izzy, you wouldn’t even have considered—”

“The last time we all saw each other, Izzy was eight,” Alec said. “Things change. Now, are we all going to stand around in here for the rest of the day, or are we going to go downstairs and find something to eat — which is what we were discussing before Jace came up here to check on Simon, wasn’t it?”

“I could eat,” Simon said, and grinned at Aline, wide enough to show his pointed canines. She gave an appreciative shriek.

“Stop that, Lewis,” Jace said. “Look, you can come downstairs with us if you promise to behave.”

“Lewis? You’re calling me by my last name now?”

“I figured it was better than ‘vampire’,” Jace said as they all began to file out of the room, and Simon had to agree that on the whole, this was true.

Jace y Alec

Fuente: Tumblr
Nota de Cassandra Clare: Esto es la versión original de la escena que empieza en la página 137 de Ciudad de Cristal. En la versión original,Jace besa a Alec, más para demostrar algo que para otra cosa, pero la escena resultante me hizo reír, hizo reír a mis compañeros de crítica e hizo reír a mi editor, histéricamente. Era, simplemente, demasiado ridícula para funcionar.

Jace miró a Alec fijamente. Luego dijo: "¿Qué hay entre tú y Magnus Bane?" 

Alec sacudió la cabeza hacia un lado, como si Jace le hubiera abofeteado o empujado. "Yo no - no hay nada -” 

"Yo lo sé", dijo Jace, anticipándose a él. "No soy estúpido. Dime la verdad”. 

"No hay nada entre nosotros", dijo Alec - y, a continuación, viendo la mirada en la cara de Jace, agregó con gran renuencia ", nada más. Ya no hay nada entre nosotros. ¿De acuerdo? "  

"¿Y eso por qué? A Magnus realmente le gustas. " 

"Déjalo, Jace", dijo Alec en un tono de advertencia. 

Jace parecía no haber sido advertido. "Magnus dice que es porque estás colado por mí. ¿Es eso cierto? "

Hubo un momento de silencio absoluto. A continuación, Alec dio un aullido desesperado de horror y levantó las manos para cubrir su rostro. "Voy a matar a Magnus. Matarlo de verdad. " 

"No lo hagas. Él se preocupa por ti. De verdad. Creo eso ", dijo Jace, intentando sonar un poco torpe. "Mira. No quiero empujarte a hacer nada, pero ¿tal vez querrías …- " 

"Llamar a Magnus? Mira, eso es un callejón sin salida, sé que estás tratando de ser útil, pero…- " 

"…Besarme?" Jace terminó. 

Alec lo miró como si estuviera a punto de caer de su silla. "¿QUÉ? ¿Qué? ¿Qué?" 

"Una vez hecho." Jace hizo lo posible por parecer como si este fuera el tipo de una sugerencia que hace todo el tiempo. "Creo que podría ayudar." 

Alec miró con algo parecido al horror. "No quieres decir eso." 

"¿Por qué no querría decirlo?" 

"Porque eres la persona más heterosexual que conozco. Posiblemente el más heterosexual de todo el universo. " 

"Exacto", dijo Jace, y se inclinó y besó a Alec en la boca. 

El beso duró aproximadamente cuatro segundos antes de Alec lo tirara con fuerza lejos de él, levantando sus manos, como si evitara que Jace fuera hacia él nuevamente.  

Parecía como si estuviera a punto de vomitar. "Por el Ángel", dijo. "No vuelvas a hacerlo de nuevo. " 

"Ah, ¿sí?" Jace sonrió, y casi en serio. "¿Tan malo ha sido?" 

"Es como besar a mi hermano,” dijo Alec, con una mirada de horror en sus ojos. 

"Pensé que podrías sentirte de esa manera." Jace cruzó los brazos sobre el pecho. "Además, estoy pensando que pasaré por alto la ironía en todo lo que acabas de decir. "  

"Podemos pasar por alto lo que quieras", dijo Alec fervientemente. "Eso sí, no vuelvas a besarme otra vez. " 

"No voy a hacerlo. Tengo otros asuntos que atender. "Jace se puso de pie, pateando la silla hacia atrás. "Si alguien pregunta dónde estoy, diles que fui a dar un paseo. "  

"¿Dónde vas a ir en realidad?" Alec preguntó, mirándolo de pie en la puerta. "A ver a Clary?"  

"No" Jace sacudió la cabeza. "Me voy al Gard. Voy a sacar a Simon de la cárcel.”


La cabaña de Ragnor Fell

Fuente: Sitio web de Cassandra Clare
CC's Note: This is the way the scene that begins on page 160 in City of Glass, where Clary and Sebastian visit Magnus at Ragnor Fell's cottage, originally read. There was a much more elaborate set-up, which I cut for pacing reasons. Still, the original scene does feature Magnus in harem pants. From Chapter 7.

“We’re here,” Sebastian said abruptly — so abruptly that Clary wondered if she really had offended him somehow — and slid down from the horse’s back. But his face, when he looked up at her, was all smiles. “We made good time,” he said, tying the reins to the lower branch of a nearby tree. “Better than I thought we would.”

He indicated with a gesture that she should dismount, and after a moment’s hesitation, Clary slid off the horse and into his arms. She clutched him as he caught her, her legs unsteady after the long ride. “Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “Sorry — I didn’t mean to grab you.”

“I wouldn’t apologize for that.” His breath was warm against her neck and she shivered. His hands lingered just a moment longer on her back before he reluctantly let her go. “I like that coat,” he said, his eyes lingering on her as his hands had done a moment ago. “Not only does it feel great, but the color makes your eyes look even more green.”

All this wasn’t helping Clary’s legs feel any less unsteady. “Thanks,” she said, knowing full well she was blushing and wishing heartily that her fair skin didn’t show color so readily. “So — this is it?” She looked around — they were standing in a sort of small valley between low hills. There were a number of gnarled-looking trees ranged around a clearing. Their twisted branches had a sort of sculptural beauty against the steel-blue sky. But otherwise… “There’s nothing here,” Clary said with a frown.

“Clary.” There was laughter in his voice. “Concentrate.”

“You mean — a glamour? But I don’t usually have to —”

“Glamours in Idris are often stronger than glamours elsewhere. You may have to try harder than you usually do.” He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her gently. “Look at the clearing.”

Clary looked. And silently performed the mental trick that allowed her to peel glamour from the thing it disguised. She imagined herself rubbing turpentine on a canvas, peeling away layers of paint to reveal the true image underneath — and there it was, a small stone house with a sharply gabled roof, smoke twisting from the chimney in an elegant curlicue. A winding path lined with stones led up to the front door. As she looked, the smoke puffing from the chimney stopped curling upward and began to take on the shape of a wavering black question mark.

Sebastian laughed. “I think that means who’s there?”

Clary pulled her jacket closer around her. She felt suddenly, unaccountably cold — the wind blowing across the level grass wasn’t that brisk, but there was ice in her bones nevertheless. “It looks like something out of a fairy tale.”

Sebastian didn’t disagree, just started up the front walk. Clary followed. When they reached the front steps, Sebastian took her hand. Immediately, the smoke curling from the chimney stopped forming itself into question marks and began puffing out in the shape of lopsided hearts. Clary snatched her hand back, felt immediately guilty, and reached for the door knocker to disguise her embarrassment. It was heavy and brass, shaped like a cat, and when she let it fall it hit the wooden door with a satisfying thwack.

The thwack was followed by a number of popping and clicking noises. The door shuddered and swung open. Beyond it, Clary could discern only darkness. She looked sideways at Sebastian, her mouth suddenly dry. Like a fairy tale cottage, she’d said. Except the things that lived in cottages in fairy tales weren’t always benevolent…

“At least it isn’t decorated with candy and gingerbread,” Sebastian said, as if reading her thoughts. “I’ll go in first, if you like.”

“No.” She shook her head. “We’ll go in together.”

They’d barely cleared the threshold when the door slammed shut behind them, shutting out all light. The blackness was relentless, impenetrable. Something brushed up against Clary in the darkness and she screamed.

“It’s just me,” Sebastian said irritably. “Here — take my hand.” She felt his fingers grope for hers in the darkness and this time she seized onto his hand with a feeling of gratitude. Stupid, she thought, clutching Sebastian’s fingers tightly, stupid to come in here like this — Jace would be furious —

Light suddenly flickered in the darkness. Two bright eyes appeared, green as a cat’s, hanging against the blackness like jewels. Who is there? said a voice — soft as fur, sharp as ice shards.

“Sebastian Verlac and Clarissa Morgenstern. You saw us coming up the walk.” Sebastian’s voice rang out clear and strong. “I know you’re expecting us. My aunt Elodie told me where to find you. You’ve done work for her before —”

I know who you are. The eyes blinked, plunging them both momentarily back into darkness. Follow the torchlight. “The what?” Clary turned, her hand still in Sebastian’s, in time to see a number of torches flare up in a line, one catching fire from the next, until a blazing path was lit before them. They followed it hand it hand like Hansel and Gretel following the breadcrumb trail in the dark forest, although Clary wondered if the children in the fairy tale had been holding hands quite so tightly…

The ground crunched softly underneath. Looking down Clary saw that the path was lined with shards of gleaming black, like the carapaces of enormous insects. “Dragon scales,” Sebastian said, following her gaze. “I’ve never seen so many…”

Dragons are real? Clary wanted to say, but stopped herself. Of course dragons were real. What was it Jace always said to her? All the stories are true. Before she could repeat that thought aloud, the path opened out and they found themselves standing in a wide-open garden bathed in sunlight.

At least, at first glance it looked like a garden. There were trees, whose leaves gleamed silver and gold, and paths laid out between banks of flowers, and in the center of the garden a sort of pavilion with bright silk walls. The torchlit path continued in front of them, leading up to the pavilion, but as they followed it Clary saw that the flowers on either side of the path were ingenious creations of paper and cloth. There were no insects buzzing, no birds chirping. And when she glanced up, she saw that there was no sky overhead, just a painted backdrop of blue and white, with a single blazing light shining down on them where the sun ought to have been.

They had reached the pavilion. Inside it, Clary could just glimpse the soft, moving gleam of candlelight. Her curiosity won out over her nerves and she let go of Sebastian’s hand and ducked through a gap in the heavy silk hangings.

Clary stared. The inside of the pavilion looked like something out of an illustrated copy of the Arabian Nights. The walls were gold silk, the floor covered in embroidered rugs. Floating golden balls spilled incense that smelled like roses and jasmine, the scent so thick and sweet it made her cough. There were beaded pillows scattered everywhere and a big low couch, scattered with tasseled cushions. But that wasn’t the reason she was staring. She had been prepared for something fantastical, even bizarre. She had not, however, been prepared for the sight of Magnus Bane — wearing a gold mesh vest and a pair of transparent silk harem pants — puffing gently on a fantastically large hookah with a dozen snaky pipe-arms curling out of it.

“Welcome to my humble abode.” The smoke that floated up around Magnus’ ears formed itself into little stars as he grinned. “Anything I can get you? Wine? Water? Ichor?” Clary found her voice. “An explanation would be nice. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Clary.” She hadn’t even noticed Sebastian follow her into the pavilion, but there he was, staring at her in horror. “There’s no need for you to be rude.”

“You don’t understand!” She turned to Sebastian, dismayed by the look on his face. “Something’s not right —”

“It’s all right, Clary,” he said. He turned to Magnus, his jaw set firmly. “Ragnor Fell,” he began, “I am Sebastian Verlac —” “How nice for you,” Magnus said kindly, and snapped his fingers once.

Sebastian froze in place, his mouth still open, his hand partially outstretched in greeting.

“Sebastian!” Clary reached out to touch him, but he was as rigid as a statue. Only the slight rise and fall of his chest showed that he was even still alive. “Sebastian?” she said, again, but it was hopeless: she knew somehow that he couldn’t see or hear her. She turned on Magnus. “I can’t believe you just did that. What on earth is wrong with you? Has whatever’s in that pipe melted your brain? Sebastian’s on our side.”

“I don’t have a side, Clary darling,” Magnus said with a wave of his hookah. “And really, it’s your own fault I had to freeze him outside Time for a short while. You see, you were awfully close to telling him I’m not actually Ragnor Fell.”

“That’s because you’re not actually Ragnor Fell.”

Magnus blew a stream of smoke out of his mouth and regarded her thoughtfully through the haze. “Actually,” he said, “for all intents and purposes, I am.”

Clary’s head had begun to ache, whether from the thick smoke in the room or the effort of restraining her overwhelming urge to punch Magnus in the eye, she wasn’t sure. “I don’t get it.” Magnus patted the sofa beside him. “Come sit down next to me and I’ll explain,” he purred. “You trust me, don’t you?”

Not really, Clary thought. But then again, who did she trust? Jace? Simon? Luke? None of them were around. With an apologetic glance at the frozen Sebastian, she went to join Magnus on the couch.

Escena extendida de la mansión

Fuente: Tumblr
CC's note: The original, longer version of the Clary and Jace "manor house" scene from City of Glass, chapter 9. I toned it down for the published version of the book, mostly for pacing reasons. No, it is not particularly racy -- but it's a bit more detailed than what made it into the book, so if you're wanting more Clary/Jace it might be up your alley.

The roar of the collapse faded slowly, like smoke dissipating into the air. It was replaced by the loud chirruping of startled birds; Clary could see them over Jace’s shoulder, circling curiously against the dark sky.

“Jace,” she said softly. “I think it’s over.”

He drew back slightly, propping himself on his elbows, and looked down at her. They were close enough that even in the darkness she could see herself reflected in his eyes; his face was streaked with soot and dirt, the collar of his shirt torn. Without thinking, she reached up, her fingers brushing lightly through his hair. She felt him tense, his eyes darkening.

“There was grass — in your hair,” she said by way of explanation. Her mouth was dry; adrenalin sang through her veins, and not just because of the danger she’d just been in. Everything that had just happened: the angel, the shattering manor, seemed less real than what she saw in Jace’s eyes.

“You shouldn’t touch me,” he breathed.

Her hand froze where it was, her palm against his cheek. “Why not?”

“You know why,” he said, and then, ‘You saw what I saw, didn’t you? The past, the angel. Our parents.”

“I saw.”

“You know what happened.”

“A lot of things happened, Jace —”

“Not for me.” The words breathed out on an anguished whisper. “I have demon blood, Clary. Demon blood. You understood that much, didn’t you?”

“It doesn’t mean anything. Valentine was insane. He was just ranting —”

“And Jocelyn? Was she insane?” His eyes bored into her like golden drills. “I know what Valentine was trying to do. He was trying to create hybrids — angel/human, and demon/human. You’re the former, Clary, and I’m the latter. I’m part monster. Part everything I’ve tried so hard to burn out, to destroy.”

“It’s not true. It can’t be. It doesn’t make sense—”

“But it does.” There was a sort of furious desperation in his expression as he looked down at her. She could see the gleam of the silver chain around his bare throat, lit to a white flare by the starlight. “It explains everything.”

She shook her head so hard that she felt grass tickle her cheek. “You mean it explains why you’re such an amazing Shadowhunter? Why you’re loyal and fearless and honest and everything demons aren’t —”

“It explains,” he said, evenly, “why I feel the way I do about you.”

Breath hissed between her teeth. “Jace — what do you mean?”

He was silent for a long moment, staring down at her — for so long, in fact, that she wondered if he ever planned to speak at all, or if just looking was enough; after all, she was staring at him just as helplessly. Their gazes were locked like gears; she could no more have looked away than she could have breathed with water in her lungs.

“You’re my sister,” he said, finally, “My sister, my blood, my family. I should want to protect you —” he laughed soundlessly and without any humor — “to protect you from the sort of boys who want to do to you exactly what I want to do to you.”

Clary’s breath caught. He was still looking down at her, but his expression had changed — there was a look on his face she’d never seen before, a sleepy, deadly, almost predatory light in his eyes. She was suddenly and acutely conscious of the hard pressure of his body on her body, the bones of his hips fitting themselves against hers, and she ached everywhere that she didn’t touch him, ached with a nearly physical pain.

What I want to do to you, he had said. Not thinking of anything else but how much she wanted him, she let her fingers trail down his cheek to his lips, outlining the shape of his mouth with the tip of her index finger.

She was rewarded by the catch in his breathing, the sudden darkening of his eyes. He didn’t move.

“What is it, exactly, that you want to do to me?” she whispered.

The light in his eyes was a blaze. Slowly he inclined his head until his lips were against her ear. When he spoke, she felt his breath tickle her skin, making her shiver: “I could show you.” She said nothing. Even if she could have gathered her scattered thoughts to compose the words, she didn’t want to tell him to stop. She was tired of saying no to Jace — of never letting herself feel what her body wanted her to feel.

Whatever the cost…

She felt him smile, his lips against her ear. “If you want me to stop, tell me now,” he whispered. When she still said nothing, he brushed his mouth against her hollow of her temple, making her shiver. “Or now.” His lips traced her cheekbones in the lightest of kisses, a butterfly kiss. “Or now.” His mouth traced the line of her jaw. “Or now.” His lips were against hers, his words spoken into her mouth. “Now,” he whispered, and kissed her.

