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Page 1: THE MORTAL INSTRUMENTS - jangal.com Clare City of Ashes - 512-.pdf · Also by Cassandra Clare THE MORTAL INSTRUMENTS City of Bones City of Ashes City of Glass City of Fallen Angels

THE MORTAL INSTRUMENTS

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Also by Cassandra Clare

THE MORTAL INSTRUMENTS

City of Bones

City of Ashes

City of Glass

City of Fallen Angels

City of Lost Souls

City of Heavenly Fire

THE INFERNAL DEVICES

Clockwork Angel

Clockwork Prince

Clockwork Princess

The Shadowhunter's Codex

With Joshua Lewis

The Bane Chronicles

With Sarah Rees Brennan

and Maureen johnson

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THE MORTAL INSTRUMENTS

• ~1

s 0 es

CASSANDRA CLARE

Margaret K. McElderry Books N EW Y O RK L O N DO N TORO N TO SYD N EY N EW DEL HI

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MARGARET K. McELDERRY BOOKS

An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing Division

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events,

real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places,

and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to

actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright© 2008 by Cassandra Claire, LLC

Cover photo-illustration copyright© 2015 by Cliff Nielsen

Spine landscape illustration copyright© 2015 by Nicolas Delort

Spine figure illustration copyright© 2015 by Pat Kinsella

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

MARGARET K. McELDERRY BooKs is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact

Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected].

The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event.

For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau

at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

Also available in a Margaret K. McElderry Books hardcover edition

Cover design by Russell Gordon

Interior design by Mike Rosamilia

Map illustration by Drew Willis

The text for this book is set in Dolly.

Manufactured in the United States of America

This Margaret K. McElderry Books paperback edition September 2015

24681097531

The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Clare, Cassandra.

City of ashes/ Cassandra Clare.- 1st ed.

p. em.- (The mortal instruments; bk. two)

Summary: Sixteen-year-old Clary continues trying to make sense of the swiftly

changing events and relationships in her life as she becomes further involved with the

Shadowhunters and their pursuit of demons and discovers some terrifYing truths

about her parents, her brother Jace, and her boyfriend Simon.

ISBN 978-1-4169·1429-7 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-4391-6384-9 (eBook)

(1. Supernatural-Fiction. 2. Demonology-Fiction.

3· Magic-Fiction. 4· New York (N.Y.)-Fiction.) I. Title.

PZ7.C5265Cga 2008

(Fic)- dc22

2007014714

ISBN 978-1-4814-5597-8 (repackaged pbk)

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For my father, who js not evn.

Well, maybe a Httle bjt.

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Foreword

All the stories are true.

That's whatJace Wayland tells Clary Fray at the end of the first

book of the Shadowhunters chronicles, City of Bones.

Jace means, of course, more than one thing by this. He means

that everything she'd always been told didn't exist-vampires,

werewolves, faeries, ghosts, and monsters of all shape, size, and

intention-did exist after all and that, in fact, the world is full

of them. He means that the stories we believe in our hearts­

stories in which we are the heroes, stories in which there are

good people who rise up to defeat the evil, stories in which there

is always hope-are also true. Clary ends City of Bones feeling

a true sense of wonder as she flies over New York City, seeing

revealed below all the magic and enchantment that had been

previously hidden from her.

All the stories are true.

When I set out to write City of Bones, I was in love with stories

about vampires and faeries and warlocks, but I was also in love

with the mythological tales of angels and demons. I was fascinated

by Paradise Lost and Dante's Inferno and Mike Carey's Lucifer. I was

fascinated with the way that human beings had grappled with

the ideas of absolute evil and absolute good tempered with love

and free will. I wanted to create a world that was rich in folk­

lore, the tales people tell each other about things that go bump

and bite in the night, but which also incorporated the existence

of figures of myth-angels so powerful that one look at them

would blind you. Demons so evil that their blood could change

the nature of your soul from good to evil. I wanted to make

real that which is so shrouded in myth and history that it has

become symbolic: when Valentine frees J ace from his prison in

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the Silent City, he carries with him a sword and explains, "This

is the blade with which the Angel drove Adam and Eve out of the

garden. And he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubim, and

a flaming sword which turned every way." Later, Simon comes into

possession of the sword of the Archangel Michael. The idea that

these objects of immense power and history were real things our

heroes could touch and use delighted me.

