City of Bones

Margaret K. McElderry BooksAn imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales areused fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’simagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirelycoincidental.Copyright 2007 by Cassandra Clare, LLCAll rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication DataClare, Cassandra.City of bones / Cassandra Clare.—1st ed.p. cm.—(The mortal instruments; bk. one)Summary: Suddenly able to see demons and the Shadowhunters who are dedicated to returning themto their own dimension, fifteen-year-old Clary Fray is drawn into this bizarre world when her motherdisappears and Clary herself is almost killed by a monster.ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-9575-3ISBN-10: 1-4169-9575-7[1. Demonology—Fiction. 2. Supernatural—Fiction. 3. Horror stories.]I. Title. II. Series: Clare, Cassandra. Mortal instruments; bk. 1.PZ7.C5265Cit 2007[Fic]—dc22Visit us on the World Wide Web:

For my grandfather

AcknowledgmentsI would like to thank my writing group, the Massachusetts All-Stars: Ellen Kushner, Delia Sherman,Kelly Link, Gavin Grant, Holly Black, and Sarah Smith. Also, Tom Holt and Peg Kerr forencouraging me before there ever was a book, and Justine Larbalestier and Eve Sinaiko for giving metheir thoughts on it once it was. My mother and father for their dedication, affection, and unswervingbelief that I would eventually produce something publishable. Jim Hill and Kate Connor for theirencouragement and support. Eric for vampire motorbikes that run on demon energies and Elka forlooking better in black than the widows of her enemies. Theo and Val for creating beautiful images togo with my prose. My glamorous agent, Barry Goldblatt, and my talented editor, Karen Wojtyla.Holly for living through this book with me, and Josh for making it all worthwhile.

I have not slept.Between the acting of a dreadful thingAnd the first motion, all the interim isLike a phantasm, or a hideous dream:The Genius and the mortal instrumentsAre then in council; and the state of man,Like to a little kingdom, suffers thenThe nature of an insurrection.—William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar




Part One

Dark DescentI sung of Chaos and Eternal Night,Taught by the heav’nly Muse to venture downThe dark descent, and up to reascend —John Milton, Paradise Lost

P ANDEMONIUM“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the bouncer said, folding hisarms across his massive chest. He stared down at the boy in the red zip-up jacket and shook hisshaved head. “You can’t bring that thing in here.”The fifty or so teenagers in line outside the Pandemonium Club leaned forward to eavesdrop. Itwas a long wait to get into the all-ages club, especially on a Sunday, and not much generallyhappened in line. The bouncers were fierce and would come down instantly on anyone who lookedlike they were going to start trouble. Fifteen-year-old Clary Fray, standing in line with her best friend,Simon, leaned forward along with everyone else, hoping for some excitement.“Aw, come on.” The kid hoisted the thing up over his head. It looked like a wooden beam,pointed at one end. “It’s part of my costume.”The bouncer raised an eyebrow. “Which is what?”The boy grinned. He was normal-enough-looking, Clary thought, for Pandemonium. He hadelectric blue dyed hair that stuck up around his head like the tendrils of a startled octopus, but noelaborate facial tattoos or big metal bars through his ears or lips. “I’m a vampire hunter.” He pusheddown on the wooden thing. It bent as easily as a blade of grass bending sideways. “It’s fake. Foamrubber. See?”The boy’s wide eyes were way too bright a green, Clary noticed: the color of antifreeze, springgrass. Colored contact lenses, probably. The bouncer shrugged, abruptly bored. “Whatever. Go onin.”The boy slid past him, quick as an eel. Clary liked the lilt to his shoulders, the way he tossed hishair as he went. There was a word for him that her mother would have used—insouciant.“You thought he was cute,” said Simon, sounding resigned. “Didn’t you?”Clary dug her elbow into his ribs, but didn’t answer.Inside, the club was full of dry-ice smoke. Colored lights played over the dance floor, turning it into amulticolored fairyland of blues and acid greens, hot pinks and golds.The boy in the red jacket stroked the long razor-sharp blade in his hands, an idle smile playingover his lips. It had been so easy—a little bit of a glamour on the blade, to make it look harmless.Another glamour on his eyes, and the moment the bouncer had looked straight at him, he was in. Of