At first the pressure of his lips was gentle, seeking; but when she responded instantly — sliding her arms around him, tangling her hands in his hair — she felt the cautious tension in his body change to something else. Suddenly he was kissing her with a bruising pressure, his lips crushing hers. She tasted blood in her mouth, but didn’t care. There were rocks digging into her back, and her shoulder ached where she’d fallen from the window, but she didn’t care about that either. All that existed was Jace; all she felt, hoped, breathed, wanted and saw was Jace. Nothing else mattered.

He broke off the kiss, drawing back, and she released him with a soft noise of reluctant protest. His mouth was swollen, his eyes huge and dark, nearly black with desire. He reached for the buttons of her coat, tried to slip the first one free, but his hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t manage it. Clary put her hand over his, marveling inwardly at her own calm — surely she should be shaking as badly as he was?

“Let me,” she said.

He went still. He watched her as she undid the buttons, her fingers working as fast as they could. The coat fell open. Beneath it she was wearing only a thin blouse of Amatis’ and the cold night air struck through the material, making her gasp. She raised her arms up. “Come back,” she whispered. “Kiss me again.”

He made a stifled noise and fell into her arms like someone coming up for air after nearly drowning. He kissed her eyelids, her cheeks, her throat, before returning to her lips: their kissing was frenzied now, almost clumsy in its fever — so unlike Jace, who never seemed to rush, or to hurry anything … Without the coat between them, she could feel the heat of him, burning through his shirt and hers; his hands slipped around her, under her the strap of her bra, tracing her spine, his touch scorching her bare skin. She wanted more of his touch, his hands on her, his skin on her skin — she wanted to be touching him everywhere, to hold him while he trembled like he was trembling now —and for there to be no more space between them.

She tugged his jacket off and then somehow his shirt was off, too. Their hands explored each other’s bodies: she ran her fingers down his back and felt soft skin layered over lean muscle, and something she had not expected, though she should have — scars, like thin wires laid across his skin. She supposed they were imperfections, these scars, but they didn’t feel that way to her; they were the marks of Jace’s history, cut into his skin: the raised, topographical map of a life of killing and fighting.

She stroked the star-shaped scar on his shoulder and raised herself up to brush her mouth across it. Something banged against her collarbone with a sharp cold shock. She drew back with an exclamation of surprise.

Jace raised himself up on his elbows to look down at her. “What is it?” His voice was slow, almost drugged. “Did I hurt you?”

“Not really. It was this.” She reached up and touched the silver chain around his neck. On its end hung a small silver circle of metal. It was ice cold to the touch.

That ring — the weather-beaten metal with its pattern of stars — she knew that ring.

The Morgenstern ring. It had been Valentine’s, and Valentine had passed it along to Jace, as it had always been passed along: father to son.

“I’m sorry,” Jace said. He was tracing the line of her cheek with his fingertip, a dreamlike intensity in his gaze. “I forgot I was wearing the damn thing.”

Sudden cold flooded Clary’s veins. “Jace,” she said, in a low voice. “Jace, don’t.”

Punto de vista de Jace en la escena de la mansión

Fuente: Sitio web de Cassandra Clare
CC's note: Over the years, many people have asked for this — Jace’s point of view of the “hot and heavy” scene in THIS GUILTY BLOOD, Chapter Nine of City of Glass. (Page 206-211 in the American hardback CoG.) I’ve taken a few liberties here — the scene goes on a few moments past what happens in the printed version of CoG — but then so did the original draft!
The bits below in italics are the bits from the original book, to help you mentally locate the placement of the scene.

Clary heard a sharp pattering noise all around her. For a bewildered moment she thought it had started to rain—then she realized it was rubble and dirt and broken glass: the detritus of the shattered manor being flung down around them like deadly hail.

Jace pressed her harder into the ground, his body flat against hers, his heartbeat nearly as loud in her ears as the sound of the manor’s subsiding ruins.

* * *

Later, Jace would remember little about the destruction of the Manor itself, the shattering apart of the only home he’d known until he was ten years old. He remembered only the fall from the library window, scrambling and rolling down over the grass, and catching hold of Clary, spinning her down and under him, covering her with his body while pieces of the Manor rained down around them like hail.

He could feel her breathing, feel the racing of her heart. He was reminded of his falcon, the way it had curled, blind and trusting, in his hand, the rapidity of its heartbeat. Clary was holding him by the front of the shirt, though he doubt she realized it, her face against his shoulder; he was desperately afraid that there wasn’t enough of him, that he couldn’t cover her completely, protect her entirely. He imagined boulders as big as elephants tumbling across the rocky ground, ready to crush them both, to crush her. The ground shuddered under them and he pressed harder against her, as if that might help somehow. It was magical thinking, he knew, like closing your eyes so you didn’t see the knife coming at you.

The roar had faded. He realized to his surprise that he could hear again: small things, the sound of birds, the air in the trees. Clary’s voice, breathless. “Jace — I think you dropped your stele somewhere.”

He drew back and stared down at her. She met his gaze steadily In the moonlight her green eyes could have been black. Her red hair was full of dust, her face streaked with soot. He could see the pulse in her throat. He said the first thing that he could think of, dazed, “I don’t care. As long as you’re not hurt.”

“I’m fine.” She reached up, her fingers brushing lightly through his hair; his body, super-sensitized by adrenalin, felt it like sparks against his skin. “There’s grass — in your hair,” she said.

There was worry in her eyes. Worry for him. He remembered the first time he’d kissed her, in the greenhouse, how he’d finally gotten it, finally understood the way someone’s mouth against yours could undo you, leave you spinning and breathless. That all the expertise in the world, any techniques you knew or had learned, went out the window when it was the right person you were kissing.

Or the wrong one.

“You shouldn’t touch me,” he said.

Her hand froze where it was, her palm against his cheek. “Why not?”

“You know why. You saw what I saw, didn’t you? The past, the angel. Our parents.”

Her eyes darkened. “I saw.”

“You know what happened.”

“A lot of things happened, Jace —”

“Not for me.” The words breathed out on an anguished whisper. “I have demon blood, Clary. Demon blood. You understood that much, didn’t you?”

She set her chin. He knew how much she disliked the suggestion that she hadn’t understood something, or didn’t know it, or didn’t need to know it. He loved that about her and it drove him out of his mind. “It doesn’t mean anything. Valentine was insane. He was just ranting —”

“And Jocelyn? Was she insane? I know what Valentine was trying to do. He was trying to create hybrids — angel/human, and demon/human. You’re the former, Clary, and I’m the latter. I’m part monster. Part everything I’ve tried so hard to burn out, to destroy.”

“It’s not true. It can’t be. It doesn’t make sense—”

“But it does.” How could she not understand? It seemed so obvious to him, so basic. “It explains everything.”

“You mean it explains why you’re such an amazing Shadowhunter? Why you’re loyal and fearless and honest and everything demons aren’t —”

“It explains,” he said, evenly, “why I feel the way I do about you.”

Breath hissed between her teeth. “W do you mean?”

“You’re my sister,” he said, “My sister, my blood, my family. I should want to protect you —” he choked on the words— “to protect you from the sort of boys who want to do to you exactly what I want to do to you.”

He heard her breath catch. She was still staring up at him, and though he had expected to see horror in her eyes, some sort of revulsion — for he didn’t think he’d ever stated so clearly or so tactlessly exactly how he felt — he saw nothing of the sort. He saw only searching curiosity, as if she were examining the map of some unknown country.

Almost absently, she let her fingers trail down his cheek to his lips, outlining the shape of his mouth with the tip of her index finger, as if she were charting a course. There was wonder in her eyes. He felt his heart turn over and his body, ever traitorous, respond to her touch.

“What is it, exactly, that you want to do to me?” she whispered.

He could not stop himself. He leaned down, his lips grazing her ear: “I could show you.”

He felt her tremble, but despite the shiver in her body, her eyes challenged him. The adrenaline in his blood, mixed with desire and the recklessness of despair, made his blood sing. I’ll show her, he thought. Half of him was convinced she would push him away. The other half was too full of Clary: her nearness, the feel of her against him — to think straight. “If you want me to stop, tell me now,” he whispered, and when she said nothing, he brushed his lips against her hollow of her temple. “Or now.” His mouth found her cheek, the line of her jaw: he tasted her skin, sweet-salty, dust and desire. “Or now.” His mouth traced the line of her jaw and she arched up into him, making his fingers dig into the ground. Her small, panting breaths were driving him crazy, and he put his mouth over hers to quiet her, whispering, telling, not asking: “Now.”

And he kissed her. Gently at first, testing, but suddenly her hands were fists in the back of his shirt, and her softness was pressed against his chest and he felt the solid earth give way under him as he fell. He was kissing her the way he’d always wanted to, with a wild and total abandon, his tongue sweeping inside her mouth to duel with hers, and she was just as bold as he was, tasting him, exploring his mouth. He reached for the buttons of her coat just as she bit lightly at his lower lip and his whole body jerked.

She put her hands over his, and for a moment he was afraid she was going to tell him to stop, that this was insane, they’d both hate themselves tomorrow. But: “Let me,” she said, and he went still as she calmly undid the buttons and the coat fell open. The shirt she was wearing underneath was nearly sheer, and he could see the shape of her body underneath: the curves of her breasts, the indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips. He felt dizzy. He’d seen this much of other girls before, of course he had, but it had never mattered.

And now nothing else mattered.

She lifted her arms up, her head thrown back, pleading in her eyes. “Come back,” she whispered. “Kiss me again.”

He made a noise he didn't think he’d ever made before and fell back against her, into her, kissing her eyelids, lips, throat, the pulse there — his hands slid under her flimsy shirt and onto the heat of her skin. He was pretty sure all the blood had left his brain as he fumbled at the clasp of her bra — which was ridiculous, what was the point of being a Shadowhunter and expert at everything if you couldn’t figure out the clasp on a bra? — and heard his own soft exhalation as it came free and his hands were on her bare back, the fragile shape of her shoulder blades under his palms. Somehow the little noise she made was more erotic than seeing anyone else naked had ever been.

Her hands, small and determined, were at the hem of his shirt, tugging it off. He pushed hers up, around her ribs, wanting more of their skin to be touching. So this was the difference, he thought. This was what being in love meant. He’d always prided himself on his technique, on having control, on the response he could elicit. But that required evaluation, and evaluation required distance, and there was no distance now. He wanted nothing between himself and Clary.

His hands found the waistband of her jeans, the shape of her hipbones. He felt her fingers on his bare back, her the tips finding his scars and tracing them lightly. He wasn’t sure she knew she was doing it, but she was rolling her hips against his, making him shaky, making him want to go too fast. He reached down and fitted her more firmly against him, aligning her hips with his, and felt her gasp into his mouth. He thought she might pull away, but she slung her leg over his hip instead, pulling him even closer. For a second, he thought he might pass out.

“Jace,” she whispered. She kissed his neck, his collarbone. His hands were on her waist, moving up over her ribcage. Her skin was amazingly soft. She raised herself up as he slipped his hands under her bra, and kissed the star-shaped mark on his shoulder. He was about to ask her if what he was doing was all right when she drew back from him sharply, with an exclamation of surprise. . .

* * *

“What is it?” Jace froze. “Did I hurt you?”

“No. It was this.” She touched the silver chain around his neck. On its end hung a small silver circle of metal. It had bumped against her when she’d leaned forward. She stared at it now.

That ring—the weather-beaten metal with its pattern of stars—she knew that ring.

The Morgenstern ring. It was the same ring that had gleamed on Valentine’s hand in the dream the angel had showed them. It had been his, and he had given it to Jace, as it had always been passed along, father to son.

“I’m sorry,” Jace said. He traced the line of her cheek with his fingertip, a dreamlike intensity in his gaze. “I forgot I was wearing the damn thing.”

Sudden cold flooded Clary’s veins. “Jace,” she said, in a low voice. “Jace, don’t.”

“Don’t what? Don’t wear the ring?” “No, don’t—don’t touch me. Stop for a second.”

La historia de Jocelyn

Fuente: Sitio web de Cassandra Clare
CC's note: This is the story of Jocelyn’s early life, as told to Clary, so remember — “you” in this story is Clary, listening. Though this was originally written as part of City of Glass, it was too long, explained too much, and had to be shortened and altered. While it’s fun to believe that this is how things were for Jocelyn, this excerpt has to be considered non-canon or alternate universe, so don’t be surprised if things in future Shadowhunters books contradict this version of events, or if it contradicts things in City of Glass.

“I met your father in school, about the same time you met Simon. Everyone should have a friend like that in their lives. But he wasn’t that friend to me — Luke was. We were always together. In fact, at first, I hated Valentine, because he took Luke away from me.

“Valentine was the most popular student at school. He was everything you’d expect of a natural leader — handsome, brilliant, with the sort of charisma that led the younger students to worship him. He was kind enough, but there was something about him even then that I found frightening — he glittered, but with a sort of cold brilliance, like a diamond. And like a diamond, he had a sharp and cutting edge.

“When he was seventeen, his father was killed in a raid on a lycanthrope pack. It wasn't a standard raid — the pack had done nothing to break the Law, but I didn't find that out until years later. None of us did. What we did know was that Valentine returned to school utterly changed. You could see his sharp edges all the time now, the danger in him. And he began to recruit.

“He drew other students to him, like moths to light — and like moths, their yearning for him would prove the ruin of many of them in the end. He brought Hodge to him, and Maryse and Robert Lightwood — the Penhallows, the Waylands. They came and clustered around him and did his bidding. He approached me many times, but I stood apart from it all, watching, suspicious. And then he came for Luke . . .

“I know Luke often wondered why Valentine wanted him in the Circle. He wasn't much of a warrior at the time, not a born fighter. I never told him this, but I sometimes thought that Valentine saw him as a means to an end. A means to me . . .

“Valentine was someone who always knew what he wanted. And he wanted me. I never knew why. The first time I noticed him watching me across the practice yard, I knew. The look on his face — it wasn't wistful, or yearning, it was calculating and sure. The look of someone who runs their eyes over a menu and knows exactly what they want to order. His cold desire frightened me. But when he drew Luke to him, and Luke spoke so rapturously of his brilliance and his kindness, I knew I could no longer stand apart. I had to join the Circle, to see what it was that had drawn my friend into it.

“In some ways, Valentine — your father — was exactly as Luke had described him. The Circle would meet each night, often in the deserted practice yard or out in the forest, under the trees, and Valentine would hold forth on his pet topics: demons, Downworlders, and what he called the perverting of the laws of the Clave. As far as he was concerned, the Angel had never wanted us to live in peace with Downworlders, but to wipe them off the face of the planet along with demons. The Accords were a travesty; we had never been meant to live in harmony with “half-men.”

“His words were fiery, but his demeanor was — kind. He had a way of making you feel as if you were the only person on earth who mattered to him, the only one whose opinion he truly respected. His beliefs were absolute and so was his dedication to the Circle. I've come to see it as evil fanaticism since, but at the time his conviction fascinated me. He seemed to be full of passion. I could see what Luke saw in him. Soon enough, I was half in love with him myself.

“But so were all the girls in the Circle and probably some of the boys, too. You don’t belong to something like that — a cult of personality — without being a little in love with your leader. Valentine started asking me to stay after the meetings, just to talk with him. He said he valued my practical mind and dispassionate intelligence. I could tell the other girls were jealous. I’m sure they thought — well, you can imagine what they thought. But nothing was happening between us. Valentine really did just want to talk — about the future, about the Law, about the Circle and where it was going. In the end, I was the one who gave up and kissed him first.

“‘I knew it,’ was the first thing he said, and then he said, ‘I've always loved you, Jocelyn.’ And you know, he meant it. We stayed out all night in the woods then, talking. He told me how he envisioned we would lead the Circle together, forever. He told me he couldn't do it without me. He said, ‘I always knew you’d come to love me as well, I had no doubt.’

“I had no idea why it was me that he chose. It seemed to me that there was nothing special about me. But Valentine made his choice clear: from that moment on, we were together, and he never looked at another woman, not that way, not then and not in all the years we were married. The other girls stopped speaking to me, but it seemed a small price to pay. Luke — Luke was happy for me. I was a little surprised at that, I had wondered — but he was happy. I could tell.

“He was so devoted that it took me a long time to notice the changes in him. It was as if his father’s death had scraped away some softening layers of humanity from him, and now he was strangely, peculiarly cruel — but only in flashes, so brief that when they were over I could tell myself that they had never happened.

“There was a girl in our class who wanted to join the Circle. Her older brother had been bitten by a vampire, and now was one: he should have killed himself, or let his family kill him, but he hadn't and it was rumored that they still associated with him. Valentine gave her a sharpened metal spike and told her to go out and stake her brother to death and to bring back his ashes; only then could she be allowed in the Circle. The girl ran off crying. I confronted him later, told him he couldn't be so cruel or he’d be no better than Downworlders themselves. ‘But he’s a monster,’ he said. I told him that her brother might well be a monster, but she wasn't. She was Nephilim, and there was no excuse for torturing her. I thought I was being so broad-minded and tolerant — it sickens me to think about it now.

“I thought he would be angry at being reprimanded, but he wasn't. He subsided. ‘I’m afraid of losing myself in all this sometimes, Jocelyn,’ he said. ‘It’s why I need you. You keep me human.’ It was the truth. I could always turn him away from the most extreme plans, deflect his rage, calm him down. No one else could do that. I knew I had this power over him and it made me feel important, indispensable. I think I mistook that feeling for love . . .