The existence of angels and demons in the world of

Shadowhunters is the ur-myth from which every other aspect of

the stories is derived. Shadowhunters were created from the blood

of angels. Faeries are part angel, part demon. Warlocks are the

offspring of humans and demons. Werewolves and vampires are

humans who bear demon diseases. I wanted to create a universe

where myth and folklore dovetailed, where every story of magic

could be explained.

All the stories are true.

The idea of Shadowhunters came to me in part from the sto­

ries ofNephilim in the Bible. The offspring of humans and angels,

they were enormous monsters who laid waste to the earth. As

writers often do, I adapted what seemed compelling to me from

the myth-angels having children, when that is such a human

thing to do! (Of course the Shadowhunters are only created from

angel blood, but Raziel still seems to have a fatherly interest in

them.) The idea of being part angel, partly a symbol of goodness,

and yet being beset by all the weaknesses inherent to humanity:

frailty, cruelty, greed, selfishness, despair. It seemed a way to take

an ancient story and ring a twist on it that would allow any reader

to imagine what it might mean to be part divine, to have immense

power-and as Spider-Man likes to remind us, the immense

responsibility that goes with it.

All the stories are true.

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Of course, what Jace means ultimately is that stories are how

we make sense of the world. The Mortal Instruments is the story of

Clary above everything else: the story of a girl who starts out ordi­

nary and becomes a hero. A girl who first is blind to the magic in

the world all around her, but comes not just to see it, but to be able

to master and control it. Clary is an artist and a shaper of runes,

the magical language of angels, and in using that language she

shapes her own story and her own destiny. Clary and her friends

are heroes who make their stories true-as, in the end, do we all.

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This Bitter Language

I know your streets, sweet city,

I know the demons and an9els that flock

and roost in your bou9hs like birds.

I know you, river, as if you flowed throu9h my heart.

I am your warrior dau9hter.

There are letters made of your body

as a fountain is made of water.

There are lan9ua9es

of which you are the blueprint

and as we speak them

the city rises.

-ElkaCloke Jangal

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Prologue SMOKE AND DIAMONDS

The fonnidable glass-and-steel structure rose from its position on Front Street like a glittering needle threading the

sky. There were fifty-seven floors to the Metropole, Manhattan's

most expensive new downtown condominium tower. The

topmost floor, the fifty-seventh, contained the most luxuri­

ous apartment of all: the Metropole penthouse, a masterpiece

of sleek black-and-white design. Too new to have gathered

dust yet, its bare marble floors reflected back the stars visible

through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. The window

glass was perfectly translucent, providing such a complete

illusion that there was nothing between the viewer and the view that it had been known to induce vertigo even in those

unafraid of heights.

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City of Ashes

Far below ran the silver ribbon of the East River, braceleted by

shining bridges, flecked by boats as small as flyspecks, splitting

the shining banks of light that were Manhattan and Brooklyn

on either side. On a clear night the illuminated Statue of Liberty

was just visible to the south-but there was fog tonight, and

Liberty Island was hidden behind a white bank of mist.

However spectacular the view, the man standing in front of

the window didn't look particularly impressed by it. There was

a frown on his narrow, ascetic face as he turned away from the glass and strode across the floor, the heels of his boots echoing

against the marble floor. "Aren't you ready yet?" he demanded,

raking a hand through his salt-white hair. "We've been here

nearly an hour."

The boy kneeling on the floor looked up at him, nervous and petulant. "It's the marble. It's more solid than I thought.

It's making it hard to draw the pentagram."

"So skip the pentagram." Up close it was easier to see that

despite his white hair, the man wasn't old. His hard face was

severe but unlined, his eyes clear and steady.

The boy swallowed hard and the membranous black wings

protruding from his narrow shoulder blades (he had cut slits

in the back ofhis denim jacket to accommodate them) flapped

nervously. "The pentagram is a necessary part of any demon­raising ritual. You know that, sir. Without it . .. "

"We're not protected. I know that, young Elias. But get on

with it. I've known warlocks who could raise a demon, chat him

up, and dispatch him back to hell in the time it's taken you to

draw half a five-pointed star."

The boy said nothing, only attacked the marble again, this

time with renewed urgency. Sweat dripped from his forehead

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PROlOGUE

and he pushed his hair back with a hand whose fingers were connected with delicate weblike membranes. "Done," he said

at last, sitting back on his heels with a gasp. "It's done."