course, he could probably have gotten by without all that trouble, but it was part of the fun—foolingthe mundies, doing it all out in the open right in front of them, getting off on the blank looks on theirsheeplike faces.Not that the humans didn’t have their uses. The boy’s green eyes scanned the dance floor, whereslender limbs clad in scraps of silk and black leather appeared and disappeared inside the revolvingcolumns of smoke as the mundies danced. Girls tossed their long hair, boys swung their leather-cladhips, and bare skin glittered with sweat. Vitality just poured off them, waves of energy that filled himwith a drunken dizziness. His lip curled. They didn’t know how lucky they were. They didn’t knowwhat it was like to eke out life in a dead world, where the sun hung limp in the sky like a burnedcinder. Their lives burned as brightly as candle flames—and were as easy to snuff out.His hand tightened on the blade he carried, and he had begun to step out onto the dance floorwhen a girl broke away from the mass of dancers and began walking toward him. He stared at her.She was beautiful, for a human—long hair nearly the precise color of black ink, charcoaled eyes.Floor-length white gown, the kind women used to wear when this world was younger. Lace sleevesbelled out around her slim arms. Around her neck was a thick silver chain, on which hung a dark redpendant the size of a baby’s fist. He only had to narrow his eyes to know that it was real—real andprecious. His mouth started to water as she neared him. Vital energy pulsed from her like blood froman open wound. She smiled, passing him, beckoning with her eyes. He turned to follow her, tasting thephantom sizzle of her death on his lips.It was always easy. He could already feel the power of her evaporating life coursing through hisveins like fire. Humans were so stupid. They had something so precious, and they barely safeguardedit at all. They threw away their lives for money, for packets of powder, for a stranger’s charmingsmile. The girl was a pale ghost retreating through the colored smoke. She reached the wall andturned, bunching her skirt up in her hands, lifting it as she grinned at him. Under the skirt, she waswearing thigh-high boots.He sauntered up to her, his skin prickling with her nearness. Up close she wasn’t so perfect: Hecould see the mascara smudged under her eyes, the sweat sticking her hair to her neck. He could smellher mortality, the sweet rot of corruption. Got you, he thought.A cool smile curled her lips. She moved to the side, and he could see that she was leaningagainst a closed door. NO ADMITTANCE —STORAGE was scrawled across it in red paint. She reachedbehind her for the knob, turned it, slid inside. He caught a glimpse of stacked boxes, tangled wiring. Astorage room. He glanced behind him—no one was looking. So much the better if she wanted privacy.He slipped into the room after her, unaware that he was being followed.“So,” Simon said, “pretty good music, eh?”Clary didn’t reply. They were dancing, or what passed for it—a lot of swaying back and forthwith occasional lunges toward the floor as if one of them had dropped a contact lens—in a spacebetween a group of teenage boys in metallic corsets, and a young Asian couple who were making outpassionately, their colored hair extensions tangled together like vines. A boy with a lip piercing and ateddy bear backpack was handing out free tablets of herbal ecstasy, his parachute pants flapping in thebreeze from the wind machine. Clary wasn’t paying much attention to their immediate surroundings—her eyes were on the blue-haired boy who’d talked his way into the club. He was prowling through