“After we left school, we were married in the Hall of Accords, with all our friends there. Even then, I had misgivings. I looked up during the ceremony and saw through the glass roof, a flock of birds flying overhead. I felt a sudden panic, so strong that my heart fluttered in my chest like the wings of one of those birds. I knew my life would never be the same. I tried to catch Luke’s eye — he stood with his sister, in the first row of guests, and though Amatis smiled in my direction, Luke wouldn't look at me . . .

“We went to live in a manor in the countryside outside Alicante that my parents owned, though since they’d grown older they’d moved to a canal house inside the city. Valentine himself had grown up in a house just at the borders of Brocelind forest, but he claimed it had fallen into disrepair since his parents’ deaths, and I was happy enough to live in the manor house. We were only a quarter of a mile from the home of our friends the Waylands — convenient for Valentine, since Michael Wayland was one of the most enthusiastic members of the Circle, and visiting the Waylands kept us from being too much with each other at all times.

“They say men change after marriage. Whether Valentine changed or whether I simply began to more clearly see his true nature, I’m not sure. He became more and more obsessed with his cause and more and more vicious in its execution. He maintained the fiction that he never killed a Downworlder who hadn't broken the Accords, but I knew that wasn't true. One night he led the Circle to slaughter a family of werewolves in their home, claiming that they had been murdering human children and burning their bodies, and indeed in the fireplace we found many charred bones. Later I overheard Valentine chuckling to Hodge that it was easy enough to obtain human bones in the Bone City, if one cared to look for them.

“He began to disappear from our bed late at night, doing his best not to wake me; he would come back at dawn, stinking of blood and worse. I found bloody clothes in the laundry, strange wounds and scratches on his hands and arms. I would be awoken at night by cries and screams that seemed to be coming from inside the walls of the house.

“I confronted him with these things, demanded that he tell me what he was really doing every night. But he just laughed. ‘You’re imagining things, Jocelyn,’ he said. ‘It’s probably because of the baby.’ I stared at him. ‘Because of the baby? What baby?’

“He was right, of course. I was pregnant. He’d known it before I did. I tried to quash my fears, told myself that he was only trying to protect me. Circle meetings were no place for a pregnant woman, he said, so I remained at home. I was so lonely — I begged Luke to visit me, but he rarely had the time. The Circle and its dealings kept him busy. But how could I complain? Valentine was an extraordinarily attentive husband, never letting me lift a hand myself, bringing me strengthening drinks he’d mixed himself, and strong, sweet tea every night that put me right to sleep. And if sometimes I woke up with odd injuries or bruises, well, Valentine told me it was because I had been sleepwalking — a common ailment among pregnant women, he assured me.

“And then one night I was awoken by a terrific banging on the door. I raced downstairs and found Valentine standing on the front steps, holding — he was holding Luke, carrying him like a child, and blood was all over both of them. Valentine was swaying on his feet with exhaustion. ‘Werewolf attack,’ he said. ‘It might be too late —’

“But I wouldn't hear that it was too late. I helped him drag Luke upstairs to a spare room, and sent a message to Ragnor Fell, the warlock my parents often employed in the case of illness. Lycanthrope bites don’t respond to healing runes — there’s too much demonic about them. Luke was screaming and thrashing and soaking the sheets with blood; I kept sponging the blood off his shoulder, but more would come, and then more. Valentine stood beside him, looking down. ‘Maybe I should have left him to die,’ he said, his black eyes burning, ‘maybe that would be more merciful than what’s coming to him.’

“‘Don’t say that,’ I told him. ‘Don’t ever say that. Not all bites result in lycanthropy.’ And then Fell was there, and Valentine left aside his talk of abandoning Luke and stood aside while we treated him. I slept in Luke’s room that night, and in the morning he was awake and healthy and able to smile.

“Not that any of us did much smiling in the next three weeks. They’ll tell you there’s a one in two chance that a werewolf bite will pass on lycanthropy. I think it’s more like three in four. I’ve rarely seen anyone escape the disease, and however much I silently prayed in those horrible weeks, Luke was no exception. At the next full moon, he Changed.

“He was there on our doorstep in the morning, covered in blood, his clothes torn to rags. I put my arms out for him, but Valentine shouldered me aside. ‘Jocelyn,’ he said, ‘the baby.’ As if Luke were about to run at me and tear the baby out of my stomach, as if he meant me any harm at all. It was Luke, but Valentine pushed me away and dragged Luke down the steps and into the woods.

“When he came back much later, he was alone. I ran to him. ‘Where’s Lucian, where is he?’ I demanded.

“‘I gave him a knife and told him to do what he must. If he has honor, he’ll do as I said.’ I knew what he meant. He had told Luke to kill himself, and Luke would almost assuredly do it.

“I think I must have fainted. I remember a terrible icy darkness, and then waking up in my own bed, with Valentine beside me. He was stroking my hair. ‘Don’t mourn for him now,’ he said, ‘we should have mourned him weeks ago, when he truly died. What was on our doorstep this morning, that was not Lucian.’

“But I didn't believe him. I had seen Luke’s eyes as he looked at me that morning, even out of that mask of blood. I would have known those eyes anywhere, and they didn't belong to a monster. I knew then, with a terrible certainty, that in losing Luke I had lost the most important thing in my life.

“A terrible misery descended on me. If it hadn't been for the sake of the baby, I don’t think I would have eaten or slept again in those next, terrible months. My only hope was the chance that Luke hadn't taken his own life, but had simply fled. I went to Amatis in hopes that she would help me search for him, but she had her own torments to contend with. Valentine had taken Stephen on as his new lieutenant in Luke’s place, but could not tolerate Stephen’s marriage to Amatis. He claimed it was because she had objected to his treatment of her brother, but I felt it was because seeing Amatis awakened his guilt over Luke. In either case, he convinced Stephen to divorce her and remarry a beautiful young girl named Céline. Amatis was devastated, so much so that she refused to see me, blaming me along with Valentine for her unhappiness. And so I lost yet another friend.

“In despair, I went to Ragnor Fell and begged him to look out for news of Luke among Downworlders. He was silent a long time after I asked him. Finally he said, ‘There are those who would look very badly upon me for helping you.’

“‘But you've known my family for years!’ I protested. ‘You've known me since I was a girl.’

“‘That was when you were Jocelyn Fairchild. Now you are Jocelyn Morgenstern, Valentine’s wife.’ He said Valentine’s name as if it were poison.

“‘Valentine only slays those who break the Accords,’ I said weakly, thinking of the werewolf family and the bones he’d planted in their fireplace. But surely that could only have been the one time?

“‘That is not true,’ said Fell, ‘and he does worse things than kill. If I do this for you, if I look for Lucian Graymark, you must do something for me. One night, you must follow your husband and see where he goes.’

“And so I did. One night, I only pretended to drink the tea he brought me, and pretended to fall asleep by his side. When he rose and left the room, I followed him. I saw him go into the library and take a book from the wall, and when he removed it the wall slid away and left a dark hole behind . . .

“I never told you the story of Bluebeard’s wife, did I, when you were a little girl? I doubt I would have; the story still frightens me. The husband who told his wife never to look in the locked room, and she looked, and found the remains of all of the wives he had murdered before her, displayed like butterflies in a glass case. I was afraid — but I had promised Fell. I had to find out what Valentine was doing. One night I waited for him to leave the house, and I went to the library and withdrew the book from its place.

“I used my witchlight to guide me down into the darkness. The smell — oh, the smell down there, like blood and death and rotting. He had hollowed out a place under the ground, in what had once been the wine cellars. There were cells down there now, with things imprisoned in them. Demon-creatures, bound with electrum chains, writhed and flopped and gurgled in their cells, but there was more, much more — the bodies of Downworlders, in different stages of death and dying. There were werewolves, their bodies half-dissolved by silver powder. Vampires held head-down in holy water until their skin peeled off the bones. Faeries whose skin had been pierced with cold iron.

“Even now, I don’t think of him as a torturer. Not really. It wasn't that he enjoyed their pain. He seemed to be pursuing an almost scientific end. There were ledgers of notes by each cell door, meticulous recordings of his experiments, how long it had taken each creature to die. From his scribblings, it looked almost as if he were injecting the blood of demons into these creatures — but he couldn't be doing that. What sane person would do that?

“There was one vampire whose skin he had burned off over and over again to see if there was a point beyond which the poor creature could no longer regenerate. Across from the page recording that particular experiment he had written a series of notes with a heading I recognized. It was my name. Jocelyn.

“My heart began to slam inside my chest. With shaking fingers, I turned the pages, the words burning themselves into my brain. Jocelyn drank the mixture again tonight. No visible changes in her, but again it is the child which concerns me . . . With regular infusions of demonic ichor such as I have been giving her, the child may be capable of any feats. . . . Last night I heard the child’s heart beat, more strongly than any human heart, the sound like a mighty bell, tolling the beginning of a new generation of Shadowhunters, the blood of angels and demons mixed to produce powers beyond any previously imagined possible . . . no longer will the power of Downworlders be the greatest on this earth . . .

“There was more, much more. I clawed at the pages, my fingers trembling, my mind racing back, seeing the mixtures Valentine had given me to drink each night, the bruises on my body in the morning, the puncture wounds. I shook all over, so hard the book fell out of my hands and struck the floor.

“The sound woke me from my daze. I raced up the stairs, through the gap in the bookcase, and into the bedroom. In a frenzy, I began packing my things, throwing only that which was most important to me into a bag. I had some vague plan of running to my parents’ house, you see, and begging them to let me stay with them. But I never got that far. I closed the bag, turned toward the door — and there was Valentine, watching me silently from the doorway.

“My nerves, already on edge, snapped like broken strings. I screamed and dropped the bag to the ground, backing away from my husband. He didn't move, but I saw his eyes shine like a cat’s in the early dawn light. ‘What is the meaning of this Jocelyn?’

“I couldn't lie. ‘I discovered your door in the bookcase,’ I told him. ‘And I found what was under it. Your butcher’s theater.’

“‘Those things down there are monsters —’

“‘And what am I? Am I a monster?’ I screamed at him. ‘What have you done to me? What have you done to our baby?’

“‘Nothing that will harm him. I assure you he’s quite healthy.’ Valentine’s face was like a still white mask. How had I never before seen how monstrous he could look? And still his voice never rose, never changed as he told me of his experiments, of the ways he’d tried to teach himself to more effectively destroy Downworlders, to wipe them out in mass numbers. He’d even tried injecting them with demon blood — but to his surprise, it hadn't had the desired effect. Instead of proving fatal, it had made them stronger, faster, and more able to withstand the damage he tried to do to them. ‘If it has that effect on half-men,’ he said, his face shining, ‘think what it could do for Shadowhunters.’

“‘But those creatures are already part demon — we’re not! How could you think of experimenting on your own child?’

“‘I experimented on myself first,’ he said calmly, and told me how he had injected demon blood into his own veins. ‘It’s made me stronger, faster,’ he announced, ‘but I’m a grown man — think what it will do for an infant! The warrior who might develop from that —’

“‘You’re insane,’ I told him, trembling. ‘All this time I thought I was keeping you human, but you’re not human. You’re a monster — worse than any of those pathetic things down in the cellar.’

“He was a monster — I knew it — and yet, somehow, he managed to look deeply hurt at what I’d said. He reached for me. I tried to dash around him and out the door but he caught at my arm. I stumbled and fell, striking the ground hard. As I tried to rise, a searing pain shot through me. Feeling my clothes sticking to me, wet and heavy, I looked down at saw that I was lying in a spreading circle of my own blood. I began to scream even as consciousness slipped away from me.

“I awoke in my own bed, dazed and desperately thirsty. ‘Jocelyn, Jocelyn,’ said a voice in my ear. It was my mother. She stroked my hair back off my forehead and gave me water. ‘We were so worried,’ she said. ‘Valentine called for us —’

I glanced down then, and saw my flat stomach. ‘My baby,’ I whispered, tears burning the backs of my eyes. ‘He — died?’

“‘Oh, Jocelyn! No!’ My mother sprang to her feet and hurried over to something in the corner. A cradle — my cradle, the same one I’d lain in after I was born. She lifted a blanket-wrapped bundle from it and came carefully over to me, cradling her burden in her arms. ‘Here,’ she said, smiling. ‘Hold your son.’

“I took him from her in a daze. At first I knew only that he fit perfectly into my arms, that the blanket wrapping him was soft, and that he was so small and delicate, with just a wisp of fair hair on the top of his head. I began to breathe again — and then he opened his eyes.

“A wave of horror poured over me. It was like being bathed in acid — my skin seemed to burn off my bones and it was all I could do not to drop the child and begin howling.

“They say every mother knows her own child instinctively. I suppose the opposite is true as well. Every nerve in my body was screaming that this was not my baby, that something horrible and unnatural and inhuman lay in my arms like a parasite. How could my mother not see it? — and yet she was smiling at me as if nothing was wrong. ‘He’s such a good baby,’ she said. ‘He never cries.’

“‘His name is Jonathan,’ said a voice from the doorway. I looked up and saw Valentine regarding the tableau before him with a nearly impassive expression, though the faint smirk on his face told me he knew there was something dreadfully wrong with this child. ‘Jonathan Christopher.’

“The baby opened his eyes, as if recognizing the sound of his own name. His eyes were black, black as night, fathomless as tunnels dug into his skull. I could look right into them and see only a terrible emptiness.

“It was then that I fainted.

“When I woke much later, my mother was gone. Valentine had sent her home — I've no idea how he got her to leave — and he himself was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding the baby and watching me. Your father’s eyes were black, too, and I’d always found them striking, so at odds with his nearly-white hair, but now they only reminded me of the baby’s. I shrank back from both of them.

“‘Our child is hungry,’ Valentine said. ‘You must feed him, Jocelyn.’

“‘No.’ I turned my face away. ‘I can’t touch that — that thing.’

“‘He’s only a baby.’ Valentine’s voice was soft, coaxing. ‘He needs his mother.’

“‘You feed him. You’re the one who made him. He’s not even my child.’ My voice broke.

“‘He is your child. Your blood, your flesh. And if you don’t feed him, Jocelyn, he’ll die.’ He laid the child down on the blankets beside me and left the room.

“I stared at the small creature for a long time. He looked like a baby — his small fists and creased, tiny face, even the white fuzz on his head, were all babylike. His tunnel eyes were closed, his mouth open in a silent, mewling cry. I tried to imagine simply leaving him there, leaving him until he starved to death, and my heart seemed to turn to glass inside my chest. I couldn't do it.

“I lifted Jonathan in my arms. Even as I touched him, the same wave of revulsion and horror went through me that I had felt before, but this time I fought it down. I drew my nightdress aside and prepared to feed my son. Perhaps there was something in this child, some small part of me, of what was human, that could somehow be reached.

“Over the next months, I cared for Jonathan as best I could. My own body seemed to revolt against him. I produced no milk and had to feed him by bottle. I could only hold him for short periods of time before I began to feel faint and sick, as if I were standing too close to something radioactive. My mother came and cared for him sometimes, which was an immense relief. She seemed to notice nothing wrong with the child, though sometimes I would catch her staring toward his crib with a quizzical look, an unasked question in her eyes . . .

“But who could ask such things? Who could even bear to think them? Jonathan looked like a perfectly ordinary child; when I brought him to his first Circle meeting, carried in my arms, everyone told me how beautiful he was, with his extraordinary coloring, just like his father’s. Michael Wayland was there too, with his baby boy, just the same age as mine. They even shared a name: Jonathan. I watched Michael play with his son and felt sick with envy and hatred for Valentine. How could he have done what he had done? What kind of man did something like that to his own family?

“‘By the Angel, what he’ll be capable of when he’s older,’ he would breathe sometimes, leaning over Jonathan in his cradle, and the baby would gurgle. It was almost the only time Jonathan made any noise. He was a silent child, who never cried or laughed, but if he responded to anything, it was Valentine. Perhaps it was the demon in them both.

“It was around that time that I received a message in secret from Ragnor Fell. It asked me to meet him at his cottage. I rode there on a day when Valentine was at the home of Stephen Herondale, leaving Jonathan with my mother. Fell met me at the gate. ‘Lucian Graymark is alive,’ he said, without preamble, and I almost fell off my horse.

“I begged Fell to tell me what he knew. He only looked at me coldly. ‘And what of what you know, Jocelyn Morgenstern? Did you do as I asked you and follow your husband one night?’

“Walking in his garden, I told him everything: about what I had found in Valentine’s cellar, about the book, about the demon blood, about Valentine’s experiments, and even about Jonathan. He said little, but I could tell that even with all he had already known about Valentine, my words had shaken him badly.

“‘And now tell me about Lucian,’ I said. ‘Is he safe? Is he all right?’

“‘He’s alive,’ Fell said, ‘and the leader of a wolf pack at the eastern edge of Brocelynde.’ As I listened incredulously, he told me how Luke had defeated the old wolf who had bitten him, slain him in battle and become pack leader himself. ‘The tale is all over Downworld,’ he said. ‘The pack leader who used to be a Shadowhunter.’

“I had only one thought. ‘I have to see him.’

