City of Fallen Angels

“At least your plan worked,” Simon added, trying to inject some cheer into Jace’s misery. It had been Jace’s idea to have Simon take a picture with his cell phone and send it to the Conclave, which would allow them to Portal to where he was. “It was a good idea.”


“I knew it would work.” Jace sounded bored by the compliment. He looked up as the double doors to the Institute swung open, and Isabelle came through them, her black hair swinging. She looked around the room—giving Camille and the other Shadowhunters barely a glance—and came toward Jace and Simon, her boots clattering against the stone floor.

“What’s all this about yanking poor Magnus and Alec back from their vacation?” Isabelle demanded. “They have opera tickets!”

Jace explained, while Isabelle stood with her hands on her hips, ignoring Simon completely.

“Fine,” she said when he was done. “But the whole thing’s ridiculous. She’s just stalling for time. What could she possibly have to say to Magnus?” She glanced back over her shoulder at Camille, who was now not just manacled but bound to the pillar with lengths of silvery-gold chain. It crisscrossed her body across her torso, her knees, and even her ankles, holding her totally immobile. “Is that blessed metal?”

Jace nodded. “The manacles are lined to protect her wrists, but if she moves too much…” He made a sizzling sound. Simon, remembering the way his hands had burned when he’d touched the Star of David in his cell in Idris, the way his skin had run with blood, had to fight the urge to snap at him.

“Well, while you were off trapping vampires, I was uptown fighting off a Hydra demon,” Isabelle said. “With Clary.”

Jace, who had evinced only the barest interest in anything going on around him until now, jerked upright. “With Clary? You took her demon-hunting with you? Isabelle—”

“Of course not. She was already well into the fight by the time I got there.”

“But how did you know—?”

“She texted me,” Isabelle said. “So I went.” She examined her nails, which were, as usual, perfect.

“She texted you?” Jace grabbed Isabelle by the wrist. “Is she all right? Did she get hurt?”

Isabelle looked down at his hand gripping her wrist, and then back up at his face. If he was hurting her, Simon couldn’t tell, but the look on her face could have cut glass, as could the sarcasm in her voice. “Yes, she’s bleeding to death upstairs, but I thought I’d avoid telling you right away, because I like to draw the suspense out.”

Jace, as if suddenly conscious of what he was doing, let go of Isabelle’s wrist. “She’s here?”

“She’s upstairs,” Isabelle said. “Resting—”

But Jace was already gone, running for the entryway doors. He burst through them and vanished. Isabelle, looking after him, shook her head.

“You can’t really have thought he was going to do anything else,” said Simon.

For a moment she said nothing. He wondered if maybe she was just planning to ignore anything he said for the rest of eternity. “I know,” she said finally. “I just wish I knew what was going on with them.”

“I’m not sure they know.”

Isabelle was worrying at her bottom lip. She looked very young all of a sudden, and unusually conflicted, for Isabelle. Something was clearly going on with her, and Simon waited quietly while she appeared to come to a decision. “I don’t want to be like that,” she said. “Come on. I want to talk to you.” She started to head toward the Institute doors.

“You do?” Simon was astonished.

She spun and glared at him. “Right now I do. But I can’t promise how long it’ll last.”

Simon held his hands up. “I want to talk to you, Iz. But I can’t go into the Institute.”

A line appeared between her eyebrows. “Why?” She broke off, looking from him to the doors, to Camille, and back again. “Oh. Right. How did you get in here, then?”

“Portaled,” said Simon. “But Jace said there’s an entryway that leads to a set of doors that go outside. So vampires can enter here at night.” He pointed to a narrow door set in the wall a few feet away. It was secured with a rusting iron bolt, as if it hadn’t been used in a while.

Isabelle shrugged. “Fine.”

The bolt made a screeching noise when she yanked it back, sending flakes of rust into the air in a fine red spray. Beyond the door was a small stone room, like the vestry of a church, and a set of doors that most likely led outside. There were no windows, but cold air crept around the edges of the doors, making Isabelle, in her short dress, shiver.

“Look, Isabelle,” Simon said, figuring that the onus was on him to start the discussion. “I really am sorry about what I did. There’s no excuse—”