the crowd as if he were looking for something. There was something about the way he moved thatreminded her of something “I, for one,” Simon went on, “am enjoying myself immensely.”This seemed unlikely. Simon, as always, stuck out at the club like a sore thumb, in jeans and anold T-shirt that said MADE IN BROOKLYN across the front. His freshly scrubbed hair was dark browninstead of green or pink, and his glasses perched crookedly on the end of his nose. He looked less asif he were contemplating the powers of darkness and more as if he were on his way to chess club.“Mmm-hmm.” Clary knew perfectly well that he came to Pandemonium with her only becauseshe liked it, that he thought it was boring. She wasn’t even sure why it was that she liked it—theclothes, the music made it like a dream, someone else’s life, not her boring real life at all. But shewas always too shy to talk to anyone but Simon.The blue-haired boy was making his way off the dance floor. He looked a little lost, as if hehadn’t found whom he was looking for. Clary wondered what would happen if she went up andintroduced herself, offered to show him around. Maybe he’d just stare at her. Or maybe he was shytoo. Maybe he’d be grateful and pleased, and try not to show it, the way boys did—but she’d know.Maybe—The blue-haired boy straightened up suddenly, snapping to attention, like a hunting dog on point.Clary followed the line of his gaze, and saw the girl in the white dress.Oh, well, Clary thought, trying not to feel like a deflated party balloon. I guess that’s that . Thegirl was gorgeous, the kind of girl Clary would have liked to draw—tall and ribbon-slim, with a longspill of black hair. Even at this distance Clary could see the red pendant around her throat. It pulsedunder the lights of the dance floor like a separate, disembodied heart.“I feel,” Simon went on, “that this evening DJ Bat is doing a singularly exceptional job. Don’tyou agree?”Clary rolled her eyes and didn’t answer; Simon hated trance music. Her attention was on the girlin the white dress. Through the darkness, smoke, and artificial fog, her pale dress shone out like abeacon. No wonder the blue-haired boy was following her as if he were under a spell, too distractedto notice anything else around him—even the two dark shapes hard on his heels, weaving after himthrough the crowd.Clary slowed her dancing and stared. She could just make out that the shapes were boys, tall andwearing black clothes. She couldn’t have said how she knew that they were following the other boy,but she did. She could see it in the way they paced him, their careful watchfulness, the slinking graceof their movements. A small flower of apprehension began to open inside her chest.“Meanwhile,” Simon added, “I wanted to tell you that lately I’ve been cross-dressing. Also, I’msleeping with your mom. I thought you should know.”The girl had reached the wall, and was opening a door marked NO ADMITTANCE . She beckonedthe blue-haired boy after her, and they slipped through the door. It wasn’t anything Clary hadn’t seenbefore, a couple sneaking off to the dark corners of the club to make out—but that made it evenweirder that they were being followed.She raised herself up on tiptoe, trying to see over the crowd. The two guys had stopped at thedoor and seemed to be conferring with each other. One of them was blond, the other dark-haired. Theblond one reached into his jacket and drew out something long and sharp that flashed under thestrobing lights. A knife. “Simon!” Clary shouted, and seized his arm.

“What?” Simon looked alarmed. “I’m not really sleeping with your mom, you know. I was justtrying to get your attention. Not that your mom isn’t a very attractive woman, for her age.”“Do you see those guys?” She pointed wildly, almost hitting a curvy black girl who was dancingnearby. The girl shot her an evil look. “Sorry—sorry!” Clary turned back to Simon. “Do you see thosetwo guys over there? By that door?”Simon squinted, then shrugged. “I don’t see anything.”“There are two of them. They were following the guy with the blue hair—”“The one you thought was cute?”“Yes, but that’s not the point. The blond one pulled a knife.”“Are you sure?” Simon stared harder, shaking his head. “I still don’t see anyone.”“I’m sure.”Suddenly all business, Simon squared his shoulders. “I’ll get one of the security guards. You stayhere.” He strode away, pushing through the crowd.Clary turned just in time to see the blond boy slip through the NO ADMITTANCE door, his friendright on his heels. She looked around; Simon was still trying to shove his way across the dance floor,but he wasn’t making much progress. Even if she yelled now, no one would hear her, and by the timeSimon got back, something terrible might already have happened. Biting hard on her lower lip, Clarystarted

I would like to thank my writing group, the Massachusetts All-Stars: Ellen Kushner, Delia Sherman, Kelly Link, Gavin Grant, Holly Black, and Sarah Smith. Also, Tom Holt and Peg Kerr for encouraging me before there ever was a book, and Justine Larbalestier and Eve Sinaiko for giving me their thoughts on it once it was. My mother and father for their dedication, affection, and unswerving belief .