City of Lost Souls by Cassandra Clare Page A

chuckle. “I knew you were there too. I could feel it.”
    She felt her body tighten. “You let me think you were gone,” she said. “Before that. I thought you—I really thought there was a chance you were—” She broke off; she couldn’t say it. Dead. “It’s unforgivable. If I’d done that to you—”
    “Clary.” He leaned down over her again; his hands were warm on her wrists, his breath soft in her ear. She could feel everywhere that their bare skin touched. It was horribly distracting. “I had to do it. It was too dangerous. If I’d told you, you would have had to choose between telling the Council I was still alive—and letting them hunt me—and keeping a secret that would make you an accomplice in their eyes. Then, whenyou saw me in the library, I had to wait. I needed to know if you still loved me, if you would go to the Council or not about what you’d seen. You didn’t. I had to know you cared more about me than the Law. You do, don’t you?”
    “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know. Who are you?”
    “I’m still Jace,” he said. “I still love you.”
    Hot tears welled up in her eyes. She blinked, and they spilled down her face. Gently he ducked his head and kissed her cheeks, and then her mouth. She tasted her own tears, salty on his lips, and he opened her mouth with his, carefully, gently. The familiar taste and feel of him washed over her, and she leaned into him for a split second, her doubts subsumed in her body’s blind, unreasoning recognition of the need to keep him close, to keep him there —just as the door of her bedroom opened.
    Jace let go of her. Clary instantly jerked away from him, scrambling to pull down her tank top. Jace stretched himself into a sitting position with unhurried, lazy grace, and grinned up at the person standing in the doorway. “Well, well,” Jace said. “You may have the worst timing since Napoléon decided the dead of winter was the right moment to invade Russia.”
    It was Sebastian.
    Close up, Clary could more clearly see the differences in him since she had known him in Idris. His hair was paper white, his eyes black tunnels fringed by lashes as long as spider’s legs. He wore a white shirt, the sleeves pulled up, and she could see a red scar ringing his right wrist, like a ridged bracelet. There was a scar across the palm of his hand, too, looking new and harsh.
    “That’s my sister you’re defiling there, you know,” he said,moving his black gaze to Jace. There was amusement in his expression.
    “Sorry.” Jace didn’t sound sorry. He was leaning back against the blankets, catlike. “We got carried away.”
    Clary sucked in a breath. It sounded harsh in her own ears. “Get out ,” she said, to Sebastian.
    He leaned against the door frame, elbow and hip, and she was struck by the similarity in movement between him and Jace. They didn’t look alike, but they moved alike. As if—
    As if they’d been trained to move by the same person.
    “Now,” he said, “is that any way to talk to your big brother?”
    “Magnus should have left you a coatrack,” Clary spat.
    “Oh, you remember that, do you? I thought we had a pretty good time that day.” He smirked a little, and Clary, with a sick drop in her stomach, remembered how he had taken her to the burned remains of her mother’s house, how he had kissed her among the rubble, knowing all along who they really were to each other and delighting in the fact that she didn’t.
    She glanced sideways at Jace. He knew perfectly well that Sebastian had kissed her. Sebastian had taunted him with it, and Jace had nearly killed him. But he didn’t look angry now; he looked amused, and mildly annoyed to have been interrupted.
    “We should do it again,” Sebastian said, examining his nails. “Have some family time.”
    “I don’t care what you think. You’re not my brother,” Clary said. “You’re a murderer.”
    “I really don’t see how those things cancel each other