City of Fallen Angels

Isabelle made a shooing gesture in her direction. “Go.”


Clary got up, smoothing down her dress. If she’d known Jace was going to be here, she would have worn something other than red tights, boots, and a vintage hot-pink Betsey Johnson dress of hers she’d found hanging in Luke’s spare closet. Once, she’d thought the flower-shaped green buttons that ran all the way up the front were funky and cool, but now she just felt less put-together and sophisticated than Isabelle.

She pushed her way across the floor, which was now crowded with people either dancing or standing in place, drinking beer, and swaying a little to the music. She couldn’t help but remember the first time she’d ever seen Jace. It had been in a club, and she’d watched him across the floor, watched his bright hair and the arrogant set of his shoulders. She’d thought he was beautiful, but not in any way that applied to her. He wasn’t the sort of boy you could have dated, she’d thought. He existed apart from that world.

He didn’t notice her now until she was nearly standing in front of him. Up close, she could see how tired he looked, as if he hadn’t slept in days. His face was tight with exhaustion, the bones sharp-looking under the skin. He was leaning against the wall, his fingers hooked in the loops of his belt, his pale gold eyes watchful.

“Jace,” she said.

He started, and turned to look at her. For a moment his eyes lit, the way they always did when he saw her, and she felt a wild hope rise in her chest.

Almost instantly the light went out of them, and the remaining color drained out of his face. “I thought—Simon said you weren’t coming.”

A wave of nausea passed over her, and she put her hand out to steady herself against the wall. “So you only came because you thought I wouldn’t be here?”

He shook his head. “I—”

“Were you ever planning on talking to me again?” Clary felt her voice rise, and forced it back down with a vicious effort. Her hands were now tight at her sides, her nails cutting hard into her palms. “If you’re going to break it off, the least you could do is tell me, not just stop talking to me and leave me to figure it out on my own.”

“Why,” Jace said, “does everyone keep goddamn asking me if I’m going to break up with you? First Simon, and now—”

“You talked to Simon about us?” Clary shook her head. “Why? Why aren’t you talking to me?”

“Because I can’t talk to you,” Jace said. “I can’t talk to you, I can’t be with you, I can’t even look at you.”

Clary sucked her breath in; it felt like breathing battery acid. “What?”

He seemed to realize what he had said, and lapsed into an appalled silence. For a moment they simply looked at each other. Then Clary turned and darted back through the crowd, pushing her way past flailing elbows and knots of chatting people, blind to everything but getting to the door as quickly as she could.


“And now,” Eric yelled into his microphone, “we’re going to sing a new song—one we just wrote. This one’s for my girlfriend. We’ve been going out for three weeks, and, damn, our love is true. We’re gonna be together forever, baby. This one’s called ‘Bang You Like a Drum.’”

There was laughter and applause from the audience as the music started up, though Simon wasn’t sure if Eric realized they thought he was joking, which he wasn’t. Eric was always in love with whatever girl he’d just started dating, and he always wrote an inappropriate song about it. Normally Simon wouldn’t have cared, but he’d really hoped they were going to get off the stage after the previous song. He felt worse than ever—dizzy, sticky and sick with sweat, his mouth tasting metallic, like old blood.

The music crashed around him, sounding like nails being pounded into his eardrums. His fingers slipped and slid on the strings as he played, and he saw Kirk look over at him quizzically. He tried to force himself to focus, to concentrate, but it was like trying to start a car with a dead battery. There was an empty grinding noise in his head, but no spark.

He stared out into the bar, looking—he wasn’t even quite sure why—for Isabelle, but he could see only a sea of white faces turned toward him, and he remembered his first night in the Dumont Hotel and the faces of the vampires turned toward him, like white paper flowers unfolding against a dark emptiness. A surge of gripping, painful nausea seized him. He staggered back, his hands falling away from the guitar. The ground under his feet felt as if it were moving. The other members of the band, caught up in the music, didn’t seem to notice. Simon tore the strap of the guitar off his shoulder and pushed past Matt to the curtain at the back of the stage, ducking through it just in time to fall to his knees and retch.