City of Fallen Angels

Eric cocked his head to the side. “Come on in and let’s get a look at you.”


Kyle stepped into the garage. Simon stared at him, trying to gauge what it was that had made Clary say he was hot. He was tall and broad-shouldered and slim, with high cheekbones, longish black hair that tumbled over his forehead and down his neck in curls, and brown skin that hadn’t lost its summery tan yet. His long, thick eyelashes over startling hazel-green eyes made him look like a pretty-boy rock star. He wore a fitted green T-shirt and jeans, and twining both his bare arms were tattoos—not Marks, just ordinary tattoos. They looked like scrolling script winding around his skin, disappearing up the sleeves of his shirt.

Okay, Simon had to admit. He wasn’t hideous.

“You know,” Kirk said finally, breaking the silence. “I see it. He is pretty hot.”

Kyle blinked and turned to Eric. “So, do you want me to sing or not?”

Eric detached the mike from its stand and handed it to him. “Go ahead,” he said. “Give it a try.”


“You know, he was really pretty good,” Clary said. “I was kind of kidding about including Kyle in the band, but he can actually sing.”

They were walking along Kent Avenue, toward Luke’s house. The sky had darkened from blue to gray in preparation for twilight, and clouds hung low over the East River. Clary was trailing one of her gloved hands along the chain-link fence that separated them from the cracked concrete embankment, making the metal rattle.

“You’re just saying that because you think he’s hot,” said Simon.

She dimpled. “Not that hot. Not, like, the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.” Which, Simon imagined, would be Jace, though she was nice enough not to say it. “But I thought it would be a good idea to have him in the band, honestly. If Eric and the rest of them can’t tell him you’re a vampire, they can’t tell everyone else, either. Hopefully it’ll put an end to that stupid idea.” They were nearly at Luke’s house; Simon could see it across the street, the windows lit up yellow against the coming dark. Clary paused at a gap in the fence. “Remember when we killed a bunch of Raum demons here?”

“You and Jace killed some Raum demons. I almost threw up.” Simon remembered, but his mind wasn’t on it; he was thinking of Camille, sitting across from him in the courtyard, saying, You befriend Shadowhunters, but you can never be of them. You will always be other and outside. He looked sideways at Clary, wondering what she would say if he told her about his meeting with the vampire, and her offer. He imagined that she would probably be terrified. The fact that he couldn’t be harmed hadn’t yet stopped her from worrying about his safety.

“You wouldn’t be scared now,” she said softly, as if reading his mind. “Now you have the Mark.” She turned to look at him, still leaning against the fence. “Does anyone ever notice or ask you about it?”

He shook his head. “My hair covers it, mostly, and anyway, it’s faded a lot. See?” He pushed his hair aside.

Clary reached out and touched his forehead and the curving scripted Mark there. Her eyes were sad, as they had been that day in the Hall of Accords in Alicante, when she’d cut the oldest curse of the world into his skin. “Does it hurt?”

“No. No, it doesn’t.” And Cain said unto the Lord, My punishment is greater than I can bear. “You know I don’t blame you, don’t you? You saved my life.”

“I know.” Her eyes were shining. She dropped her hand from his forehead and scrubbed the back of her glove across her face. “Damn. I hate crying.”

“Well, you better get used to it,” he said, and when her eyes widened, he added hastily, “I meant the wedding. It’s what, next Saturday? Everyone cries at weddings.”

She snorted.

“How are your mom and Luke, anyway?”

“Disgustingly in love. It’s horrible. Anyway—” She patted him on the shoulder. “I should go in. See you tomorrow?”

He nodded. “Sure. Tomorrow.”

He watched her as she ran across the street and up the stairs to Luke’s front door. Tomorrow. He wondered how long it had been since he had gone more than a few days without seeing Clary. He wondered about being a fugitive and a wanderer on the earth, like Camille had said. Like Raphael had said. Thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground. He wasn’t Cain, who had killed his brother, but the curse believed he was. It was strange, he thought, waiting to lose everything, not knowing if it would happen, or not.