“Fell shook his head. ‘No. I've done enough for you, Jocelyn. You say you hate Valentine, but still you do nothing. I’ll help you — I’ll bring you to Lucian — but only if you’re willing to commit to the cause of destroying Valentine and the Circle. Otherwise, I suggest you get on your horse and ride home.’

“‘We can’t defeat Valentine. The Circle is too strong,’ I objected.

“‘Valentine’s weakness is his arrogance,’ said Fell. ‘And you are our best weapon because of it. You are as close to Valentine as anyone could be. You can infiltrate the Circle, gather information, find out his soft spots and weaknesses. Learn their plans. You can be the perfect spy.’

“And that was how I came to be a spy in my own house. I agreed to everything Fell asked — I would have agreed to anything just to be able to see Luke again. At the end of our meeting, I gave Fell my promise, and he gave me a map.

“When I rode into Luke’s werewolf encampment, I thought at first that I would certainly be killed. I was sure they recognized me as the wife of Valentine Morgenstern, their greatest enemy. ‘I must see your pack leader,’ I said, as they surrounded my horse. ‘Lucian Graymark. He’s an old friend of mine.’

“And then Luke came out of one of the tents and ran toward me. He looked — he was still Luke, but he had changed. He seemed older. There was gray in his hair, though he was only twenty-two. He took me in his arms and embraced me and there was nothing strange about it, about being embraced by a werewolf. It was just Luke.

I found that I was crying. ‘How could you?’ I demanded. ‘How could you let me think you were dead?’

“He admitted that he hadn't known how loyal I was to Valentine, or how much he could trust me. ‘But I know I can trust you now,’ he said, with his old smile. ‘You came all the way here to find me.’

“I told him as much as I could, of Valentine’s growing madness and violence, of my disenchantment with him. I couldn't tell him all of it, of the horrors in the cellars, of what Valentine had done to me and to our child. I knew it would just drive him mad, that he’d be unable to stop himself from trying to hunt down Valentine and kill him, and he’d only get himself killed in the process. And I couldn't let anyone know what had been done to Jonathan. Despite everything, he was still my child.

“Luke and I agreed to keep meeting and to trade information about what was going on within the Circle. I told him when they allied themselves with demons, and when the Mortal Cup was stolen, and I told him of their plans to disrupt the planned Accords. Those times with Luke were the only times I could be myself. The rest of the time I was acting — acting the wife with Valentine, and acting the content Circle member with our friends. Not letting Valentine know how much he sickened me was the worst part.

“Fortunately I saw him rarely. As the Accords approached, the Circle ramped up its plans to fall upon the unarmed Downworlders in the Hall of the Angel and slaughter them wholesale. I sat silent in the meetings, unable to participate in the eager planning, however much I knew it would behoove me to act the part of an dedicated member of the cabal. Céline Herondale, who was now extremely pregnant, often sat with me; she was frequently wistful, confused by the Circle’s enthusiasm. Though she never quite understood their passionate hatred of Downworlders, she worshipped Valentine. ‘Your husband is so kind,” she would tell me in her soft voice. “He is so concerned about Stephen and me. He gives me potions and mixtures for the health of the baby, they are wonderful.’

“What she said chilled me. I wanted to tell her not to trust Valentine or to accept anything he gave her, but I couldn't. Her husband was Valentine’s closest friend and she would surely have betrayed me to him. My terror of exposure grew daily — I was smuggling information to Luke as fast as I could, constantly panicked that a misstep would betray me to my husband. I saw him whenever I could. I kept with him a suitcase of my most precious belongings, in case we ever needed to flee Idris together — jewelry Valentine had given me, that I hoped one day to be able to sell if I needed money; letters from my parents and friends; a box my father had made for my son, with his initials carved on it, containing a lock of Jonathan’s hair — soft, silky white hair, the same color as his father’s. You’d never know from looking at it that there was anything wrong with my child at all . . .

“I became more and more frightened that Valentine would discover our secret conspiracy and would try to torture the truth out of me — who was in our secret alliance? How much had I betrayed of his plans? I wondered how I would withstand torture, whether I could hold up against it. I was terribly afraid that I could not.

“I resolved finally to take steps to make sure that this never happened. I went to Fell with my fears and he created a potion for me that would send me instantly into a sleep from which I could not be roused except by an antidote whose recipe was contained in The Book of the White, one of the oldest spellbooks of warlock-kind. He gave me a vial of the potion and another vial of the antidote and instructed me to hide them from Valentine, which I did. I was even worried that Valentine would find a copy of the Book, so one night I went through the tunnels between our house and the Waylands’, and hid it in their library.

“After that, I slept easier, save for one thing. I feared that I would take the potion, fall into the death-like sleep, and that there would be no one to wake me from it, no one who knew what had happened to me. I thought of the end of Romeo and Juliet and imagined being buried alive . . . but who was there who I could trust with this information? I couldn't tell Luke what I’d done, because he might also be compromised and tortured, and selfishly, I feared too much for him, for his safety. Telling my parents would necessitate sharing with them the full horror of my situation, and I couldn't do that. I trusted none of my old friends any more — not Maryse, not any of them. They were too much in Valentine’s thrall.

“Eventually, I realized there was only one person I could tell. I sent a letter to Madeleine explaining what I planned to do and the only way to revive me. I never heard a word back from her, though I knew my message had been delivered. I had to believe she had read it and understood. It was all I had to hold on to.

“It was around that time that Stephen Herondale was killed in a raid on a vampire nest. Valentine and the others who had been in the raiding party went to the Herondale’s home to break the news to Céline. She was eight months pregnant at the time. They said she took the news composedly, only saying she wanted to go upstairs and get her things before going to view the body.

“She never came back downstairs. Céline — soft, pretty, gentle Céline, who never did anything startling or seemed to have a single spark of independence — who had sat by me at the Circle meetings and fretted in her small voice about her husband’s safety — Céline cut her wrists and died silently on the bed she’d shared with her husband while his friends waited for her downstairs.

“It was a tragedy that shook the Circle. I heard that Stephen’s parents, after the death of their son and the suicide of their daughter-in-law, had nearly lost their minds; Stephen’s father died a month or two later, presumably of the shock. I pitied Céline, but in a way envied her. She had found a way out of her situation; I had none.

“A few nights later I was woken by the sound of a baby crying. I sat bolt upright and nearly flung myself out of bed. Jonathan, you see, never cried — never made a noise. His unnatural silence was one of the things that most distressed me about him. I must be the only mother in history to have hoped against hope that her baby would cry and wake her, would cry all night even, but he never did. And yet now the sound of an infant’s cries echoed off the manor walls.

“I hurried down the hall to the baby’s room, carrying my witchlight. It cast strange shadows on the walls as I bent over Jonathan. He was sleeping silently. Yet the crying continued, thin and reedy, the sound of a child in distress tearing at my heart. I raced down the steps and into the empty library. I could still hear the crying, coming from inside the walls. I reached for the book in its place on the shelf . . .

“Nothing happened. The bookcase no longer slid back from its place. And still the crying came, as if from beneath the house, or within the walls, maddening me. But this manor house had been mine longer than it had been Valentine’s; I had spent every summer here when I was a girl. If my husband didn't think I’d explored the place thoroughly in those years, he was wrong. I dragged back the Persian rug that covered the library floor. Beneath it was a trapdoor that opened so easily I knew it had been recently used.

“Tunnels under Shadowhunter houses are not uncommon; they are used in case of demon attacks, as a way of getting from one house to another in secret. This tunnel had once connected our manor house to the Waylands’, but my father had boarded the tunnel up. It had been opened out again now, doubtless by Valentine, and the narrow stone walls led away into darkness. I could still hear the sound of the baby crying in the distance . . .

“I followed the noise, barefoot on the cold stone, stopping occasionally with a gasp when a rat or mouse scuttled across my path. Eventually the tunnels opened out into a large stone room, what had probably once been a wine cellar. Huddled in the corner of the room was a man — but he was not a man, I saw, staring, for wings as white as snow rose from his back in two great ivory arches, and his skin glowed like liquid metal. His eyes were golden, and so sad . . .

“His ankles were manacled with electrum and electrum chains, driven into the stone floor, held him to the ground, but what truly imprisoned him was the circle of runes that surrounded him. I felt myself drift toward him, drawn by an impossibly strong force. As I approached I saw that stretched on a blanket at his feet was the baby I had heard crying. It was whimpering softly now — exhausted, probably — a tiny baby boy with golden hair and eyes shut fast. I sank to my knees, gathering the child in my arms, and as my arms went around him the strangest feeling passed through me — the opposite of what I had felt when I had first held Jonathan. A feeling of overwhelming peace . . .

“How long I held and rocked the child, I cannot say. At last I looked up and saw the angel — for I knew that was what he was — gazing down at us, his golden eyes impassive. As I met his gaze, I knew his name suddenly: Ithuriel.

“‘Help me,’ I said to him, and though no change came over his face, he bent his head and his wings came down, enveloping me in a white cloud of silence and softness. I felt more peace than I had since before I had married Valentine — and then a sudden piercing, sharp golden pain went through me, and that was the last thing I remembered when I woke in my own bed the next morning.

“I told myself it had been a dream. The sort of vivid, hallucinatory dream a woman has when she is pregnant — and I was pregnant. I had denied it to myself for at least a month, but that morning when I woke I knew, and a visit to a doctor confirmed it. I was going to have a child — again.

“I was horrified. I knew what Valentine had done to my last child — what would he do to this one? How long had he known I was pregnant? I said nothing to him, but he would turn knowing eyes on me sometimes, his gaze going through me like a knife through water. He knew — oh, he knew . . .

“The day of the Uprising came. That terrible day. I know you've heard about what happened from Luke: about the Accords, the ambush, the bloody and protracted battle that followed. I tried to mark out the Shadowhunters who weren't involved in the Circle so that the members of the Uprising wouldn't hurt them, but there was so much chaos — so much blood — many lives were lost, more than we had ever thought. And there at the end I faced Valentine with Luke at my side and saw the truth come clear in his eyes. I had wondered all along if he knew what I truly felt and what I’d really been doing for this last year of our marriage — but I saw it now on his face — he hadn't known. The pain in his eyes as he looked at me was real, and despite everything it struck at my heart. ‘And now the two of you have plotted my betrayal together,’ he snarled, his face flecked with blood. ‘You will regret what you have done all the rest of your lives.’

“Luke lunged at him, but Valentine snatched the silver locket from my throat and hurled it at Luke, burning him badly. He staggered back as Valentine seized hold of me and dragged me toward the door. He was snarling horrible things in my ear, things about what he would do to my parents, to Jonathan, how he would make my life a hell for what I’d done to him.

“I abandoned the battle, the wounded, all of it, and raced home. I was too late. Luke will have told you what we found — I remember it myself as if it were a dream. The high black sky overhead, the moon so bright I could see everything: the house turned to ashes by demon fire, hot enough to melt metal, which ran in among the ashes like rivers of molten silver across the bare face of the moon. I found the bones of my parents there, and the bones of my child, and then, at last, the bones of Valentine himself, the Circle pendant he always wore still looped around his fleshless throat . . .

“Luke took me out of the city that night. I was numb and silent, like the living dead. I kept seeing the faces of my parents over and over again — I should have warned them. I should have told them what Valentine was capable of. I should have told them of the plans for the Uprising. I never thought . . .

“And I dreamed sometimes of my baby. I saw his face even when awake, the empty tunnels of his gaze, and I felt again the revulsion and horror I’d felt the first time I touched him. And I knew I was a monster, for feeling that way. What mother, on learning of the death of her child, cannot help a feeling of — relief?

“In the flea market at Clignancourt, I sold Valentine’s Circle amulet, a revolting object which I hated looking at. It afforded me a great deal of money. With the money, I bought an airplane ticket to New York. I told Luke I was going to start my life over there — as a mundane. I wanted no shadow of Clave or Covenant ever to touch my life again, or the life of my child. I hated all things remotely associated with the Nephilim, I told him.

“This was only partly true. I was sick of the Clave, that was the truth, and I knew that as Valentine’s wife, now that he was a criminal, they would want me to come to them for questioning — that I would always be regarded with suspicion with the lawmakers of Idris. I did want to hide from them. But more than that, I wanted to hide from Valentine. I was sure he was still alive. I thought again and again of what he’d said to me as he dragged me from the Hall, of the way he’d promised to make the rest of my life a misery. They weren't the words of a man who planned to burn himself up with demon fire, no matter how despairing he was over the failure of his plans. Valentine was not the sort of man who ever gave in to despair. Even with everything he’d built destroyed, he would intend to rise again — the phoenix from the ashes.

“There was another thing I could not tell Luke. The night of the Uprising, before we had left for the city, I had taken the Mortal Cup from the hiding place where Valentine had put it, and hidden in among my belongings. I had thought of returning it to the Clave, but now — I couldn't trust them to keep it out of Valentine’s hands, not when they were so eager to believe he was truly dead. I would have to be the one who hid it from him, and inexorably, without doubt, he would come for it, and for me.

“Luke begged me not to leave him. He said he would come with me — even when I told him I was expecting another child of Valentine’s, he said it made no difference, that he’d raise the child as his own. But he’d never seen Jonathan — I’d never told him what Valentine had done to my son. How could I be sure that he hadn't done something equally dreadful to the baby I was carrying now? And how could I ask Luke to share that horror with me, or the danger of being pursued by Valentine, who hated him? It was impossible. I refused him, over and over, even though I could see the pain it caused him. Even though I knew it meant I’d likely never see him again, and the thought broke what was left of my heart.

“We parted at Orly Airport. I held on to him until the last call for the flight came and he gently pushed me toward the departure gate. It felt like I was tearing away some part of myself. At the last moment I turned and ran back to him and whispered in his ear — ‘Valentine is still alive.’ I had to tell him. I couldn't stop myself. I raced onto the plane without glancing back to see his reaction.

“I landed in New York in the early morning, the dawn sky like the inside of a pearl hanging over the city. As my taxi raced over the Williamsbug Bridge I glanced down and saw the water of the river below me, rippled here and there by the flicking tails of darting mermaids. Even here among these walls of glass and steel, this inhospitable city, the Invisible World was all around me . . .

“You know much of the rest. How I found a place to stay, found work doing the only thing I could do, here in the mundane world — paint. Not that there was much work for a painter. If it hadn't been for the jewelry I could sell, I would have starved. I found an apartment in a building owned by a kindly old couple who let me stay in return for painting a portrait of their son, who had died overseas in the army. I told them my husband, too, was dead, and they felt sorry for me, I think, a young pregnant girl who had nobody in the world . . .

Most other mothers in my situation would have been buying a cradle, buying baby toys and booties and blankets. I didn't. I was terrified. Terrified what happened with my first child would happen again with my second. I remember the night I went into labor and was taken to the hospital — it was so unlike giving birth in Alicante, with the sterile white walls and all the bleeping, terrifying machinery. I couldn't stop crying, through it all and when you were born, and right up until the moment the nurse came into my hospital room and handed you to me, and I looked down into your face.

“A great wave of love and relief washed over me. Your red hair, your green eyes — you were my child, mine, there was nothing of your father in you, nor anything monstrous or demonic. I thought you were the most perfect thing that had ever come into the world. I still think it.

“The first time I took you to the park, you saw the faeries there among the flowers and went to play with them. The other mothers there looked at us in consternation as I picked you up and hurried you home. I had gone cold all over with terror. I could see what you saw, but nobody else could. How could I raise you to live like that — to lie to everyone you knew? I had wanted to give you a normal life, but I hadn't thought this far. And I had other fears as well — there were Shadowhunters here, Downworlders too, just as there were everywhere in the world. If word of you got out, it might perhaps get back to Valentine, and then he would come to find us. And I couldn't let that happen.

“That’s why I hired Magnus Bane. I’m not proud of what I did. I did it because I was frightened. I did it because I couldn't imagine how else to protect you. I did it because I thought a life of oblivious happiness would be better than a life of danger and being hunted. And I did it, perhaps, because I wished I could forget, myself, everything in my past that still tortured me.

“It was Magnus who introduced me to Dorothea, and Dorothea who gave me the idea of hiding the Mortal Cup in a painting. I was holding you in my arms when I met her and you reached out and drew a tarot card from the stack she had on her table. I scolded you, but she only said, ‘Let’s see what card the child drew.’ It was the Ace of Cups — the Love card. ‘She’ll have a great love in her life,’ she predicted, but I was paying more attention to the image on the card. It looked just like the Mortal Cup . . .

“With the Cup safely hidden in the pack I’d painted for Dorothea, and Dorothea herself hidden away in her Sanctuary, I felt calmer. Calm enough that when Luke turned up suddenly on our doorstep, looking as if he’d been sleeping on the street for weeks, I didn't immediately send him away. He had come so far, and I had missed him so much. I let him sleep on the couch, and in the morning he was still there, and you were sitting at his feet while he showed you some simple game with cards — a Shadowhunter game, something I hadn't seen since I’d left Idris. It was as if he’d always been there with us, always belonged. I couldn't ask him to go . . . Luke disapproved when I told him what I’d had Magnus do to your memories, but it was the one issue on which I could never be budged. I reasoned that he didn't know the whole truth, and that if he did, he would have agreed with me. I know now that I was wrong. Luke was always someone who believed in the truth, no matter how cruel or unsparing, and he would have wanted you to have it.

