City of Fallen Angels

She smiled, and her teeth were white and sharp. “We will help each other.”


Simon leaned back. The iron chair was hard and uncomfortable, and he suddenly felt tired. Looking down at his hands, he could see that the veins had darkened, spidering across the backs of his knuckles. He needed blood. He needed to talk to Clary. He needed time to think.

“I’ve shocked you,” she said. “I know. It is a great deal to take in. I would be happy to give you as much time as you needed to make up your mind about this, and about me. But we don’t have much time, Simon. While I remain in this city, I am in danger from Raphael and his cohorts.”

“Cohorts?” Despite everything, Simon grinned slightly.

Camille seemed baffled. “Yes?”

“Well, it’s just … ‘Cohorts.’ It’s like saying ‘evildoers’ or ‘minions.’” She stared at him blankly. Simon sighed. “Sorry. You probably haven’t seen as many bad movies as I have.”

Camille frowned faintly, a very fine line appearing between her brows. “I was told you would be slightly peculiar. Perhaps it is just that I don’t know many vampires of your generation. But that will be good for me, I feel, to be around someone so … young.”

“New blood,” said Simon.

At that she did smile. “Are you ready, then? To accept my offer? To begin to work together?”

Simon looked up at the sky. The strings of white lights seemed to blot out the stars. “Look,” he said, “I appreciate your offer. I really do.” Crap, he thought. There had to be some way to say this without him sounding like he was turning down a date to the prom. I’m really, really flattered you asked, but… Camille, like Raphael, always spoke stiffly, formally, as if she were in a fairy tale. Maybe he could try that. He said, “I require some time to make my decision. I’m sure you understand.”

Very delicately, she smiled, showing only the tips of her fangs. “Five days,” she said. “And no longer.” She held out her gloved hand to him. Something gleamed in her palm. It was a small glass vial, the size that might hold a perfume sample, only it appeared to be full of brownish powder. “Grave dirt,” she explained. “Smash this, and I will know you are summoning me. If you do not summon me within five days I will send Walker for your answer.”

Simon took the vial and slipped it into his pocket. “And if the answer is no?”

“Then I will be disappointed. But we will part friends.” She pushed her wineglass away. “Good-bye, Simon.”

Simon stood up. The chair made a metallic squeaking sound as it dragged over the ground, too loud. He felt like he should say something else, but he had no idea what. For the moment, though, he seemed to be dismissed. He decided that he’d rather look like one of those weird modern vampires with bad manners than risk getting dragged back into the conversation. He left without saying anything else.

On his way back through the restaurant, he passed Walker and Archer, who were standing by the big wooden bar, their shoulders hunched under their long gray coats. He felt the force of their glares on him as he walked by and wiggled his fingers at them—a gesture somewhere between a friendly wave and a kiss-off. Archer bared his teeth—flat human teeth—and stalked past him toward the garden, Walker on his heels. Simon watched as they took their places in chairs across from Camille; she didn’t look up as they seated themselves, but the white lights that had illuminated the garden went out suddenly—not one by one but all at the same time—leaving Simon staring at a disorienting square of darkness, as if someone had switched off the stars. By the time the waiters noticed and hurried outside to rectify the problem, flooding the garden with pale light once again, Camille and her human subjugates had vanished.


Simon unlocked the front door of his house—one of a long chain of identical brick-fronted row houses that lined his Brooklyn block—and pushed it open slightly, listening hard.