Cassandra Clare: The Mortal Instruments Series by Cassandra Clare

without looking at her. “If you didn’t, that Mark I made on your arm . . .”
    “That’s enough, Jace,” said Hodge, the displeasure clear in his voice. “There’s no need to frighten her further.”
    “But I was right, wasn’t I? It explains what happened to her mother, too. If she was a Shadowhunter in exile, she might well have Downworld enemies.”
    “My mother wasn’t a Shadowhunter!”
    “Your father, then,” Jace said. “What about him?”
    Clary returned his gaze with a flat stare. “He died. Before I was born.”
    Jace flinched, almost imperceptibly. It was Alec who spoke. “It’s possible,” he said uncertainly. “If her father were a Shadowhunter, and her mother a mundane—well, we all know it’s against the Law to marry a mundie. Maybe they were in hiding.”
    “My mother would have told me,” Clary said, although she thought of the lack of more than one photo of her father, the way her mother never spoke of him, and knew that it wasn’t true.
    “Not necessarily,” said Jace. “We all have secrets.”
    “Luke,” Clary said. “Our friend. He would know.” With the thought of Luke came a flash of guilt and horror. “It’s been three days—he must be frantic. Can I call him? Is there a phone?” She turned to Jace. “Please.”
    Jace hesitated, looking at Hodge, who nodded and moved aside from the desk. Behind him was a globe, made of beatenbrass, that didn’t look quite like other globes she had seen; there was something subtly strange about the shape of the countries and continents. Next to the globe was an old-fashioned black telephone with a silver rotary dial. Clary lifted it to her ear, the familiar dial tone washing over her like soothing water.
    Luke picked up on the third ring. “Hello?”
    “Luke!” She sagged against the desk. “It’s me. It’s Clary.”
    “Clary.” She could hear the relief in his voice, along with something else she couldn’t quite identify. “You’re all right?”
    “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you before. Luke, my mom—”
    “I know. The police were here.”
    “Then you haven’t heard from her.” Any vestigial hope that her mother had fled the house and hidden somewhere disappeared. There was no way she wouldn’t have contacted Luke. “What did the police say?”
    “Just that she was missing.” Clary thought of the policewoman with her skeletal hand, and shivered. “Where are you?”
    “I’m in the city,” Clary said. “I don’t know where exactly. With some friends. My wallet’s gone, though. If you’ve got some cash, I could take a cab to your place—”
    “No,” he said shortly.
    The phone slipped in her sweaty hand. She caught it. “What?”
    “No,” he said. “It’s too dangerous. You can’t come here.”
    “We could call—”
    “Look.” His voice was hard. “Whatever your mother’s gotten herself mixed up in, it’s nothing to do with me. You’re better off where you are.”
    “But I don’t want to stay here.” She heard the whine in her voice, like a child’s. “I don’t know these people. You—”
    “I’m not your father, Clary. I’ve told you that before.”
    Tears burned the backs of her eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just—”
    “Don’t call me for favors again,” he said. “I’ve got my own problems, I don’t need to be bothered with yours,” he added, and hung up the phone.

    She stood and stared at the receiver, the dial tone buzzing in her ear like a big ugly wasp. She dialed Luke’s number again, waited. This time it went to voice mail. She banged the phone down, her hands trembling.
    Jace was leaning against the armrest of Alec’s chair, watching her. “I take it he wasn’t happy to hear from you?”
    Clary’s heart felt as if it had shrunk down to the size of a walnut: a tiny, hard stone in her chest. I will not cry, she thought, Not in front of these people.
    “I think I’d like to have a talk with Clary,” said Hodge. “Alone,”