City of Fallen Angels

And a horrific clanging noise exploded in Clary’s ears, shattering her out of her dream of kissing and rain. With a gasp she pushed Jace away, hard enough that he let go of her and she tumbled off the speaker to land unsteadily on her feet, hastily straightening her dress. Her heart was slamming against her rib cage like a battering ram, and she felt dizzy.

“Dammit.” Isabelle, standing in the mouth of the alley, her wet black hair like a cloak around her shoulders, kicked a trash can out of her way and glowered. “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she said. “I can’t believe you two. Why? What’s wrong with bedrooms? And privacy?”

Clary looked at Jace. He was utterly drenched, water running off him in sheets, his fair hair, plastered to his head, nearly silver in the faint glow of the distant streetlights. Just looking at him made Clary want to touch him again, Isabelle or no Isabelle, with a longing that was nearly painful. He was staring at Izzy with the look of someone who had been slapped out of a dream—bewilderment, anger, dawning realization.

“I was just looking for Simon,” Isabelle said defensively, seeing Jace’s expression. “He ran offstage, and I’ve no idea where he went.” The music had stopped, Clary realized, at some point; she hadn’t noticed when. “Anyway, he’s obviously not here. Go back to what you were doing. What’s the point in wasting a perfectly good brick wall when you have someone to throw against it, that’s what I always say.” And she stalked off, back toward the bar.

Clary looked at Jace. At any other time they would have laughed together at Isabelle’s moodiness, but there was no humor in his expression, and she knew immediately that whatever they had had between them—whatever had blossomed out of his momentary lack of control—it was gone now. She could taste blood in her mouth and wasn’t sure if she had bitten her own lip or he had.

“Jace—” She took a step toward him.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice very rough. “I can’t.”

And then he was gone, running as fast as only he could run, a blur that vanished into the distance before she could even take a breath to call him back.


“Simon!”

The angry voice exploded in Simon’s ears. He would have released Maureen then—or so he told himself—but he didn’t get the chance. Strong hands grabbed him by the arms, hauling him off her. He was dragged to his feet by a white-faced Kyle, still tousled and sweaty from the set they’d just finished. “What the hell, Simon. What the hell—”

“I didn’t mean to,” Simon gasped. His voice sounded blurry to his own ears; his fangs were still out, and he hadn’t learned to talk around the goddamn things yet. Past Kyle, on the floor, he could see Maureen lying in a crumpled heap, horribly still. “It just happened—”

“I told you. I told you.” Kyle’s voice rose, and he pushed Simon, hard. Simon stumbled back, his forehead burning, as an invisible hand seemed to lift Kyle and fling him hard against the wall behind him. He hit it and slid to the ground, landing in a wolflike crouch, on his hands and knees. He staggered to his feet, staring. “Jesus Christ. Simon—”

But Simon had dropped to his knees beside Maureen, his hands on her, frantically feeling at her throat for a pulse. When it fluttered under his fingertips, faint but steady, he nearly wept with relief.

“Get away from her.” Kyle, sounding strained, moved to stand over Simon. “Just get up and move away.”

Simon got up reluctantly and faced Kyle over Maureen’s limp form. Light was lancing through the gap in the curtains that led to the stage; he could hear the other band members out there, chattering to one another, starting the teardown. Any minute they’d be coming back here.

“What you just did,” Kyle said. “Did you—push me? Because I didn’t see you move.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Simon said again, wretchedly. It seemed to be all he said these days.

Kyle shook his head, his hair flying. “Get out of here. Go wait by the van. I’ll deal with her.” He bent down and lifted Maureen in his arms. She looked tiny against the bulk of him, like a doll. He fixed Simon with a glare. “Go. And I hope you feel really goddamn terrible.”

Simon went. He moved to the fire door and shoved it open. No alarm went off; the alarm had been busted for months. The door swung shut behind him, and he leaned up against the back wall of the club as every part of his body began to tremble.

The club backed onto a narrow street lined with warehouses. Across the way was a vacant lot blocked off with a sagging chain-link fence. Ugly scrub grass grew up through the cracks in the pavement. Rain was sheeting down, soaking the garbage that littered the street, floating old beer cans on the runoff-filled gutters.

Simon thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. The whole night seemed to have exploded with prismatic light. The fence was a linked chain of brilliant silver wires, each raindrop a platinum tear.