Son of the Dawn (Ghosts of the Shadow Market, #1)

by Cassandra Clare

Jonathan Wayland, the child who fought like a warrior angel, looked intrigued.

His parabatai had tried to feel nothing, for a time. Except what he felt for Jem. It had almost destroyed him. And every day, Jem pretended to feel something, to be kind, to fix what was broken, to remember names and voices almost forgotten, and hoped that would become truth.

We battle hardest when that which is dearer to us than our own lives at stake, said Jem. A parabatai is both blade and shield. You belong together and to each other not because you are the same but because your different shapes fit together to be a greater whole, a greater warrior for a higher purpose. I always believed we were not merely at our best together, but beyond the best either of us could be apart.

A slow smile broke across the boy’s face, like sunrise bursting as a bright surprise upon the water.

All these people were struggling not to feel, trying to freeze their hearts inside their chests until the cold fractured and broke them. While Jem would have given every cold tomorrow he had for one more day with a warm heart, to love them as he once had.

Jonathan Wayland ducked his shaggy golden head to hide the faint color in his cheeks.

If only

he could have had a death in Tessa’s arms, holding Will’s hand. He had been robbed of his death.

He would not accept that parting. My Will. Those words meant something different to Jem than to anyone else, meant: my defiance against encroaching dark. My rebellion. Mine, forever.

He had made his mark. He had taken the name Zachariah, which meant remember. Remember him, Jem willed himself. Remember them. Remember why. Remember the only answer to the only question. Do not forget.

found him staring at the new arrival with wide eyes as though beholding a revelation with the morning. “Wow,” Alec breathed.

She reached out and touched the boy’s hair. Jonathan flinched but held himself still, and Maryse smoothed back the shining gold waves the wind had ruffled.

Mom winked. “Then you will be even more handsome.” “Is that even possible?” Jonathan asked dryly. Alec laughed. Jonathan looked surprised, as if he had not noticed Alec before then.

Max stared up at Jonathan in awe. He dropped his stuffed rabbit on the cement floor, shuffled forward, and hugged Jonathan’s leg. Jonathan flinched again, though this time it was more of an instinctive rear back, until the genius figured out he was not being attacked by a two-year-old.

“Jonathing can sleep in my room because we love each other,” Max proposed.

“Don’t tell your parents,” he said. Alec left Isabelle’s side and ran to Jonathan. He examined the cut, then shepherded Jonathan toward a stool, making him sit down. Isabelle was unsurprised. Alec always fussed when she or Max fell down.

“So you and your brother seem . . . really close,” Jonathan said. Isabelle blinked. “Sure.” What a concept, being close to your family.

Besides, I don’t like the idea of giving up my independence. Before I am my parents’ daughter or my brothers’ sister, I am my own.

Isabelle could not help observing that Jonathan Wayland had lived in their home for less than three hours, and he was already trying to lock down a parabatai.

Then he slouched farther into his chair, resuming his too-cool-for-the-Institute attitude, and she forgot the thought in annoyance that Jonathan was such a show-off. She, Isabelle, was the only show-off this Institute needed.

Isabelle could not tell if Jonathan’s expressionless face was to ward them off or protect himself, but he was hurt.

Jonathan Wayland shrugged. “I applied to the Iron Sisters, but they sent me a hurtful and sexist refusal.”

“No,” said Jonathan. “My father used to tell a joke about having another Jonathan, if I wasn’t good enough.”

At last he offered her a smile, faint and cool as the light in early morning, but growing warm with hope. Jonathan Wayland said: “I think Jace will work.”

This was not the first time this had happened to him, seeing a trace of what had been in what was. The coloring was entirely different. The boy did not really have anything to do with Will. Jem knew that. Jem—for in the moments he remembered Will, he was always Jem—was used to seeing his lost and dearest Shadowhunter in a thousand Shadowhunter faces and gestures, the turn of a head or the note of a voice. Never the beloved head, never the long-silent voice, but sometimes, more and more rarely, something close.

This is a reminder of my faith. If there is any part of him that can be with me, and I believe there is, then he is at hand. Nothing can part us. He allowed himself a smile. His mouth could not open, but he could still smile. He could still speak to Will, though he could no longer hear any answer.

You are not lost to me on some forever distant shore. Life is a wheel.

If life is a wheel, it will bring you back to me. All I must do is keep faith.

Sometimes you seem very far away from me, my parabatai. Light on water had not rivaled the boy’s blazing contradiction of a smile, somehow both indomitable and too easily hurt. He was a child going to a new home, as Will and the boy Zachariah had been had once traveled in lonely sorrow to the place where they would find each other. Jem hoped he would find happiness. Jem smiled back at a boy long gone. Sometimes, Will, he said. You seem very close.

Still, it was hard to ignore a group of tall, heavily armed people whose cheekbones were as sharp as their weaponry.

The blond boy grinned. He had that kind of grin that really good-looking people who knew they were good-looking had. It was more than a little intimidating. “I think you’ll find I’m not an amateur at anything.”

“I think it means if you come out from behind that counter and spend a few minutes with me somewhere a little more private, you won’t be disappointed.”

Kaye stared at him, open-mouthed. Was he really suggesting they go have sex? Like right then, in the middle of her shift? Or maybe he meant something else. She took another look at him. Nope, probably not.

“Jace,” hissed the boy standing next to him. “Just order a freaking ...

“A serious one?” Jace inquired — he was still smiling in that annoyingly charming way that made it hard to be irritated.

Jace’s hand went to his waist. “Well, if it’s seriously big swords we’re discussing—” The dark-haired boy thunked his head down on the countertop.

“Stop this pointless flirting,” he said. “Or I will bash my head through this pastry case.”

His black hair stuck straight up, thick with glitter, and he appeared to be very, very drunk. He had a stack of papers with him and was handing them out to the patrons. Every time someone took one, there was a little electric burst of glitter.

To where Jace was taking off his clothes.

“Jace,” Alec hissed. “Jace, what are you doing?” “It’s warm in here,” Jace said, in a slurred voice. Two knives hit the ground.

Corny was watching Jace undressing with raised eyebrows and an appreciative expression on his face. “I think I might be some kind of genius. You couldn’t pay me to stop this.”

You rarely saw a body like that outside of magazine spreads. Some people had six-packs; Jace appeared to have a twelve- pack. It didn’t look humanly possible. “Could be good for business,”

“Maybe we could get him to do it every day?” Corny said, as Jace unbuttoned his jeans. Alec attempted to stop him, but Jace moved nimbly out of his way and kicked the jeans off with a flourish.