City of Fallen Angels

The interior of the bar had once been stylishly decorated, with pressed-tin walls and ceiling, reminiscent of an old speakeasy, and frosted art deco glass behind the bar. It was a lot grungier now than it had been when it opened, with permanent smoke stains on the walls. The floor was covered in sawdust that had formed into clumps as a result of beer spills and worse.

On the plus side, the tables that lined the walls were mostly full. Simon saw Isabelle sitting at a table by herself, dressed in a short silver mesh dress that looked like chain mail, and her demon-stomping boots. Her hair was pulled up into a messy bun, stuck through with silver chopsticks. Simon knew each of those chopsticks was razor sharp, able to slice through metal or bone. Her lipstick was bright red, like fresh blood.

Get a grip, Simon told himself. Stop thinking about blood.

More tables were taken up by other friends of the band. Blythe and Kate, the respective girlfriends of Kirk and Matt, were at a table together sharing a plate of pallid-looking nachos. Eric had various girlfriends scattered at tables around the room, and most of his friends from school were there too, making the place look a lot more full. Sitting off in the corner, at a table all by herself, was Maureen, Simon’s one fan—a tiny waifish blond girl who looked about twelve but claimed she was sixteen. He figured she was probably actually about fourteen. Seeing him sticking his head around the curtain, she waved and smiled vigorously.

Simon pulled his head back in like a turtle, yanking the curtains closed.

“Hey,” said Jace, who was sitting on an overturned speaker, looking at his cell phone, “do you want to see a photo of Alec and Magnus in Berlin?”

“Not really,” said Simon.

“Magnus is wearing lederhosen.”

“And yet, still no.”

Jace shoved the phone into his pocket and looked at Simon quizzically. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Simon said, but he wasn’t. He felt light-headed and nauseated and tense, which he put down to the strain of worrying about what was going to happen tonight. And it didn’t help that he hadn’t fed; he was going to have to deal with that, and soon. He wished Clary were here, but he knew she couldn’t come. She had some wedding responsibility to attend to, and had told him a long time ago that she wasn’t going to be able to make it. He’d passed that on to Jace before they’d gotten here. Jace had seemed both miserably relieved and also disappointed, all at the same time, which was impressive.

“Hey, hey,” Kyle said, ducking through the curtain. “We’re just about ready to go.” He looked at Simon closely. “You sure about this?”

Simon looked from Kyle to Jace. “Did you know you two match?”

They glanced down at themselves, and then at each other. Both were wearing jeans and long-sleeved black T-shirts. Jace tugged on his shirt hem with slight self-consciousness. “I borrowed this from Kyle. My other shirt was pretty filthy.”

“Wow, you’re wearing each other’s clothes now. That’s, like, best-friend stuff.”

“Feeling left out?” said Kyle. “I suppose you want to borrow a black T-shirt too.”

Simon did not state the obvious, which was that nothing that fit Kyle or Jace was likely to fit his skinny frame. “As long as everyone’s wearing their own pants.”

“I see I have come in on a fascinating moment in the conversation.” Eric poked his head through the curtain. “Come on. It’s time to start.”

As Kyle and Simon headed for the stage, Jace got to his feet. Just below the hem of his borrowed shirt, Simon could see the glittering edge of a dagger. “Break a leg up there,” Jace said with a wicked grin. “And I’ll be down here, hopefully breaking someone else’s.”


Raphael had been supposed to come at twilight, but he kept them waiting almost three hours past the appointed time before his Projection appeared in the Institute library.

Vampire politics, thought Luke dryly. The head of the New York vampire clan would come, if he must, when the Shadowhunters called; but he would not be summoned, and he would not be punctual. Luke had spent the past few hours whiling away the time by reading several of the library’s books; Maryse hadn’t been interested in talking and had spent most of the time standing by the window, drinking red wine out of a cut-crystal glass and staring at the traffic going by on York Avenue.

She turned as Raphael appeared, like a white chalk drawing on the darkness. First the pallor of his face and hands became visible, and then the darkness of his clothes and hair. Finally he stood, filled in, a solid-looking Projection. He looked at Maryse hurrying toward him and said, “You called, Shadowhunter?” He turned then, his gaze sweeping over Luke. “And the wolf-human is here too, I see. Have I been summoned to a sort of Council?”

“Not exactly.” Maryse set her glass down on the desktop. “You have heard about the recent deaths, Raphael? The Shadowhunter bodies that have been found?”