Read Online The Mortal Instruments - Complete Collection by Cassandra Clare - Free Book Online
Authors: Cassandra Clare
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Brothers?”
“I hope not. They give me the creeps. Anyone who mutilates themselves like that—”
“We mutilate ourselves.”
“I know, Alec, but when we do it, it isn’t permanent. And it doesn’t always hurt ….”
“If you’re old enough. Speaking of which, where is Jace? He saved her, didn’t he? I would have thought he’d take some interest in her recovery.”
“Hodge said he hasn’t been to see her since he brought her here. I guess he doesn’t care.”
“Sometimes I wonder if he—Look! She moved!”
“I guess she’s alive after all.” A sigh. “I’ll tell Hodge.”
Clary’s eyelids felt as if they had been sewed shut. She imagined she could feel tearing skin as she peeled them slowly open and blinked for the first time in three days.
She saw clear blue sky above her, white puffy clouds and chubby angels with gilded ribbons trailing from their wrists.
Am I dead?
she wondered.
Could heaven actually look like this?
She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again: This time she realized that what she was staring at was an arched wooden ceiling, painted with a rococo motif of clouds and cherubs.
Painfully she hauled herself into a sitting position. Every part of her ached, especially the back of her neck. She glanced around. She was tucked into a linen-sheeted bed, one of a long row of similar beds with metal headboards. Her bed had a small nightstand beside it with a white pitcher and cup on it. Lace curtains were pulled across the windows, blocking the light, although she could hear the faint, ever-present New York sounds of traffic coming from outside.
“So, you’re finally awake,” said a dry voice. “Hodge will be pleased.
We
all thought you’d probably die in your sleep.”
Clary turned. Isabelle was perched on the next bed, her long jet-black hair wound into two thick braids that fell past her waist. Her white dress had been replaced by jeans and a tight blue tank top, though the red pendant still winked at her throat. Her dark spiraling tattoos were gone; her skin was as unblemished as the surface of a bowl of cream.
“Sorry to disappoint you.” Clary’s voice rasped like sandpaper. “Is this the Institute?”
Isabelle rolled her eyes. “Is there anything Jace
didn’t
tell you?”
Clary coughed. “This is the Institute, right?”
“Yes. You’re in the infirmary, not that you haven’t figured that out already.”
A sudden, stabbing pain made Clary clutch at her stomach. She gasped.
Isabelle looked at her in alarm. “Are you okay?”
The pain was fading, but Clary was aware of an acid feeling in the back of her throat and a strange light-headedness. “My stomach.”
“Oh, right. I almost forgot. Hodge said to give you this when you woke up.” Isabelle grabbed for the ceramic pitcher and poured some of the contents into the matching cup, which she handed to Clary. It was full of a cloudy liquid that steamed slightly. It smelled like herbs and something else, something rich and dark. “You haven’t eaten anything in three days,” Isabelle pointed out. “That’s probably why you feel sick.”
Clary gingerly took a sip. It was delicious, rich and satisfying with a buttery aftertaste. “What is this?”
Isabelle shrugged. “One of Hodge’s tisanes. They always work.” She slid off the bed, landing on the floor with a catlike arch of her back. “I’m Isabelle Lightwood, by the way. I live here.”
“I know your name. I’m Clary. Clary Fray. Did Jace bring me here?”
Isabelle nodded. “Hodge was furious. You got ichor and blood all over the carpet in the entryway. If he’d done it while my parents were here, he’d have gotten grounded for sure.” She looked at Clary more narrowly. “Jace said you killed that Ravener demon all by yourself.”
A quick image of the scorpion thing with its crabbed, evil face flashed through Clary’s mind; she shuddered and clutched the cup more tightly. “I guess I did.”
“But you’re a
“I hope not. They give me the creeps. Anyone who mutilates themselves like that—”
“We mutilate ourselves.”
“I know, Alec, but when we do it, it isn’t permanent. And it doesn’t always hurt ….”
“If you’re old enough. Speaking of which, where is Jace? He saved her, didn’t he? I would have thought he’d take some interest in her recovery.”
“Hodge said he hasn’t been to see her since he brought her here. I guess he doesn’t care.”
“Sometimes I wonder if he—Look! She moved!”
“I guess she’s alive after all.” A sigh. “I’ll tell Hodge.”
Clary’s eyelids felt as if they had been sewed shut. She imagined she could feel tearing skin as she peeled them slowly open and blinked for the first time in three days.
She saw clear blue sky above her, white puffy clouds and chubby angels with gilded ribbons trailing from their wrists.
Am I dead?
she wondered.
Could heaven actually look like this?
She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again: This time she realized that what she was staring at was an arched wooden ceiling, painted with a rococo motif of clouds and cherubs.
Painfully she hauled herself into a sitting position. Every part of her ached, especially the back of her neck. She glanced around. She was tucked into a linen-sheeted bed, one of a long row of similar beds with metal headboards. Her bed had a small nightstand beside it with a white pitcher and cup on it. Lace curtains were pulled across the windows, blocking the light, although she could hear the faint, ever-present New York sounds of traffic coming from outside.
“So, you’re finally awake,” said a dry voice. “Hodge will be pleased.
We
all thought you’d probably die in your sleep.”
Clary turned. Isabelle was perched on the next bed, her long jet-black hair wound into two thick braids that fell past her waist. Her white dress had been replaced by jeans and a tight blue tank top, though the red pendant still winked at her throat. Her dark spiraling tattoos were gone; her skin was as unblemished as the surface of a bowl of cream.
“Sorry to disappoint you.” Clary’s voice rasped like sandpaper. “Is this the Institute?”
Isabelle rolled her eyes. “Is there anything Jace
didn’t
tell you?”
Clary coughed. “This is the Institute, right?”
“Yes. You’re in the infirmary, not that you haven’t figured that out already.”
A sudden, stabbing pain made Clary clutch at her stomach. She gasped.
Isabelle looked at her in alarm. “Are you okay?”
The pain was fading, but Clary was aware of an acid feeling in the back of her throat and a strange light-headedness. “My stomach.”
“Oh, right. I almost forgot. Hodge said to give you this when you woke up.” Isabelle grabbed for the ceramic pitcher and poured some of the contents into the matching cup, which she handed to Clary. It was full of a cloudy liquid that steamed slightly. It smelled like herbs and something else, something rich and dark. “You haven’t eaten anything in three days,” Isabelle pointed out. “That’s probably why you feel sick.”
Clary gingerly took a sip. It was delicious, rich and satisfying with a buttery aftertaste. “What is this?”
Isabelle shrugged. “One of Hodge’s tisanes. They always work.” She slid off the bed, landing on the floor with a catlike arch of her back. “I’m Isabelle Lightwood, by the way. I live here.”
“I know your name. I’m Clary. Clary Fray. Did Jace bring me here?”
Isabelle nodded. “Hodge was furious. You got ichor and blood all over the carpet in the entryway. If he’d done it while my parents were here, he’d have gotten grounded for sure.” She looked at Clary more narrowly. “Jace said you killed that Ravener demon all by yourself.”
A quick image of the scorpion thing with its crabbed, evil face flashed through Clary’s mind; she shuddered and clutched the cup more tightly. “I guess I did.”
“But you’re a
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