“At least you have it now — and if you hate me now, at least it will be because of the truth and not because of lies. And at least you know now that I have always loved you and you have always been the most important thing in the world to me. That night, when Valentine and his demons broke into our apartment, looking for the Cup, I barely had time to take the potion Ragnor Fell had given me before it was too late — but I did wait, just long enough that I could call you and tell you I loved you. Everything that ever happened to me in Idris, everything Valentine ever did to me, was worth it because I had you.

“There is one more thing I have to tell you. Magnus told me about Jace, and what happened to you at Renwick’s, and what your father told you there. I need to tell you now that he was lying. That what you believe to be true about yourself and your brother isn't the truth.

“After I took the potion, Valentine tried everything to wake me, but nothing worked. When he brought me to Renwick’s I lay frozen, drifting in and out of consciousness. I couldn't move or speak, but I was aware sometimes of people coming in and out of the room. Pangborn and Blackwell came to taunt me, though they never touched me. And sometimes Valentine would come and sit by the side of my bed and talk to me. He spoke to me the way that the dead souls in Hell spoke to Dante, telling him the truth of their lives because they thought he would never return to the world to betray them. I think he was just relieved to have someone to talk to, just as I had once spilled everything in my heart to Ragnor Fell.

“He told me how he had thought when he married me that we would face the world together, united against the Clave and the Accords. He told me that when Jonathan was born, he realized he had lost me, that I would hate him forever for what he had done. But a true warrior is ready to sacrifice everything, even his wife. Even his family. So Valentine believed. He was a modern Crusader and everything he did was for the sake of his cause. Deus volt, he said. Because God wills it.

“After the birth of Jonathan, Valentine had suspected I would refuse to have any more children. And this was a pity, he felt, because he had envisioned our children as an army of superior Shadowhunters — made that way by him. He knew he couldn't force me to have a child I didn't want, though, so he turned his attentions to Céline Herondale. She was young, dedicated, impressionable. When she became pregnant, he gave her mixtures to drink, as he had done to me, claiming they were potions made up by a warlock which would foster the health of her baby. She took the drugs, the powders, the potions he gave her, even let him inject her as if he were a doctor. She was utterly trusting.

“And then something happened which Valentine did not expect. In a raid on a vampire nest, Stephen was killed. And Céline — impressionable, emotional, easily swayed Céline — drank a flask of poison and died. The Herondales swooped in, burned Stephen’s body and buried Céline in a mausoleum just outside the Bone City — no suicide can be buried inside its walls.

“You would think that would have been the end of that. But Valentine knew that what he had done had changed the child inside Céline and he had to know how. So Valentine took Hodge and went to the Bone City himself, in the dead of night. He went into the Herondale’s mausoleum and broke open Céline’s coffin. And then, using the sharp-edged blade of his kindjal, he cut her open and took the still-living baby from her dead body.

“Any other child would have died when its mother died. But Valentine had been giving Céline regular doses of Ithuriel’s blood. The blood of Heaven, pure and concentrated, and due to its effect, by some miracle, the infant was still alive.

“He brought the child back to our house that night, the night that a baby’s crying woke me from sleep and I went down to find the angel bound in the Wayland’s wine cellar with the infant at its feet. By morning, Valentine had given the boy to Hodge with instructions to take him to Valentine’s own family home outside Brocelind, and to keep him healthy. Hodge as nursemaid! — but he did it, and reported back to Valentine that the child seemed to thrive.

“The Uprising came only a few months later. I have told you already of that terrible night. After Valentine slaughtered Michael Wayland and his son and left their bodies to burn along with the bodies of my parents in the ruins of our house, he took our Jonathan and fled to the house outside Broceliand.

“For a year he hid himself away there, cloaked in layers of misdirecting glamours, and raised the two children together — his own son and his lieutenant’s, the part-demon child and the other which was part-angel. But while the part-angel child developed like an ordinary baby, his own son, the demon child, grew at an unnatural pace. By the time he was two years old he was the size of a six-year-old human child, and had the strength of an adult man. And he hated his adoptive small brother. Several times he tried to kill him and the infant was saved only by Valentine’s intervention. Eventually Valentine knew that something would have to be done.

“He was eager to return to a more active life, to a location closer to the Glass City. To a place where he could meet with his old followers, men like Pangborn and Blackwell — to a place where he was no longer quite so much in hiding. He took on Michael Wayland’s identity and returned with Stephen Herondale’s son to the Wayland family manor.

“Why didn't he bring his own son with him, you might ask? Because his son now looked like a six-year old, and Valentine knew there was no way the boy would be convincing, ever, as the Waylands’ child — and it was very important to him that later, the boy be able to convince those who had known Michael that this was his son. And so he took Stephen Herondale’s fair-haired small son to the Wayland manor, and lived also with his own in the run-down house outside Brocelind.

“The infant had a name now — Michael Wayland’s son’s name. Jonathan Wayland. As it was too confusing to be raising two children with the same first name, Valentine began to call the child by a nickname.

HE CALLED HIM JACE . . .

Valentine y Luke

Fuente: Sitio web de Cassandra Clare
CC's note: In the orginal first draft of Glass, after the Angel brings Jace back to life, Clary and Jace were met at the lakeside by Alec, Isabelle, Jocelyn and Luke, who have come from the battle to join them. This was changed because in the original draft there was no epilogue; so this was all the closure the characters had. I decided an epilogue was necessary to bring them more, and resolve some of what wasn't resolved -- Magnus and Alec, Jocelyn and Luke's relationships, for instance. The one thing I was a bit sad to lose was that in the first draft, Valentine had someone to be sorry that he died -- in the final version, besides Jace, there really isn't any mention of it.

There were figures racing down the beach toward them, their shadows made ungainly and long by the still-shining glow of the witchlight torches. Clary was glad for the torches now, glad if the glow made her and Jace easier to find. She recognized the running figures as they drew closer — her mother and Luke, and behind them Alec, and Isabelle. Her heart swelled hugely at the sight of them, as if it would crack her ribs apart. She felt as if she were bursting with relief.

It was Luke who reached them first, running along the sand as lightly as if he were still in wolf form. He saw Clary and Jace first and his face lit — and then his gaze went past them, and he saw Valentine, and his face changed.

Jocelyn was just behind him, and as she neared, Jace let go of Clary. She stood up, brushing sand from her clothes, just as her mother reached her and swept her into a hug. After her came Alec and Isabelle, full of exclamations and relief and — joy. They surrounded a shell-shocked-looking Jace, hugging him and shouting in his ears.

Only Luke was silent. Clary, her hand in her mother’s, turned to watch him. He had approached Valentine’s body and was looking down at it, his face a study in conflicting emotions — there was relief there, but also regret and even sorrow. In death, Valentine’s face had lost its hardness and for the first time Clary saw what her mother had once been drawn to about him, saw how he might have seemed gentle and even kind. As Luke knelt down beside his corpse, Clary couldn’t help but remember what he had said about having loved Valentine once, about having been his closest friend. Luke, she thought with a pang. Surely he couldn't be sad — or even grieved?

But then again, perhaps everyone should have someone to grieve for them, and there was no one else to grieve for Valentine.

Luke knelt where he was for a long moment. At last he reached out and with a gentle hand, closed Valentine's eyes.

"Ave atque vale, Shadowhunter," he said.

Carta de Jace

Fuente: Sitio web de Cassandra Clare
The letter written to Clary by Jace in "City of Glass". The letter was included in special edition copies of "City of Fallen Angels"

Clary,

Despite everything, I can't bear the thought of this ring being lost forever, any more then I can bear the thought of leaving you forever. And though I have no choice about the one, at least I can choose about the other. I'm leaving you our family ring because you have as much right to it as I do.

I'm writing this watching the sun come up. You're asleep, dreams moving behind your restless eyelids. I wish I knew what you were thinking. I wish I could slip into your head and see the world the way you do. I wish I could see myself the way you do. But maybe I don't want to see that. Maybe it would make me feel even more than I already do that I'm perpetuating some kind of Great Lie on you, and I couldn't stand that.

I belong to you. You could do anything you wanted with me and I would let you. You could ask anything of me and I'd break myself trying to make you happy. My heart tells me this is the best and greatest feeling I have ever had. But my mind knows the difference between wanting what you cant have and wanting what you shouldn't want. and I shouldn't want you.

All night I've watched you sleeping, watched the moonlight come and go, casting it's shadows across your face in black and white. I've never seen anything more beautiful. I think of the life we could have had if things were different, a life where this night is not a singular event, separate from everything else that's real, but every night. But things aren't different, and I cant look at you without feeling like I've tricked you into loving me.

The truth no one is willing to say out loud is that no one has a shot against Valentine but me. I can get close to him like no one else can. I can pretend I want to join him and he'll believe me, up until that last moment where I end it all, one way or another. I have something of Sebastian's. I can track him to where my fathers hiding, and that's what I'm going to do. So I lied to you last night. I said I just wanted one night with you. But I want every night with you. And that's why I have to slip out of your window now, like a coward. Because if I had to tell you this to your face, I couldn't make myself go.

I don't blame you if you hate me, I wish you would. As long as I can still dream, I will dream of you.

- Jace.

Capitulo 13: Donde hay dolor 

Escena eliminada de Ciudad de Cristal del capítulo 13: Donde hay dolor, en la que Clary sueña sobre ángeles ensangrentados la noche antes que los demonios atacaran Idris y Hodge muriera. 

Clary flotaba en una fría oscuridad que lentamente se resolvió en una figura y una forma, la visión y la luz. Durante un largo momento pensó que tal vez estaba todavía en el sueño que Ithuriel le había dado, por que lo vio de pie frente a ella, en la superficie de un lago congelado de plata , era un ángel con las alas extendidas, las plumas de punta blanca como hueso de plata, su pelo se encrespaba como una tapa de oro, pero cuando el ángel se volvió, vio que era Jace.

Sus ojos estaban cerrados, su rostro demacrado y pensativo, como la expresión del ángel de piedra que protegía la ciudad silenciosa.

Quería correr hacia él, para preguntarle por qué se veía tan triste, pero su cuerpo no cooperaba. Sus pies se mantuvieron firmes, donde estaban, como cola con el hielo, aunque el anhelo que sentía era casi doloroso. Ella le gritó, pero su voz no emitió ningún sonido, ni siquiera un eco en la oscuridad llena de estrellas que se extendió hacia arriba de la superficie plateada del lago.

Cuando ella lo intentó de nuevo, Jace levantó la vista, su expresión de sorpresa, echando una mirada alrededor. Ella se alegró por un momento, ¿tal vez la había oído? - hasta que vio una difusa mancha roja de sangre sobre su pecho.

Ella gritó silenciosamente cuando se desplomó al suelo. De pié detrás de él, estaba la espada ensangrentada, fue otro ángel: éste con alas negras, negras como el humo y la oscuridad. Su cabello también era negro, al igual que su ropa. Tenía la cabeza inclinada, su rostro - oculto, pero había algo familiar en él, y luego levantó la cabeza y ella supo - y supo también por que no podía moverse, y que gritara no le hacía ningún bien, que nadie le oiría gritar otra vez, porque ya estaba muerta.

Escena original capitulo 13 

En Ciudad de Cristal, el enfrentamiento inicial en el Salón de los Acuerdos de después del ataque de los demonios primero fue entre Luke y Valentine, pero en la versión final fueron involucrados muchos otros personajes. Aquí está una mirada exclusiva a la escena original que formó parte del capítulo 13: Donde hay dolor.

"La Clave", dijo, "se resistía a creer que un hombre que dice odiar a los demonios tanto como lo haces realmente trafique con ellos. Pero yo lo sabía." Su voz se redujo, de manera que Clary se preguntó si los de la parte posterior de la sala, incluso podían oír. Parecía estar hablando puramente a Valentine. "Ves, yo te conozco, Valentine. Supe tus sueños y temores una vez. Los demonios nunca fueron tu peor pesadilla, ¿no? De hecho, estás agradecido por su existencia porque dan a los Nefilim una razón de ser. Sin ellos, serían normales. Mundanos. Y siempre fue tan importante para ti ser especial. Elegidos. Impulsados por un propósito más elevado. De aliarse a nosotros mismos", él mismo llamó, sonrió con ironía, y siguió -"de aliarse a sí mismos con los que cuanta de un orden inferior diluye su singularidad. ¿Qué son entonces? ¿Cómo te gusta, si los dioses se consideran por debajo de vosotros y comparten su poder y prestigio?"

"Pero nunca se puede compartir nuestro poder", dijo Valentine. "No sois como nosotros, hombre lobo. Los Nefilim protegen este mundo, pero las cosas de este mundo rechazan a los de tu tipo. Hay una razón para que plata limpia te queme, quema la luz del día a los hijos de la noche."

"Pero no me provoca quemaduras", dijo Simon con una voz muy fuerte, clara, a pesar de las garras de la mano de Clary en su muñeca. "Aquí estoy parado en la luz del sol". Pero Valentine solo rió.

"He visto como te ahogas con el nombre de Dios, vampiro" dijo. "En cuanto a por qué puedes estar parado a la luz del sol" - se interrumpió entonces y sonrió. "Eres una anomalía, tal vez. Un raro. Pero sigues siendo un monstruo". Un monstruo. Clary pensó de pronto en Valentine en el barco, lo que había dicho: Tu madre me dijo que había convertido a su primer hijo en un monstruo. Ella me dejó antes de que pudiera tener la oportunidad de hacer lo mismo con el segundo. - Jace. La idea de su nombre era un dolor agudo en el pecho, tan agudo que casi la hizo jadear. Después de lo que hizo, él está aquí hablando de monstruos. -

"El único monstruo aquí," dijo, a pesar de sí misma y a pesar de la resolución de guardar silencio, "eres tú. Vi a Ithuriel", dijo, cuando se volvió para mirarla con sorpresa. "Lo sé todo".

"Lo dudo", dijo Valentine. "Si es así, querrás mantener tu boca cerrada. Por el amor de tu hermano, o por el tuyo propio".

"Basta ya", dijo Luke. Clary vio el destello repentino de preocupación en sus ojos y sabía que la estaba cortado antes de que ella dijera algo que lamentaría. "Si Simon es una anomalía o no, el hecho de que puede caminar en la luz del día significa que hay más subterráneos de los que sabes, Valentine. ¿Crees que sabes donde cada pieza encaja en la jerarquía? ¿Qué fue lo que siempre decías? ¿Deus voltios? "¿Porque Dios lo quiere?" ¿Quién eres tú para pensar que conoces la voluntad de Dios?"

"Soy un cazador de sombras", dijo Valentine. "He hablado con los ángeles. La sangre de los ángeles corre por nuestras venas. Tú dices que piensas que eso equivale a un dios, sé que no lo soy".

"No", dijo Luke. "No lo eres. No eres más que un niño egoísta que no quiere compartir sus juguetes".

"No con animales" dijo Valentine. "Me acusas de pensar que soy mejor que tu, que somos mejor que los de tu clase". Acompañando la palabra "nosotros" con un gesto que incluyó a todos los cazadores en el salón. "Lo hago. Lo estamos. No somos dioses, pero nosotros somos sus guerreros elegido. Tu no quieres oírlo. Nunca te lo creerías. Pero es cierto, de todos modos". Se volvió a dirigirse a la multitud en silencio, mirándolos fijamente. 

Postales

Fuente: Sitio web de Cassandra Clare y Cassie livejournal
Nota de Cassandra Clare: Esta es la historia corta contada por medio de las postales entre Magnus, Alec, Isabelle, Jace, Clary and Simon. Tiene lugar durante el viaje de Magnus y Alec, entre Ciudad de Cristal y Ciudad de los Ángeles Caídos.
Una historia contada en postales – entre Ciudad de Cristal y Ciudad de los Ángeles Caídos.

#1

Postal 1 (!)

¡Hola Chicos!

Desearía que estuvierais aquí, excepto que no en realidad. Nos los estamos pasando bien. Mirad esto - las pirámides.

- Alec y Magnus.

#2

Postal 2

Queridos Alec y Magnus,


Soy Izzy. Recibí vuestra postal. Me alegro de que os lo estáis pasando bien. Nada ha pasado aquí - la madre de Clary se va a casar con un hombre lobo. Creo que vosotros, chicos, deberíais casaros también. Estoy pensando en organizarlo. Me encanta organizar fiestas. 

- Isabelle.

#3

Postal 3

Creo que un tema otoñal estaría genial. 

-Magnus


¡ABORTA! ¡ABORTA!

Isabelle, ¿Te has vuelto loca?

-Alec.

#4

Postal 4

Queridos A & M,

He hablado con el manager del Beauty Bar porque definitivamente os veo casándoos contra un bonito telón de fondo rosa, pero él no piensa que podamos meter a más de cincuenta personas dentro y yo pensaba en unas trescientas. ¿Qué os parecería casaros en el parque? Podría ponerse frío, pero podríais llegar a la ceremonia con un carruaje de caballos. ¿Cómo os sentiríais con llevar coronar de boda?

-Isabelle.

#5

Postal 5

Querido Alec,

Como tu mejor amigo y parabatai, me siento ofendido por que no me hayas pedido ser tu padrino en la boda. Et tu, brutus.

- Jace.


Alec, él realmente se ha enfadado.

