City of Fallen Angels

Clary swallowed back her rising nausea and moved to stand beside the corpse. Luke came with her, his hand protectively on her shoulder; Maryse stood opposite them, watching everything with her curious blue eyes, the same color as Alec’s.

Clary drew her stele from her pocket. She could feel the chill of the marble through her shirt as she leaned over the dead man. This close, she could see details—that his hair had been reddish brown, and that his throat had been torn clean through in strips, as if by a massive claw.

Brother Zachariah reached out and removed the silk binding from the dead man’s eyes. Beneath it, they were closed. You may begin.

Clary took a deep breath and set the tip of the stele to the skin of the dead Shadowhunter’s arm. The rune she had visualized before, in the entryway of the Institute, came back to her as clearly as the letters of her own name. She began to draw.

The black Mark lines spiraled out from the tip of her stele, much as they always did—but her hand felt heavy, the stele itself dragging slightly, as if she were writing in mud rather than on skin. It was as if the implement were confused, skittering over the surface of the dead skin, seeking the living spirit of the Shadowhunter that was no longer there. Clary’s stomach churned as she drew, and by the time she was done and had retracted her stele, she was sweating and nauseated.

For a long moment nothing happened. Then, with a terrible suddenness, the dead Shadowhunter’s eyes flicked open. They were blue, the whites flecked red with blood.

Maryse let out a long gasp. It was clear she hadn’t really believed the rune would work. “By the Angel.”

A rattling breath came from the dead man, the sound of someone trying to breathe through a cut throat. The ragged skin of his neck fluttered like a fish’s gills. His chest rose, and words came from his mouth.

“It hurts.”

Luke swore, and glanced toward Zachariah, but the Silent Brother was impassive.

Maryse moved closer to the table, her eyes suddenly sharp, almost predatory. “Shadowhunter,” she said. “Who are you? I demand your name.”

The man’s head thrashed from side to side. His hands rose and fell convulsively. “The pain… Make the pain stop.”

Clary’s stele nearly dropped from her hand. This was much more awful than she had imagined. She looked toward Luke, who was backing away from the table, his eyes wide with horror.

“Shadowhunter.” Maryse’s tone was imperious. “Who did this to you?”

“Please…”

Luke whirled around, his back to Clary. He seemed to be rummaging among the Silent Brother’s tools. Clary stood frozen as Maryse’s gray-gloved hand shot out, and closed on the corpse’s shoulder, her fingers digging in. “In the name of the Angel, I command you to answer me!”

The Shadowhunter made a choking sound. “Downworlder … vampire…”

“Which vampire?” Maryse demanded.

“Camille. The ancient one—” The words choked off as a gout of black clotted blood poured from the dead mouth.

Maryse gasped and jerked her hand back. As she did so, Luke reappeared, carrying the jar of green acid liquid that Clary had noticed earlier. With a single gesture he yanked the lid off and sloshed the acid over the Mark on the corpse’s arm, eradicating it. The corpse gave a single scream as the flesh sizzled—and then it collapsed back against the table, eyes blank and staring, whatever had animated it for that brief period clearly gone.

Luke set the empty jar of acid down on the table. “Maryse.” His voice was reproachful. “This is not how we treat our dead.”

“I will decide how we treat our dead, Downworlder.” Maryse was pale, her cheeks spotted with red. “We have a name now. Camille. Perhaps we can prevent more deaths.”

“There are worse things than death.” Luke reached a hand out for Clary, not looking at her. “Come on, Clary. I think it’s time for us to go.”

***

“So you really can’t think of anyone else who might want to kill you?” Jace asked, not for the first time. They’d gone over the list several times, and Simon was getting tired of being asked the same questions over and over. Not to mention that he suspected Jace was only partly paying attention. Having already eaten the soup Simon had bought—cold, out of the can, with a spoon, which Simon couldn’t help thinking was disgusting—he was leaning against the window, the curtain pulled aside slightly so that he could see the traffic going by on Avenue B, and the brightly lit windows of the apartments across the street. Through them Simon could see people eating dinner, watching television, and sitting around a table talking. Ordinary things that ordinary people did. It made him feel oddly hollow.

“Unlike in your case,” said Simon, “there aren’t actually all that many people who dislike me.”

Jace ignored this. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”