Must be what?" Jace slid the vial into his pocket. "Ah," he said. "You mean if there's this"-and he pointed down, toward the floor-"there must be this." He pointed up, toward the ceiling.
"It stands to reason. Doesn't it?"
Jace lowered his hand and picked up a blade, examining the hilt. "I'll tell you," he said. "I've been killing demons for a third of my life. I must have sent five hundred of them back to whatever hellish dimension they crawled out of. And in all that time-in all that time-I've never seen an angel. Never even heard of anyone who has."
"But it was an angel who created Shadowhunters in the first place," Clary said. "That's what Hodge said."
"It makes a nice story." Jace looked at her through eyes slitted like a cat's. "My father believed in God," he said. "I don't."
"At all?" She wasn't sure why she was needling him-she'd never given any thought to whether she believed in God and angels and so forth herself, and if asked, would have said she didn't. There was something about Jace, though, that made her want to push him, crack that shell of cynicism and make him admit he believed in something, felt something, cared about anything at all.
"Let me put it this way," he said, sliding a pair of knives into his belt. The faint light that filtered through the stained-glass windows threw squares of color across his face. "My father believed in a righteous God. Deus volt, that was his motto- 'because God wills it.' It was the Crusaders' motto, and they went out to battle and were slaughtered, just like my father. And when I saw him lying dead in a pool of his own blood, I knew then that I hadn't stopped believing in God. I'd just stopped believing God cared. There might be a God, Clary, and there might not, but I don't think it matters. Either way, we're on our own."
They were the only passengers in their train car heading back uptown. Clary sat without speaking, thinking about Simon. Every once in a while Jace would look over at her as if he were about to say something, before lapsing back into an uncharacteristic silence.
When they climbed out of the subway, the streets were deserted, the air heavy and metal-tasting, the bodegas and Laundromats and check-cashing centers silent behind their nighttime doors of corrugated steel. They found the hotel, finally, after an hour of looking, on a side street off 116th. They'd walked past it twice, thinking it was just another abandoned apartment building, before Clary saw the sign. It had come loose from a nail and it dangled hidden behind a stunted tree, hotel dumont, it should have said, but someone had painted out the N and replaced it with an R.
"Hotel Dumort," Jace said when she pointed it out to him. "Cute."
Clary had only had two years of French, but it was enough to get the joke. "Du mort," she said. "Of death."
Jace nodded. He had gone alert all over, like a cat who sees a mouse whisking behind a sofa.