No se ha lavado el pelo en 3 días.

- Clary.

#6

Postal 6

Jace,

¡No hay ninguna boda! ¡Para a Isabelle! Siéntate encima de ella si tienes que hacerlo. Solo detenle de lo que sea que esté haciendo o no podré volver nunca a casa.

- Alec.

#7

Postal 7

Queridos Alec y Magnus,

Ya sé que no somos muy amigos, pero Isabelle acaba de pasarse por casa a dejar un esmoquin de terciopelo plisado naranja que ella dice que tendré que usar en vuestra boda. ¿Es verdad?, y si lo es, ¿Por qué naranja?

- Simon.

#8

Postal 8

Queridos Alec y Magnus,

Ésta es la primera de cinco postales. No te vuelvas loco ni nada, pero necesito que me enviéis $150.000 para cubrir los gastos de: 1) 2 coronas de diamantes. 2) 20 pavos reales. 3) 300 caramelos de chocolate con la forma de vuestras cabezas. 4) Mi vestido. 5) 500 libras de purpurina. 6) Un caballo blanco (más para venir en otras postales)

- Isabelle.

#9

Postal 9

Querida Isabelle,

Alec está a punto de tener un ataque de ansiedad. Si no desistes inmediatamente de planear mi boda con tu hermano, volveré a Manhattan y volaré el Instituto. Convertiré a Iglesia en una bestia de gato que alborotará las calles de Manhattan pisando mundanos. Y te haré gorda.

Con cariño,

Magnus.

#10

Postal 10

Queridos Alec y Magnus,

¿Cómo estáis? Todo va bien por aquí. Gracias por la postal con la foto de Taj Mahal. Es bonito. Veo que exageré un poco. Para compensaros, voy a redecorar el loft de Magnus gratis.

- Izzy.

Ciudad de los Ángeles Caídos

El acto de caer

Fuente: Sitio web de Cassandra Clare
The alleyway kiss from Jace's perspective. This is available from Costco's special edition of City of Lost Souls.

“Because I can’t talk to you,” Jace said. “I can’t talk to you, I can’t be with you, I can’t even look at you.” —City of Fallen Angels

Jace will never forget the look on Clary’s face after he says it. Shock at first, blanching into pain.

He has hurt her before, never because he wanted to, though he had lashed out in his own blindness. The time she walked in on him kissing Aline and he said every awful thing he could think of as if the mere words themselves might have the power to make her disappear, to send her back where she was safe.

He has always cared more about whether she was safe than anything else. If he didn’t, none of this would be happening. Jace wonders if she can see it in his eyes, that terror, the shards of all those dozens of dreams in which he stabbed her or choked her or drowned her and looked down at his hands afterward, wet with her blood.

She backs up a step. There is something in her face, but it isn’t fear. It’s infinitely worse. She turns, almost tripping in her haste to get away, and rushes out of the club.

For a moment he stands and looks after her. This is exactly what he wanted, a part of his mind screams at him. To drive her away. To keep her safe, away from him.

But the rest of his mind is watching the door slam behind her and seeing the final ruin of all his dreams. It was one thing to push it to this point. It is another to let go forever. Because he knows Clary, and if she goes now, she will not ever come back.

Come back.

Somehow he is outside the club and the rain is pelting down like gunfire. He sees everything in a single sweep, the way he always has, the way he was trained to do. The white van at the curb, the slant of the street as it curves back toward Greenpoint, the dark opening of an alley behind the bar, and Clary at the corner, about to cross the street and walk out of his life forever.

She yanks her arm out of his when he reaches for her, but when he puts his hand against her back she lets him guide her into the alley. His hand slides across her back to her arm as she whirls to face him — and he can see everything around them again: the wet brick wall behind them, the barred windows, the discarded musical equipment soaking in puddles of rainwater.

And Clary is lifting her face, small and pale, her mascara running in glittery streaks beneath her eyes. Her hair looks dark, pasted to her head. She feels both fragile and dangerous in his grasp, a glass explosive.

She jerks her arm away from his. “If you’re planning to apologize, don’t bother. I don’t want to hear it.” He tries to protest, to tell her he only wanted to help Simon, but she is shaking her head, her words like stinging missiles: “And you couldn’t tell me? Couldn’t text me a single line letting me know where you were? Oh, wait. You couldn’t, because you still have my goddamned phone. Give it to me.”

He reaches to hand the phone back to her, but he is barely aware of his movements. He wants to say: No, no, no, I couldn’t tell you. I can’t tell you. I can’t say I’m afraid of hurting you even though I don’t want to. I can’t say I’m afraid of becoming my father. Your faith in me is the best thing in my life and I can’t bear to destroy it. “—Forgive me —”

Her face goes white, her lipstick bright against her stark skin. “I don’t even know what you think I’m supposed to forgive you for. Not loving me any more?”

She moves away from him and stumbles, blindly, and he can’t stop himself: he reaches for her. She is delicate and shivering in his arms and they are both soaking wet and he can’t stop. Her mouth is part-open, and he brings his own lips down against hers, tasting lipstick and sweet ginger and Clary.

I love you. He can’t say it, so he tries to tell her with the pressure of his lips and his body and his hands. I love you, I love you. His hands are around her waist, lifting her, and he had forgotten: she isn't fragile; she is strong. Her fingers are digging into his shoulders, her mouth fierce against his, and his heart is pounding like it’s trying to get free of his body as he sets her down on a broken speaker.

Stop, his mind is telling him. Stop, stop, stop. He forces his hands away from her and places them on the wall, on either side of her head. Only that brings his body closer to hers, and that is a mistake. He can see the pulse slamming in her throat; her lipstick is gone and he can’t look away from the carnation-pink of her mouth, flushed from kissing, as she breathes: “Why can’t you talk to me? Why can’t you look at me?”

His heart is pounding as if it wants to leave his body and take up independent residence somewhere else. “Because I love you.”

It is the truth, and an inadequate truth at that, but he feels it punch through him with the force of a lie. Her face softens, her eyes widening. Her hands are against him, small and delicate and careful, and he leans into her, breathing the scent of her under the smell of rainwater. “I don’t care,” he hears himself say. “I’m sick of trying to pretend I can live without you. Don’t you understand that? Can’t you see it’s killing me?”

He is drowning, and it is too late. He reaches for her like an addict reaching hopelessly for the drug he has sworn not to touch again, having decided it is better to burn up in one final blaze than live forever without it.

And the gray world blazes up around him with color as they come together, bodies slamming hard against the wall behind them. The water soaking her dress has made it as slick as motor oil under his fingers. He catches and pulls at her, desire reshaping their bodies with every touch. Her breathing is ragged in his ears, her eyelids half-closed and fluttering. He is touching her skin everywhere he can: her throat, the back of her neck, her collarbones hard under his fingertips, her arms, smooth and slippery. Her hands are on him, too, no shyer than his own, and every touch seems to burn away the rain and the cold.

She is gripping his shoulders when she raises her legs and wraps them around his waist, and he makes a noise he didn’t even know he could make. It is too late to go back now. His hands clench involuntarily, and he feels the fabric of her tights rip under his fingers, and he is touching her bare skin. And their kisses taste like rain. And if he wasn’t falling before, he is falling now.

He thinks of the Fall, of angels tumbling forever in fire, and Icarus, who had flown too close to the sun. He had thought of the agony of the fall, the terror of it, but never that it might be joyful. Lucifer had not wanted to fall, but neither had he wanted to serve, and as Jace gathered Clary close against him, closer than he had ever thought they could be, he wondered if it was only in the act of falling that one could be truly free.

Ciudad de las Almas Perdidas

Magnus y Alec

Fuente: Sitio web de Cassandra Clare

Warlock law was very clear on this point: if you loved a mortal, all well and good, but it was not your place to interfere with their mortality. It took a long time to become used to such a law . . . usually until you realized that being immortal was less a gift than a burden.

Magnus dropped the snuffbox back onto the desk and picked up the phone, hitting the speed-dial button for Alec’s number. When Alec picked up he sounded both harried and hopeful: “Magnus? Have you found anything?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Crushing disappointment made Alec’s voice sound small.

“But I was thinking about parabatai,” said Magnus. “When parabatai are especially close, they can sense if the other is dead, or Changed, or —”

“I know,” said Alec. “I know that. I felt it — for that moment that Jace died, back in Idris. But this isn’t like that.” Magnus could picture him, eyes blue in his pale face, tugging at a snarled lock of his hair. Alec usually looked like he’d fallen out of bed and into a random pile of clothes, rather than as if he’d actually picked out an outfit, and since Jace had gone missing, he’d started to look like he’d stopped brushing his hair, too. “I just feel nothing.”

“Like really nothing? As in . . . nothingness?”

“Right . . .?” Alec sounded confused.

“That actually does give me some ideas,” said Magnus. “I’ll do everything I can to help, you know that, right, Alexander? Not because it’s the Clave, but because it’s you.”

“I know.” Alec was silent for a moment. “It’s good to hear your voice, even if you can’t help,” Alec added, and hung up abruptly.

Magnus placed the phone next to him and sat for a moment, still enough to hear himself breathing. I’m losing him, he thought. I don’t know how or why, but I know that I am.

Clary y Simon en la Corte Seelie

Fuente: Tumblr de mundiemoms
Deleted from Chapter 4.

This time, when Clary rang the bell, instead of finding themselves in the dark corridor before the Queen’s chamber, she and Simon landed in a dank, mildew-smelling cave, the walls trickling with cold water, the ground muddy and brown beneath their feet. Several passages led off what seemed to be the main chamber. As she turned, Clary’s boots slipped on the wet stone, and she caught Simon’s arm to steady herself.

He was glancing up, looking around at the walls of the cave, his dark eyes curious. He put a hand to the stone and took it away, showing her the way his palm was shining. “Look,” he said. “Phosphorescent moss.”`

“Faeries used to use it to make torches,” Clary said, remembering her Codex. “That, and trapped will-o-the-wisps in glass.”

“Come on.” Simon tugged her gently forward toward one of the darkened passages that tunneled into the wall.

“Do you know where you’re going?”

“When in doubt, head upward,” he said. “I learned that in Boy Scouts. Besides, I can see perfectly well in the dark.”

“So can I, if I make a night vision rune — oh!” Clary gasped, and they both came to a halt as Meliorn appeared before them, his white armor shining like witchlight in the dimness. There was an unpleasant expression in his pale eyes.

“So you have returned to our lands, human and liar,” he said to Clary. “You are either very brave or very stupid to desire to come before the Queen after the trick you attempted to play on her.”

“I wouldn’t say it was an attempt,” said Clary. “Last time I looked, it worked.”

“Yeah,” said Simon. Clary glanced sideways at him, and he shrugged. “Just backing you up.”

“What prevents me killing you here and taking the prize from you?” Meliorn inquired, emotionlessly.

“Two things,” Clary said, ticking them off on her fingers. “One, I don’t have it on me. He does.” She indicated Simon. “Good luck trying to kill him. Two, if you do, the Queen will never find out what I wanted, and you know she’s curious. If she wasn’t, she would have taken the whistle away from me, not let me keep it.”

Meliorn sighed. “You are the worst kind of stupid. The kind that thinks it is clever. Very well, little human Nephilim. Follow me. Perhaps, if you are lucky, the Queen will let you live.” He turned and stalked off down the passage.

“Remember when we thought faeries were little creatures who lived in toadstools and wore buttercup hats?” Clary looked over at Simon as they both began to follow the faerie knight. “Wasn’t that awesome?”

Simon grinned, a flash in the darkness, and squeezed her hand.

Fuente: Escena cortada dada al Tumblr de fuckyeahmortalinstruments por Cassandra Clare

Clary negó con la cabeza. -Hay más en la honestidad de... que en una disposición de las palabras. Dicen que las hadas no pueden mentir, pero mentir en sus intenciones, su actitud, su comportamiento - -¿Y los humanos no?.- La reina deslizó la mirada a través de Clary y Simon . -Este vampiro, este diurno, te  trae a todas partes - él es el único cuyo beso no te agrada, aquí en mi corte, ¿no? ¿Te preocupas por él en absoluto, o sólo es la marca de Dios sobre él lo que hace que le lleves contigo, como un escudo? Y tú,- añadió, volviéndose hacia Simon, -tú que la amabas, ahora le prestas tu poder nada despreciable para su proyecto de encontrar al que más ama? ¿Dónde está la ventaja para ti?- Simon se aclaró la garganta. -Tal vez esa es la diferencia entre mi especie y la suya,- dijo. -A veces hacemos cosas que no están a nuestro favor.- -Ah,- dijo la reina. -La estupidez, quieres decir.- -Yo no lo llamaría así.- Clary no podía dejar de estar impresionada .- la última vez que había estado aquí Simon se había sentido demasiado incómodo y fuera de su terreno por decirlo en pocas palabras, pero ahora lo estaba llevando muy bien. -Ahora, ¿quieres que la ______ o no? Tenemos asuntos que atender.- -"Podría tomarlo de ti,- dijo la reina. -La niña no será difícil de eliminar, y en cuanto a ti, diurno, aquellos que me sirven, me sirven con sus vidas. La fiebre del suicidio podría ser un gran inconveniente a pesar de su maldición.- Ella dejó sus ojos sobre él durante largo rato.  -Yo soy la hija adoptiva del miembro del consejo Lucian Graymark,- dijo Clary. -Estoy cerca de los Lightwoods en el Instituto. ¿Vale la pena ganarse su enfado y su ira sólo para vengarse de mi por engañarla? Además - siempre he oído que las hadas aprecian la inteligencia. Usted no quiere decir que no se puede apreciar un buen truco, incluso a su propia costa, ¿verdad?.- Clary vio por el estrechamiento de los ojos de la Reina que había jugado duro - tal vez demasiado - en el orgullo de mujer de hadas, pero un momento después, la Reina sonreía, y las criaturas de las paredes gritaron con admiración.  -Jugadora como su padre,- dijo, y Clary lo sintió como una patada en el estómago. -Muy bien, ¿Qué le gustaría de mí a cambio de los ______? Voy a decidir si su propuesta merece una negociación.-


Texto descartado del capitulo 7

Fuente: Cassie's LiveJournal

Maia was waiting for them in MacCarren Park, on one of the narrow paths dusted with the skeletons of fallen leaves. She wore a gray leather jacket and a soft pink hat, pulled down over her ears, from which her wildly curling hair escaped in a golden-brown halo. She waved tentatively as they neared her; the first words out of her mouth were:

“Did you hear about Luke?”

They all nodded — Simon had told Isabelle and Jordan what he knew on the L-train ride over — and she fell into step beside Jordan as they went through the park, a moving foursome. Jordan had his hands in his pockets and was talking quietly to Maia, werewolf to werewolf. Simon glanced at Isabelle, walking silently beside him.

Weak November sunlight had come out from behind the clouds and picked out reddish highlights in her hair. She smelled like his own apple shampoo and Shadowhunter. “So,” he said. “Do you want me to ask why you were passed out in my bed last night when I came home, or not?”

“I didn’t pass out in your bed,” she said, as they swung left on Manhattan Avenue. The G train stop was there, and a guy was leaning against the railing, picking out a tuneless song on a guitar. Across the street was a Thrifty store where you could still get ice cream cones for 50 cents. “I passed out in your living room and Jordan put me in your bedroom.”

“He did?”

“Well, if it wasn’t Jordan, someone broke into your house and put me in your bed. Personally I prefer the Jordan theory. Less creepy.”

“It’s not that, it — what were you doing, drunk, with Jordan? He doesn’t drink much.”

“I’d imagine not. He has awful taste in tequila.”

“Iz.” Simon put his hand on her wrist. “I only want to know why you came over.”

She turned her head away from him, her shining black hair slipping across her back. There was a small Mark on the lower left side of her throat, just above her collarbone. It looked vulnerable, somehow. Simon wanted to brush it with his fingertips, but kept his hands in his pockets. “Everything sucks,” she said. “I saw Helen and Aline last night. We had dinner. They’re just so happy, and I keep thinking —” She bit her lip. “My parents are getting divorced, I think,” she said. “Alec is happy but I never see him. Jace is [redacted-sorry guys!]. Max is dead. Clary—”

“I get it,” he said, gently. “You needed someone to talk to and you couldn't think of anyone else.”

“No!” Isabelle said, frustration clear in her voice. "I wanted to talk to you. I always — I mean, I like to talk to you. Even if things weren't like this, I would..." She looked at him, sidelong. “I mean, we did date.”

“But it wasn't — it was never serious,” Simon said awkwardly. “I didn't think you wanted . . .”

“Did you? Want it to be serious?” Isabelle asked. There was a certain stiffness in her voice — pride, Simon guessed. Isabelle wasn't the sort of girl who made the first move with guys. She wasn't the sort of girl who had to.

“Did you?”

Isabelle made an exasperated noise. “Look, I didn’t come by last night because you’re number six on some list and everyone else is unavailable. I came because — I like you. You make me feel better. Maybe it’s something about your face.”

“My face makes you feel better?” So she was saying he was reassuring, sweet, dependable, all of those things; things he knew Clary thought he was; things that hadn’t helped her look at him instead of Jace, not for five minutes. And Isabelle liked her guys dangerous, not . . . reassuring. Reassuring was for stuffed animals. How could you be a vampire and not be sexually threatening? He wasn’t sure, but somehow, he’d managed it.

