City of Fallen Angels

Isabelle’s eyes shone when she looked at him, but she said nothing.

“I care about you,” Simon said. “I always cared about you.”

She took a step toward him. They were standing fairly close together in the small room, and he could hear the sound of her breathing, and the fainter pulse of her heartbeat underneath. She smelled of shampoo and sweat and gardenia perfume and Shadowhunter blood.

The thought of blood made him remember Maureen, and his body tensed. Isabelle noticed—of course she noticed, she was a warrior, her senses finely tuned to even the slightest movement in others—and drew back, her expression tightening. “All right,” she said. “Well, I’m glad we talked.”

“Isabelle—”

But she was already gone. He went after her into the Sanctuary, but she was moving fast. By the time the vestry door shut behind him, she was halfway across the room. He gave up and watched as she disappeared through the double doors into the Institute, knowing he couldn’t follow.


Clary sat up, shaking her head to clear the grogginess. It took her a moment to remember where she was—in a spare bedroom in the Institute, the only light in the room the illumination that streamed in through the single high window. It was blue light—twilight light. She lay twisted in the blanket; her jeans, jacket, and shoes were stacked neatly on a chair near the bed. And beside her was Jace, looking down at her, as if she had conjured him up by dreaming of him.

He was sitting on the bed, wearing his gear, as if he had just come from a fight, and his hair was tousled, the dim light from the window illuminating shadows under his eyes, the hollows of his temples, the bones of his cheeks. In this light he had the extreme and almost unreal beauty of a Modigliani painting, all elongated planes and angles.

She rubbed at her eyes, blinking away sleep. “What time is it?” she said. “How long—”

He pulled her toward him and kissed her, and for a moment she froze, suddenly very conscious that all she was wearing was a thin T-shirt and underwear. Then she went boneless against him. It was the sort of lingering kiss that turned her insides to water. The sort of kiss that might have made her feel that nothing was wrong, that things were as they had been before, and he was only glad to see her. But when his hands went to lift the hem of her T-shirt, she pushed them away.

“No,” she said, her fingers wrapped around his wrists. “You can’t just keep grabbing at me every time you see me. It’s not a substitute for actually talking.”

He took a ragged breath and said, “Why did you text Isabelle instead of me? If you were in trouble—”

“Because I knew she’d come,” said Clary. “And I don’t know that about you. Not right now.”

“If something had happened to you—”

“Then I guess you would have heard about it eventually. You know, when you deigned to actually pick up the phone.” She was still holding his wrists; she let go of them now, and sat back. It was hard, physically hard, to be close to him like this and not touch him, but she forced her hands down by her sides and kept them there. “Either you tell me what’s wrong, or you can get out of the room.”

His lips parted, but he said nothing; she didn’t think she’d spoken to him this harshly in a long time. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I mean, I know, with the way I’ve been acting, you’ve got no reason to listen to me. And I probably shouldn’t have come in here. But when Isabelle said you were hurt, I couldn’t stop myself.”

“Some burns,” Clary said. “Nothing that matters.”

“Everything that happens to you matters to me.”

“Well, that certainly explains why you haven’t called me back once. And the last time I saw you, you ran away without telling me why. It’s like dating a ghost.”

Jace’s mouth quirked up slightly at the side. “Not exactly. Isabelle actually dated a ghost. She could tell you—”

“No,” Clary said. “It was a metaphor. And you know exactly what I mean.”

For a moment he was silent. Then he said, “Let me see the burns.”

She held out her arms. There were harsh red splotches on the insides of her wrists where the demon’s blood had spattered. He took her wrists, very lightly, looking at her for permission first, and turned them over. She remembered the first time he had touched her, in the street outside Java Jones, searching her hands for Marks she didn’t have. “Demon blood,” he said. “They’ll go away in a few hours. Do they hurt?”

Clary shook her head.

“I didn’t know,” he said. “I didn’t know you needed me.”