City of Fallen Angels

Nothing came up. His stomach felt as hollow as a well. He stood up and leaned against the wall, pressing his icy hands against his face. It had been weeks since he’d felt either cold or hot, but now he felt feverish—and scared. What was happening to him?


He remembered Jace saying, You’re a vampire. Blood isn’t like food for you. Blood is … blood. Could all this be because he hadn’t eaten? But he didn’t feel hungry, or even thirsty, really. He felt as sick as if he were dying. Maybe he’d been poisoned. Maybe the Mark of Cain didn’t protect against something like that?

He moved slowly toward the fire door that would take him out onto the street in back of the club. Maybe the cold air outside would clear his head. Maybe all this was just exhaustion and nerves.

“Simon?” A little voice, like a bird’s chirp. He looked down with dread, and saw that Maureen was standing at his elbow. She looked even tinier close up—little birdlike bones and a lot of very pale blond hair, which cascaded down her shoulders from beneath a knitted pink cap. She wore rainbow-stripe arm warmers and a short-sleeved white T-shirt with a screen print of Strawberry Shortcake on it. Simon groaned inwardly.

“This really isn’t a good time, Mo,” he said.

“I just want to take a picture of you on my camera phone,” she said, pushing her hair back behind her ears nervously. “So I can show it to my friends, okay?”

“Fine.” His head was pounding. This was ridiculous. It wasn’t like he was overwhelmed with fans. Maureen was literally the band’s only fan, that he knew about, and was Eric’s little cousin’s friend, to boot. He supposed he couldn’t really afford to alienate her. “Go ahead. Take it.”

She raised her phone and clicked, then frowned. “Now one with you and me?” She sidled up to him quickly, pressing herself against his side. He could smell strawberry lip gloss on her, and under that, the smell of salt sweat and saltier human blood. She looked up at him, holding the phone up and out with her free hand, and grinned. She had a gap between her two front teeth, and a blue vein in her throat. It pulsed as she drew a breath.

“Smile,” she said.

Twin jolts of pain went through Simon as his fangs slid free, digging into his lip. He heard Maureen gasp, and then her phone went flying as he caught hold of her and spun her toward him, and his canine teeth sank into her throat.

Blood exploded into his mouth, the taste of it like nothing else. It was as if he had been starving for air and now was breathing, inhaling great gasps of cold, clean oxygen, and Maureen struggled and pushed at him, but he barely noticed. He didn’t even notice when she went limp, her dead weight dragging him to the floor so that he was lying on top of her, his hands gripping her shoulders, clenching and unclenching as he drank.

You have never fed on someone purely human, have you? Camille had said. You will.

And when you do, you will never forget it.





9

FROM FIRE UNTO FIRE


Clary reached the door and burst out into the rain-drenched evening air. It was coming down in sheets now, and she was instantly soaked. Choking on rainwater and tears, she darted past Eric’s familiar-looking yellow van, rain sheeting off its roof into the gutter, and was about to race across the street against the light when a hand caught her arm and spun her around.

It was Jace. He was as soaked as she was, the rain sticking his fair hair to his head and plastering his shirt to his body like black paint. “Clary, didn’t you hear me calling you?”

“Let go of me.” Her voice shook.

“No. Not until you talk to me.” He looked around, up and down the street, which was deserted, the rain exploding off the black pavement like fast-blooming flowers. “Come on.”

Still holding her by the arm, he half-dragged her around the van and into a narrow alley that bordered the Alto Bar. High windows above them let through the blurred sound of the music that was still being played inside. The alley was brick-walled, clearly a dumping ground for old bits of no longer usable musical equipment. Broken amps and old mikes littered the ground, along with shattered beer glasses and cigarette butts.

Clary jerked her arm out of Jace’s grasp and turned to face him. “If you’re planning to apologize, don’t bother.” She pushed her wet, heavy hair back from her face. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“I was going to tell you that I was trying to help out Simon,” he said, rainwater running off his eyelashes and down his cheeks like tears. “I’ve been at his place for the past—”

“And you couldn’t tell me? Couldn’t text me a single line letting me know where you were? Oh, wait. You couldn’t, because you still have my goddamned phone. Give it to me.”