He was saved more torturous conversation by their arrival at Magnus’ apartment, the lobby of which, as usual, smelled like a combination of cat pee and old pizza. Simon made his way up the stairs after Isabelle — remembering the first time he’d been here, crushed out on Izzy and secretly hoping to make Clary jealous, not that that had worked. Magnus’ apartment had been full of rainbow smoke and Downworlders; now, as they filed in, it was quiet and full of late morning sunlight.

Magnus, Jocelyn and Alec were seated around a long rectangular table. Magnus was clutching a cup of coffee, wearing a dark green jumpsuit with yellow racing stripes, his dark hair an unruly mass of bed-head. Alec looked like . . . Alec. He raised his eyebrows at his sister as she came into the room, but didn’t seem inclined to kill either her, or Simon.

But Jocelyn looked at Simon with eyes as piercing as nails. “Where’s Clary?” she said, tightly.

Clary y Jace

Fuente: Cassie en Tumblr

Jace set what he was holding down on the windowsill and reached out to her. She came to lean against him, and his hand slid up under her t-shirt and rested caressingly, possessively, on the small of her back. He bent to kiss her, gently at first, but the gentleness went quickly and soon she was pressed up against the glass of the window, his hands at the hem of her shirt — his shirt —

“Jace.” She moved a little bit away. “I’m pretty sure people down there in the street can see us.”

“We could …” He gestured toward the bed. “Move…over there.”

She grinned. “You said that like it took you a while to come up with the idea.”

When he spoke, his voice was muffled against her neck. “What can I say, you make my thought processes slow down. Now I know what it’s like to be a normal person.”

“How … is it?” The things he was doing with his hands under the t-shirt were distracting.

“Terrible. I’m already way behind on my quota of witty comments for the day. ”

Clary y Sebastian

Fuente: Cassie en Tumblr

Los esfuerzos de Clary casi no sirvieron de nada cuando ella levantó la vista y vió a Sebastian , apoyado contra la pared opuesta del pasillo, de brazos cruzados, mirando a ella. Se sintió inmediatamente consciente de lo que llevaba puesto. El mismo vestido que había llevado al club , pero sin sus botas, su chaqueta y lo más importante, sin el bullicio que había estado escuchando la noche anterior, ella se sentía desprotegida, vulnerable. "¿Quién me quitó los zapatos?" "¿Eso es lo que quieres saber?" Sebastián miró incrédulo. "Te desmayas en un club y te despiertas cubierta de sangre y ¿quieres saber dónde están sus zapatos?"

Simon, Jordan e Izzy

Fuente: Tumblr de Cassandra Clare

I’m in.

Clary’s words rang in Simon’s head, clear as a bell, the moment he opened his eyes. He was lying in the bed in Magnus’ spare room, sheets thrown off, barefoot; Isabelle was gone. He sat up, rubbing his temples, and thought back at her:

In where?

Simon? Her voice was faint, fading, as if she were walking away from him. He sat up.

Clary?

There was no response. He lurched to his feet, his mouth dry.

Clary!

The word echoed inside his head like a bell rung in an empty room. Swearing, he pulled off his clothes, threw on new jeans and a sweater, and went out into the living room to look for his messenger bag. He felt a little sick, as if he might throw up. Clary had called out to him, but he couldn’t reach her back; what if he could never reach her back? What if she was dead or lost or the goddamn rings just didn’t work?

Jordan was lying on the futon in jeans and a green shirt, a mug of coffee balanced on his stomach. He turned his head, dark hair spilling into his eyes, as Simon came in. “Your phone’s been ringing all morning.”

Simon grabbed for his messenger bag, hanging on a peg on the wall. “Who was it?”

“I don’t know. Didn’t check. It’s your phone. You get a lot of calls, man.”

Simon forebore from pointing out that they didn’t have a land line, so everyone who knew him had to call his mobile. He fished the phone out and stared at the number. An unrecognizable 718 prefix; someone in Brooklyn. He looked at Jordan. “Did — have you seen Isabelle?”

A small smile played around Jordan’s mouth. “She’s taking a shower.” Simon glanced toward the bathroom door, which was closed. Isabelle —Clary — it was all way too much. The sort of thing that would make you want to take a deep, steadying breath, if you breathed. Instead he flipped his phone open and dialed; it picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”

Simon estaba asombrado. "Magnus?"

Risas entre dientes. "Hola Diurno"

"No te ofendas, pero realmente nunca antes te imagine llamándome."

"Difícilmente es una llamada social" Había un ruido en el fondo; un murmullo de voces. "Simon, has-"

"No, quiero decir no te imaginaba usando el teléfono. Más bien- apareciendo en una explosión de diamantina."

“Have you seen Clary?” Magnus said, firmly. “I’ll address the glitter issue later. But Jocelyn is here with Brother Zachariah, and —” he lowered his voice — “Clary’s not in her room.”

Simon gave up and took a deep breath anyway, just out of reflex. “No,” he said. “No, she wouldn’t be.”

“But you do know where she is?”

Simon squeezed his eyes shut. “Yeah.”

There was a pause. “I think you better get over here.”

"Do you want me to bring Isabelle?"

"Isabelle’s there?" Magnus managed to sound dryly amused, despite everything.

"She — she, ah, spent the night."

"Alec will be delighted to hear that. Perhaps we can have a contest to see whether he or Jocelyn kills you first." Magnus chortled. “Have you told Jordan about Luke yet?”

“No.” Simon opened his eyes; Jordan was still lying on the futon, engrossed in a fat science fiction novel. “Should I?”

“He should know. He’s Praetor Lupus and this is a big deal for the Moon’s Children. In fact, bring him along. Bring all your little friends along. You’ll need them!” With which cheerful pronouncement, Magnus clicked off. Jordan sat up, setting his book aside. “What was that about telling me —”

He broke off, his eyes widening. The bathroom door had opened, and on a cloud of steam out came Isabelle, her hair like a wet black river down her back. She was wrapped in a red towel that just hit the tops of her thighs and her legs looked miles long. Both boys stared at her.

“I am so hungover,” she announced, flipped her hair over one shoulder, and stalked off toward Simon’s bedroom. Simon looked over at Jordan, whose eyebrows had risen up to his hairline.

Magnus y Jocelyn

Fuente: Cassandra Clare Twitter

“He is a Shadowhunter,” said Jocelyn. “His loyalty will be to Clave and Covenant.”

“He’s my friend,” said Magnus coldly. “His loyalty is to me.”

Una pregunta de poder

Fuente: Sitio web de Cassandra Clare
Alec y Camille hablan sobre Magnus y su father.

“Cuéntame más” dijo Alec, yendo de un lado a otro por el suelo de cemento de la abandonada estación de metro en el City Hall. “Necesito saber.”

Camille miró al chico en frente de ella. Estaba reclinada en el diván escarlata con el que había amueblado el pequeño espacio; tenía una manta suave de terciopelo, aunque estaba deteriorada en algunas partes. No era el mejor mueble que había tenido; y, por supuesto, una estación de tránsito debajo de Manhattan difícilmente se comparaba con su estudio en París, su adosado en Ámsterdam o su gran casa solariega junto al río cerca de San Petersburgo que ahora tan solo percibe como un pequeño recuerdo.

“¿Saber más sobre qué?” le preguntó, aunque sabía perfectamente la respuesta.

“Sobre Magnus,” dijo Alec. Él sostenía una piedra de luz mágica en su mano, descuidadamente, como si hubiera olvidado que estaba ahí. Típico de los Nephilim, quienes daban por hecho sus poderes angelicales y la magia que corría por sus venas. La piedra echó su luz hacia arriba, dejando ver claramente los planos y los ángulos de la cara de Alec. “Él no hablará conmigo sobre su pasado, y no puedo soportarlo. No puedo soportar no saber.”

Ella le miró. Era pálido como la leche, sus ojos azules destacaban contra tanta piel blanca y la oscuridad de sus cabellos y pestañas. Sus piernas eran largas, su cuerpo delgado como una rama de sauce, pero fuerte: un chico muy guapo, incluso para ella, quien miraba a los seres humanos y veía mortalidad y putrefacción.

“Deberías tener que soportarlo,” le dijo ella, tratando de no dejar ver el aburrimiento con su voz. “Si Magnus aún no ha compartido sus secretos contigo, a lo mejor decide no hacerlo nunca. Así que tú puedes tenerle a él y a sus secretos o no tenerle del todo.”

Alec se dio la vuelta. “Pero él compartió sus secretos contigo.” Ella se encogió de hombros ligeramente. “Nos conocíamos el uno al otro por mucho tiempo. Yo tenía mucho tiempo para darle.” Sonrió, sintiendo el afilado roce de sus colmillos contra su labio inferior. Tenía hambre. Pensó en el chico, el pulso en su cuello que latía más rápido de lo que él hablaba, la abertura de sus ojos. Se preguntó si lloraría. Las lágrimas de los humanos eran saladas, como su sangre. Pero él no lloró. Su expresión se endureció, y ella vio una chispa de sus ancestros en la unión de su mandíbula. “¿Quién es su padre?”

Camille volvió a reposar su cabeza en el diván. “¿Y por qué debería decírtelo?”

“Porque quieres que mate a Raphael,” dijo él. “Y porque podría hacerte la vida muy desagradable, si quisiera.” Elevó la luz mágica, y sus blancos y fríos rayos se extendieron por la habitación. Así que sí la recordaba, después de todo.

Ella se incorporó, echando su pelo hacia atrás. “Esta es la última vez, Alexander. Después de esto, no diré una palabra más hasta que vengas con la sangre de Raphael en tus manos y su corazón atravesado en una cadena para que yo la lleve.”

Alec tragó saliva. “Dime. Dónde nació. Quién es su padre.”

“Tú lo llamarías Indonesia,” dijo Camille, “pero para nosotros eran las Indias Orientales. La madre de Magnus era mestiza – de padre blanco y madre indonesia. Su padre era un Príncipe del Infierno. ¿Conoces a los Príncipes del Infierno, chico ángel?”

La pálida piel de Alec palideció aún más. “Claro que los conozco,” le dijo, rígidamente. “Soy un Cazador de Sombras. Pero ellos son… míticos. Los más grandes ángeles del Cielo se convirtieron en los grandes Príncipes del Infierno. Y el más grande de todos ellos es… Lucifer.” Él retuvo un suspiro. “No estarás diciendo…”

Camille estalló en una carcajada. “¿Qué el padre de Magnus es el Portador de la Luz? ¿La Estrella Matutina? ¡Claro que no!”

“Pero es un Príncipe del Infierno.”

“Tendrás que preguntarle eso a Magnus por ti mismo,” dijo Camille, jugando con una borla en el extremo del brazo del sofá.

“A lo mejor él nunca quiso decírtelo,” dijo Alec. “¿Te amaba lo suficiente para decírtelo? ¿Tú lo amabas?”

“Él me amó,” dijo Camille, convencida. “Yo no a él no. Le tenía cariño. Pero nunca le amé. No de esa forma.” Ella se removió irritada. “Me he cansado de contarte cosas, pequeño Cazador de Sombras, especialmente cuando tú me has servido para tan poco.”

Las mejillas de Alec se enrojecieron. Camille podría decir, por la tensión en su delgado cuerpo, que estaba reteniendo tanto ira como vergüenza: él la necesitaba, pensó con satisfacción, la necesitaba para satisfacer la curiosidad que le consumía, alimentada por el miedo. Su necesidad de ella era como la sangre.

“Una última cosa,” le dijo él, en voz baja. “Una última cosa, y te dejaré en paz.” Ella levantó sus cejas.

“¿Soy diferente?, le preguntó. “¿Hay algo en la forma en que me ama que es diferente de las formas en las que ha amado antes?”

Ella dejó que sus labios se curvaran en una pequeña sonrisa. “La respuesta a esa pregunta, Alexander, te costará.”

“¿Me costará qué? ¿Qué más?”

Había dolor en su voz.

“Sangre,” respondió ella.

Un largo silencio se instauró entre ellos. Finalmente, en un tono incrédulo, le preguntó: “¿Quieres beber de mi sangre?”

Ella rio entre dientes. “¿Sabes cuánto tiempo ha pasado desde que bebí d un humano dispuesto? Y la sangre de Cazador de Sombras tiene una calidad especial. No todos vosotros sois como tu Jace, por supuesto, portando la luz del día en vuestras venas. Pero, aun así, tiene una calidad especial.”

El rubor en las mejillas de Alec se intensificó. La miró fijamente, mientras ella volvía a tumbarse sobre el terciopelo, entrecerrando sus ojos. Ella sabía que su belleza podía no calentar ni seducir al chico, pero eso no importaba. La belleza era poder, pero existían otros tipos de poder.

A esa distancia de Alec, ella podía percibir su aroma: perfume de sándalo, frío de invierno, el sabor salado del miedo humano. Y eran humanos, los Cazadores de Sombras. Ante todo, todavía humanos, presos de las emociones humanas, las debilidades humanas, los miedos humanos, de todo por lo que creían que eran especiales.

“Muy bien,” dijo él. “Sólo por esta vez.”

Ella le miró a través de sus ojos entrecerrados que ocultaban su triunfo, el ligero temblor en sus dedos cuando él alcanzó el botón que sujetó el puño de la camisa en su muñeca izquierda y lo abrió, ofreciéndole su piel desnuda y desprotegida.

Clary, Jace y Seb

Fuente: Cassie en Tumblr
A present from Cassie for trending #weareshadowhunters.

Clary was in Jace's room when he and Sebastian returned to the house. She had found very little during her search. There was nothing in Sebastian's room that could be considered interesting except some books written in Latin, and her Latin wasn’t good enough to read them. There were pages that looked like they were torn from old guidebooks, illustrated with black and white pen sketches, pinned to the walls, but there seemed no connection between them. In the fireplaces were chunks of ash that looked like the remains of burned photographs, but they crumbled away when she tried to pick them up.

Jace's room was next, neat as a pin, containing almost nothing of his belongings. There were weapons, but she didn't recognize them, or the books on the shelves either. His closet was filled with clothes, but like the clothes in the master bedroom, they were largely new: he must have bought them in the past week or so, since price tags still hung from several of them. They were not what she thought of as Jace's style. He had always dressed simply — things that were plain, solid colors, clothes that fit well but didn't catch attention. He was gorgeous enough that it didn't matter, she had always thought; he looked amazing in just jeans and a t-shirt. And he had plenty of those in his closet now, but the shirts had designer labels, the coats and jackets were Burberry and Hugo Boss and Dolce & Gabbana.

Like the clothes in Sebastian’s closet.

Like the expensive clothing Valentine had always worn.

She closed the closet door and sat down on Jace's bed, telling herself she was being stupid. Designer clothes were nothing to get worked up about. There were other things in the room that spoke of the Jace she had always known — the neatness, the arranging his weapons on top of his dresser in order of size, the books on the nightstand. He always used a thin dagger as a bookmark; that hadn't changed. The photo of the two of them, stuck to the wall. Even the citrusy soap in his bathroom was the same soap he always used —

She heard steps on the staircase, voices. Sebastian’s rose: "Where is she?"

She barely had time to switch off the light, fling herself down on the bed and curl up with her head on the pillow when the door opened. Jace stood there framed in the hallway glow, Sebastian behind him. She raised herself up on her elbow, blinking sleepily at them despite the racing of her heart. “Did you guys just get back?”

Jace gave Sebastian a look — a look that said clearly: I told you she’d be here. “Didn’t you hear us come upstairs?”

She shook her head. “Sorry, I got tired. I think I’m still exhausted from staying up till dawn the other night.” She looked at Jace demurely. “I was feeling a little lonely, so I thought if I curled up in your bed …”

Do I sound like I mean it? His face had relaxed, but Sebastian was looking at her as if his gaze could piece through her like clear glass, and he was amused at what he saw.

She sat up, shaking her hair back, and reached for the lamp on the nightstand. “Don’t —” Jace began, but she had already flipped it on.

She stiffened. The two boys looked down at her, Jace with some concern and Sebastian with his usual quirky edge of half-amusement. His dark eyes met hers with the message they always held, the one she tried not to read: We know, you and I. We know the truth.

But none of that was what had made her stiffen. It was that both of them were was splattered with blood — there was a smear of it across Jace’s cheek, staining his sleeves, and a rent in his shirt, its edges dark and stiff with dried blood, though the skin underneath was unmarked. Sebastian, though — Sebastian had blood even in his white-silver hair, and on his clothes, and on his hands so thick it looked as if he were wearing red gloves. The silver bracelet he wore around the wrist where his hand had regenerated was spotted with red.

Clary heard her own voice as if from very far away. “What happened?”

“We ran into a little trouble,” Sebastian said. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.” He tilted his head to the side. “You look as pale as a ghost, little sis. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen worse. We’re Shadowhunters. This is what we do.”

“Of course.” Clary spoke mechanically. “I just wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Then you’ve nothing to worry about. Most of this isn’t either of our blood.”

She swallowed against her dry throat. “So whose is it?”

Extended DSCS

Fuente: Cassie's LiveJournal - sitio TMI
CC's note: Now keep in mind a version of this does still exist in the books, but it is much less... well. You'll see. I wrote this in Mexico, probably having had too much mezcal, and I was trying to capture a mood of really dark, tipping over the edge sensuality, doing things that are probably a bad idea, you get the picture.