"Good." The man sounded pleased. "Let's get started." "My money-"

"I told you. You'll get your money after I talk to Agramon, not before."

Elias got to his feet and shrugged his jacket off. Despite

the holes he'd cut in it, it still compressed his wings uncom­fortably; freed, they stretched and expanded themselves, wafting a breeze through the unventilated room. His wings

were the color of an oil slick: black threaded with a rainbow

of dizzying colors. The man looked away from him, as if the

wings displeased him, but Elias didn't seem to notice. He began circling the pentagram he'd drawn, circling it counter­

clockwise and chanting in a demon language that sounded like the crackle of flames.

With a sound like air being sucked from a tire, the outline of the pentagram suddenly burst into flames. The dozen huge windows cast back a dozen burning reflected five-pointed stars.

Something was moving inside the pentagram, something

formless and black. Elias was chanting more quickly now, rais­

ing his webbed hands, tracing delicate outlines on the air with his fingers. Where they passed, blue fire crackled. The man

couldn't speak Chthonian, the warlock language, with any flu­ency, but he recognized enough of the words to understand Elias's repeated chant: Agramon, I summon thee. Out of the spaces

between the worlds, I summon thee. The man slid a hand into his pocket. Something hard and

cold and metallic met the touch of his fingers. He smiled.

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City of Ashes

Elias had stopped walking. He was standing in front of

the pentagram now, his voice rising and falling in a steady

chant, blue fire crackling around him like lightning. Suddenly

a plume of black smoke rose inside the pentagram; it spiraled

upward, spreading and solidifying. Two eyes hung in the shadow like jewels caught in a spider's web.

"Who has called me here across the worlds?" Agramon

demanded in a voice like shattering glass. "Who summons me?"

Elias had stopped chanting. He was standing still in front of the pentagram-still except for his wings, which beat the air

slowly. The air stank of corrosion and burning.

"Agramon," the warlock said. "I am the warlock Elias. I am

the one who has summoned you."

For a moment there was silence. Then the demon laughed, if smoke can be said to laugh. The laugh itself was caustic as

acid. "Foolish warlock," Agramon wheezed. "Foolish boy."

"You are the foolish one, if you think you can threaten me,"

Elias said, but his voice trembled like his wings. "You will be a

prisoner of that pentagram, Agramon, until I release you."

"Will I?" The smoke surged forward, forming and re-forming

itself. A tendril took the shape of a human hand and stroked the

edge of the burning pentagram that contained it. Then, with a

surge, the smoke seethed past the edge of the star, poured over

the border like a wave breaching a levee. The flames guttered and

died as Elias, screaming, stumbled backward. He was chanting

now, in rapid Chthonian, spells of containment and banishment.

Nothing happened; the black smoke-mass came on inexorably,

and now it was starting to have something of a shape­a malformed, enormous, hideous shape, its glowing eyes

altering, rounding to the size of saucers, spilling a dreadful light.

-=--E> 4

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PROLOGUE

The man watched with impassive interest as Elias screamed

again and turned to run. He never reached the door. Agramon

surged forward, his dark mass crashing down over the warlock

like a surge of boiling black tar. Elias struggled feebly for a

moment under the onslaught-and then was still. The black shape withdrew, leaving the warlock lying con­

torted on the marble floor.

"I do hope," said the man, who had taken the cold metal

object out of his pocket and was toying with it idly, "that you haven't done anything to him that will render him useless to

me. I need his blood, you see."

Agramon turned, a black pillar with deadly diamond eyes.

They took in the man in the expensive suit, his narrow, uncon­

cerned face, the black Marks covering his skin, and the glowing

object in his hand. "You paid the warlock child to summon me?

And you did not tell him what I could do?"

"You guess correctly," said the man.

Agramon spoke with grudging admiration. "That was clever."

The man took a step toward the demon. "I am very clever.

And I'm also your master now. I hold the Mortal Cup. You must

obey me, or face the consequences."

The demon was silent a moment. Then it slid to the ground

in a mockery of obeisance-the closest a creature with no real

body could come to kneeling. "I am at your service, my Lord ... ?"

The sentence ended politely, on a question.

The man smiled. "You may call me Valentine."

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Part One

A Season in Hell

I believe I am in Hell, therefore I am. -Arthur Rimbaud

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