CITY OF GLASS

“I know what you’re doing,” Clary protested. “And I respect it and I admire you for it, but you don’t have to do it, Simon, you don’t have to. What Raphael’s asking for is wrong, and nobody will judge you for not sacrificing yourself for a war that isn’t yours to fight—”

“But that’s just it,” Simon said. “What Raphael said was right. I am a vampire, and you keep forgetting it. Or maybe you just want to forget. But I’m a Downworlder and you’re a Shadowhunter, and this fight is both of ours.”

“But you’re not like them—”

“I am one of them.” He spoke slowly, deliberately, as if to make absolutely sure that she understood every word he was saying. “And I always will be. If the Downworlders fight this war with the Shadowhunters, without the participation of Raphael’s people, then there will be no Council seat for the Night Children. They won’t be a part of the world Luke’s trying to create, a world where Shadowhunters and Downworlders work together. Are together. The vampires will be shut out of that. They’ll be the enemies of the Shadowhunters. I’ll be your enemy.”

“I could never be your enemy.”

“It would kill me,” Simon said simply. “But I can’t help anything by standing back and pretending I’m not part of this. And I’m not asking your permission. I would like your help. But if you won’t give it to me, I’ll get Maia to take me to the vampire camp anyway, and I’ll give myself up to Raphael. Do you understand?”

She stared at him. He was holding her arms so tightly she could feel the blood beating in the skin under his hands. She ran her tongue over her dry lips; her mouth tasted bitter. “What can I do,” she whispered, “to help you?”

She looked up at him incredulously as he told her. She was already shaking her head before he finished, her hair whipping back and forth, nearly covering her eyes. “No,” she said, “that’s a crazy idea, Simon. It’s not a gift; it’s a punishment—”

“Maybe not for me,” Simon said. He glanced toward the crowd, and Clary saw Maia standing there, watching them, her expression openly curious. She was clearly waiting for Simon.

Too fast, Clary thought. This is all happening much too fast.

“It’s better than the alternative, Clary.”

“No …”

“It might not hurt me at all. I mean, I’ve already been punished, right? I already can’t go into a church, a synagogue; I can’t say—I can’t say holy names; I can’t get older; I’m already shut out from normal life. Maybe this won’t change anything.”

“But maybe it will.”

He let go of her arms, slid his hand around her side, and drew Patrick’s stele from her belt. He held it out to her. “Clary,” he said. “Do this for me. Please.”

She took the stele with numb fingers and raised it, touching the end of it to Simon’s skin, just above his eyes. The first Mark, Magnus had said. The very first. She thought of it, and her stele began to move the way a dancer begins to move when the music starts. Black lines traced themselves across his forehead like a flower unfolding on a speeded-up roll of film. When she was done, her right hand ached and stung, but as she drew back and stared, she knew she had drawn something perfect and strange and ancient, something from the very beginning of history. It blazed like a star above Simon’s eyes as he brushed his fingers across his forehead, his expression dazzled and confused.

“I can feel it,” he said. “Like a burn.”

“I don’t know what’ll happen,” she whispered. “I don’t know what long-term side effects it’ll have.”

With a twisted half smile, he raised his hand to touch her cheek. “Let’s hope we get the chance to find out.”





19

PENIEL


MAIA WAS SILENT MOST OF THE WAY TO THE FOREST, KEEPING her head down and glancing from side to side only occasionally, her nose wrinkled in concentration. Simon wondered if she was smelling their way, and he decided that although that might be a little weird, it certainly counted as a useful talent. He also found that he didn’t have to hurry to keep up with her, no matter how fast she moved. Even when they reached the beaten-down path that led into the forest and Maia started to run—swiftly, quietly, and staying low to the ground—he had no trouble matching her pace. It was one thing about being a vampire that he could honestly say he enjoyed.

It was over too soon; the woods thickened and they were running among the trees, over scuffed, thick-rooted ground dense with fallen leaves. The branches overhead made lacelike patterns against the starlit sky. They emerged from the trees in a clearing strewn with large boulders that gleamed like square white teeth. There were heaped piles of leaves here and there, as if someone had been over the place with a gigantic rake.

“Raphael!” Maia had cupped her hands around her mouth and was calling out in a voice loud enough to startle the birds out of the treetops high overhead. “Raphael, show yourself!”