“What’s going on?” It was Jace, having fought his way free of the pack of dancers. More of the shimmering stuff had gotten on him, silver drops clinging to the gold of his hair. “Clary?”

“Sorry,” she said, getting to her feet. “I got lost in the crowd.”

“I noticed,” he said. “One second I was dancing with you, and the next you were gone and a very persistent werewolf was trying to get the buttons on my jeans undone.” He took Clary’s hand, lightly ringing her wrist with his fingers. “Do you want to go home? Or dance some more?”

“Dance some more,” she said, breathlessly. “Is that all right?”

“Go ahead.” Sebastian leaned back, his hands braced behind him on the fountain’s edge, his smile like the edge of a straight razor. “I don’t mind watching.”

Something flashed across Clary’s vision: the memory of a bloody handprint. It was gone as soon as it had come and she frowned. The night was too beautiful to think of ugly things. She looked back at her brother only for a moment before she let Jace lead her back through the crowd to its edge, near the shadows, where the press of bodies was lighter. Another ball of colored light burst above their heads as they went, scattering silver, and she tipped her head up, catching the salt-sweet drops on her tongue.

Jace stopped and swung her toward him. She could feel the silver liquid trickling down her face like tears. He pulled her against him and kissed them, as if he were kissing tears away, and his lips were warm on her face and made her shiver. She reached for the zip on his army jacket, ripped it down, slid her hands inside and over the cotton of his shirt, then under the hem, her nails scratching lightly over his ribs. He stopped and cupped the back of her neck with his hand, leaning to whisper in her ear. Neither of them could be said to be dancing any more: the hypnotic music went on around them, but Clary barely noticed it. A couple dancing past laughed and made a derisive comment in Czech: she couldn't understand it, but suspected the gist was get a room.

Jace made an impatient noise and then he was pulling her after him again, through the last of the crowd and into one of the shadowy alcoves that lined the walls.

This alcove was conical, with a low stone pedestal in the center on which an angel statue, about three feet tall, stood. It was made of black basalt, but its eyes were glass, like doll eyes, and its wings were silver. The floor was slippery and damp. They skidded across it to fetch up against a wall, Jace with his back to it, and then he was kissing her, bruising hard and hungry kisses. He tasted salt-sweet, too, and moaned as she licked the taste off his lips. Her hands threaded through his hair. It was dark in the alcove, so dark Jace was just an outline of shadows and gold. She gripped the edges of his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders; it fell to the ground and he kicked it away. Her hands came up under his shirt, clawing at his back, fingers digging into the skin there, softness layered over hard muscle.

He kissed her harder and she clutched his shoulders as he sucked her bottom lip into his mouth and bit down on it, sending a shock of pleasure mixed with pain through her body. She squirmed to get closer to him and felt his breath quicken; she could taste blood in her mouth, salt and hot. It was as if they wanted to cut each other apart, she thought, to climb inside each other and breathe each other’s breath and share each other’s heartbeats, even if it killed them both. There was blood under her nails where she had clawed his back.

Jace pressed her forward, spinning them both around so she was pinned between his body and the wall. As they turned, he caught the edge of the angel statue, toppling it to the ground and shattering apart in a cloud of marble dust. He laughed and dropped to the ground in front of her on his knees among the remnants of broken statuary. She stared down at him in a daze as he ran his hands up her boots, to her bare legs, to the lace that edged the bottom of her slip dress. She sucked in her breath, as his hands slipped like water up and over the silk, to her waist, to grip her hips, leaving streaks of silver on the silk.

“What are you doing?” she whispered. “Jace?”

He looked up at her. The peculiar light in the club turned his eyes an array of fractured colors. His smile was wicked. “You can tell me to stop whenever you want,” he said. “But you won’t.”

“Jace…” His hands bunched in the silk of her dress, dragging the hem up, and he bent to kiss her legs, the bare skin where her boots ended, her knees (who knew knees could be so sensitive?) and farther up, where no one had ever kissed her before. The kisses were light, and even as her body tensed that she wanted to tell him she needed more, but didn’t know what, didn’t know what she needed exactly, but it didn’t matter because he seemed to know it. She let her head fall back against the wall, half-closing her eyes, hearing only her heartbeat like a drum in her ears, louder and louder still.

Carta por Stephen Herondale

Fuente: Blog de Radiant Shadows
A letter from Stephen Herondale to his son, Jace, written before he died. This is available from the special edition of City of Lost Souls from Barnes & Noble.

To my son,

If you are reading this letter, then I am dead.

I expect to die, if not today, then soon. I expect that Valentine will kill me. For all his talk of loving me, for all his desire for a right-hand man, he knows that I have doubts. And he is a man who cannot abide doubt.

I do not know how you will be brought up. I do not know what they will tell you about me. I do not even know who will give you this letter. I entrust it to Amatis, but I cannot see what the future holds. All I know is that this is my chance to give you an accounting of a man you may well hate.

There are three things you must know about me. The first is that I have been a coward. Throughout my life I have made the wrong decisions, because they were easy, because they were self-serving, because I was afraid.

At first I believed in Valentine’s cause. I turned from my family and to the Circle because I fancied myself better than Downworlders and the Clave and my suffocating parents. My anger against them was a tool Valentine bent to his will as he bent and changed so many of us. When he drove Lucian away I did not question it but gladly took his place for my own. When he demanded I leave Amatis, the woman I love, and marry Céline, a girl I did not know, I did as he asked, to my everlasting shame.

I cannot imagine what you might be thinking now, knowing that the girl I speak of was your mother. The second thing you must know is this: Do not blame Céline for any of this, whatever you do. It was not her fault, but mine. Your mother was an innocent from a family that brutalized her: she wanted only kindness, to feel safe and loved. And though my heart had been given already, I loved her, in my fashion, just as in my heart, I was faithful to Amatis. Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae. I wonder if you love Latin as I do, and poetry. I wonder who has taught you.

The third and hardest thing you must know is that I was prepared to hate you. The son of myself and the child-bride I barely knew, you seemed to be the culmination of all the wrong decisions I had made, all the small compromises that led to my dissolution. Yet as you grew inside my mind, as you grew in the world, a blameless innocent, I began to realize that I did not hate you. It is the nature of parents to see their own image in their children, and it was myself I hated, not you.

For there is only one thing I want from you, my son – one thing from you, and of you. I want you to be a better man than I was. Let no one else tell you who you are or should be. Love where you wish to. Believe as you wish to. Take freedom as your right.

I don’t ask that you save the world, my boy, my child, the only child I will ever have. I ask only that you be happy.

Stephen

Clace en el capitulo 7 Clace

Fuente: Cassandra Clare en Tumblr
A deleted/rewritten Clace scene from City of Lost Souls.

Clary didn’t know how long she’d been sitting on Luke’s front steps when the sun began to come up. It rose behind his house, the sky turning a dark pinkish-rose, the river a strip of steely blue. She was shivering — had been shivering so long that her whole body seemed to have contracted into a single hard shudder of cold. She had used two warming runes, but they hadn’t helped; she had a feeling the shivering was psychological as much as anything else. Would he come? If he was still as much Jace inside as she thought he was, he would; when he said he would come back for her, he would have meant as soon as possible. Jace was impatient. And he didn’t play games.

But there was only so long she could wait. Eventually Magnus would wake up, and look for her; her mother would return from the Iron Fortress with Brother Zachariah. She would have to give up on Jace, for at least another day, if not longer.

She shut her eyes against the brightness of the sunrise, resting her elbows on the step above her. For just a moment, she let herself float in the fantasy that everything was as it had been, that nothing had changed, that she would meet Jace this afternoon for practice, or that night for dinner, and he would hold her and make her laugh the way he always did. Warm tendrils of sunlight touched her face. Reluctantly, her eyes fluttered open.

And he was there, walking toward her up the steps, soundless as a cat as always. He wore boots, black pants, a dark blue sweater that made his hair look like sunlight. She sat up straight, her heart pounding. The brilliant sunshine seemed to outline him in light, and his eyes shone like polished shields. She thought of that night in Idris, watching the fireworks, how they had streaked across the sky and she had thought of angels, falling in fire.

He reached her and held his hands out; she took them, and let him pull her to her feet. His pale gold eyes searched her face. “I want you with me,” he said. “But I want it to be your choice. Once we go, there’s no coming back.”

“And if I say no?” she said, in a whisper.

“Then I’ll come back and ask you again later. And again after that. But it’ll always be your choice.”

“I love you,” she said. “There never has been, never will be anyone for me but you.”

He shook his head. “Love is too small a word,” he said. “You’re in my bones and my blood and my heart. I’d have to tear myself open to let you go, and even then …” He pulled her against him, against his heart. “Come with me, Clary. Come with me.”

“I hate the idea of living without you,” she said, and thought, and now the lying begins. “I want to come with you. I don’t care where we go, or what you’re doing, or about anything but being with you.”

He smiled, brilliant as the sun coming out from behind the clouds. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He leaned forward and kissed her. Reaching up to hold him, she tasted something bitter on his lips; then darkness came down like a curtain signaling the end of of the act of a play.

Ciudad de Fuego Celestial

Boda

Fuente: City of Heavenly Fire; shared online by Cassandra Clare on Tumblr
This comes with the paperback UK edition of City of Heavenly Fire. This was drawn by Cassandra Jean.

Portal a Los Ángeles

Fuente: Ciudad del Fuego Celestial; compartida por Cassandra Clare en Tumblr
This is a deleted scene that was drawn into a mini-comic by Cassandra Jean and came with the special edition of City of Heavenly Fire from Target.

DSES director's cutEditar

Fuente: Cassandra Clare en Tumblr

…For a moment Jace just looked at her in astonishment, his lips parted slightly; Clary felt her cheeks flush. He was looking at her like she was the first star that had ever come out in the sky, a miracle painted across the face of the world that he could barely believe in. He swallowed. "Let me —" he said, and broke off. "Can I kiss you? Please?"

Instead of nodding, she leaned down to press her lips to his. If their first kiss in the water had been an explosion, this was a sun going supernova. A hard, hot, driving kiss, a nip at her lower lip and the clash of tongues and teeth, both of them pressing as hard as they could to get closer. They were glued together, skin and fabric, a heady mix of the chill of the water, the heat of their bodies, and the frictionless slide of damp skin.

Jace lifted her, dragging her up his body, and she felt him suck in his breath at the contact. His hands slid under her, grasping her thighs as he walked them both out of the lake. The cold air hit her body and she shuddered; Jace went down on his knees on the powdery sand beach, laying her gently atop the pile of their heaped clothes.

Clary stretched her body out, trying to line herself up with him, and saw his eyes darken as he watched her. Her wet underclothes clung to her body as Jace's clung to his. She let her eyes roam over him, taking in what was familiar and what wasn't: the flare of his shoulders, the curve of his waist, the scars on his skin … her gaze dipped lower …

He laughed, a low, dark rasp. "It's a little unfair," he said, breathlessly, "that you can tell how much I want this just by looking at me and I can’t tell the same thing about you." She shifted under him. Their bodies scraped together and his pulse jumped, his hands digging into the sand on either side of her. "Look at me," she said.

His eyes had been half-lidded; he opened them wide now, and stared at her. There was hunger in his, a hot devouring hunger that would have frightened her if it had been anyone else but Jace. But it was Jace, and she trusted him. "Look at me," she said, and his eyes raked her, adoring, devouring, swallowing, and her body felt as if burning liquid were surging through it everywhere his gaze touched. He dragged his eyes back up to her face: they fixed on her mouth. "I do want you," she said. "I always have." She kissed him, slow and hard. "I want to, if you do."

"If I want to?" There was a wild edge to his soft laugh. She could hear the soft rasp of sand between his fingers, saw the hesitation in his eyes, the concern for her, and she lifted herself up and wrapped her legs around his hips. He pressed his hot face into her throat, his breath ragged. "If you do that — I won’t be able to stop —"

"Don’t stop, I don’t want you to stop," she said, and tightened her grip on him, and with a growl he took her mouth again, hot and demanding, sucking her lower lip into his mouth, his tongue sliding against hers. She tasted him in her mouth, the salt of sweat and cave water. She had never been kissed like this before, even by Jace. His tongue explored her mouth before he moved down her throat: she felt wet heat at the hollow of her collarbone and almost screamed. She grabbed at him instead, running her hands all over his body, wildly free in the knowledge that she could touch him, as much as she liked, however she liked. She felt as if she were drawing him, her hands mapping his shape, the slope of his back, flat stomach, the indentations above his hips, the muscles in his arms. As if, like a painting, he were coming to life under her hands.

When his hands slid underneath her bra to cup her breasts, she gasped at the sensation, then nodded at him when he froze, his eyes questioning. Go on. He unsnapped the front and the bra fell open and for a moment he just froze, staring at her as if she shone like witchlight. Then he bent his head again and the feel of his mouth on her breasts did make her scream. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but he reached up and pried it away. "I want to hear you," he said, and it wasn't a demand, but a low, prayerful yearning. She nodded and buried her hands in his hair.

He kissed her shoulders and her breasts, her stomach, her hips; he kissed her everywhere while she gasped and moved against him in ways that made him moan and beg her to stop or it would all be over too soon. She laughed through her gasps, told him to go on, tried to hold herself still but it was impossible.

He stopped before removing each piece of clothing from either of them, asking her with eyes and words if he should keep going, and each time she nodded and said yes, go on, yes. And when finally there was nothing between them but skin, she stilled her hands, thinking that there was no way to ever be closer to another person than this, that to take another step would be like cracking open her chest and exposing her heart.

She felt Jace's muscles flex as he reached past her for something, and heard the crackle of foil. "Good thing I brought my wallet," he said, his voice unsteady.

Suddenly everything seemed very real; she felt a sudden flash of fear. "Wait," she whispered. He stilled. His free hand was cradling her head, his elbows dug deep into the sand on either side of her, keeping his weight off her body. All of him was tense and shaking, and the pupils of his eyes were wide, the iris just a rim of gold. "Is something wrong?"

Hearing Jace sound uncertain — she thought maybe her heart was cracking, shattering into pieces. "No," she whispered. "Just — kiss me," she pleaded, and he did, not moving to do anything else, just kissing her: hot languorous slow kisses that sped up as his heartbeat did, as the movement of their bodies quickened against each other. Each kiss was different, each rising higher and higher like a spark as a fire grew: quick soft kisses that told her he loved her, long slow worshipful kisses that said that he trusted her, playful light kisses that said that he still had hope, adoring kisses that said he had faith in her as he did in no one else. Clary abandoned herself to the kisses, the language of them, the wordless speech that passed between them. His hands were shaking, but they were quick and skilled on her body, light touches making her want more and more until she pushed and pulled at him, urging him against her with the mute appeal of fingers and lips and hands.

And even at the final moment, when she did flinch, she pressed him to go on, wrapping herself around him, not letting him go. "Jace," she whispered, and he bent his head to kiss her as he carefully, carefully started to move. She could see in the tension of his body, his grip on her shoulder, that he didn't want it to be over too quickly: he closed his eyes, his lips moving, silently shaping her name.

In the past days, weeks, her body had been torn by weapons, by shards of glass, flung through Portals, broken and bruised. Now she let all that fall away, let her body remind itself that it was also a thing that could give pleasure to her, and to the person she loved most in the world. "I love you," she said, her hands in his hair. "I love you."

She saw his eyes widen and something behind his expression crack. The last wall around his heart, the last piece of self-protection he’d held in place. It crumbled away into blazing light as he came undone against her, like sunlight bursting into a room that had been walled up for a long, long time. He buried his face in her neck, saying her name over and over before he collapsed against her shoulder. And when finally Clary closed her eyes she thought she saw the cavern blaze up in gold and white, wrapping them both in heavenly fire, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

Capitulo 23

Fuente: Cassandra Clare en Tumblr
I haven't got much in the way of substantive cut scenes from City of Heavenly Fire. Most things were rewritten rather than removed. But here's a bit of Sebastian's death scene that didn't make it in.

"We forgive you," Jocelyn said. She was still crying, in the same soundless terrible way, just as she had every year on Jonathan's birthday when she had held the box with his initials on it and wept.

"No," he said. "There's no forgiveness for what I did. I know where I will burn when I die."

"Heaven does not forgive, but mothers do," said Jocelyn. "When you were a baby inside me, I dreamed of everything for you. That you would be handsome and strong and good. That I would sing to you and love you and take care of you." She gripped his hand tightly. "Maybe not in this world, but in another, I believe that was the truth."

"Don't forgive me," he whispered. "Hate me. Rejoice that I'm dead. After all I have done, the last thing I would wish to bring to you was more grief."

"Jonathan," Clary whispered.

His eyes moved toward her. "And sisters," he said. "Do sisters forgive?"

¡Interferencia de bloqueo de anuncios detectada!


Wikia es un sitio libre de uso que hace dinero de la publicidad. Contamos con una experiencia modificada para los visitantes que utilizan el bloqueo de anuncios

Wikia no es accesible si se han hecho aún más modificaciones. Si se quita el bloqueador de anuncios personalizado, la página cargará como se esperaba.

También en FANDOM

Wiki al azar