City of Lost Souls

GOOD NEWS! LUKE IS AWAKE AND TALKING. IT LOOKS LIKE HE’S GOING TO BE OKAY.

Relief poured over Simon in a wave. Finally, good news. He flipped the phone shut and reached for the ring on his hand. Clary?

Nothing.

He swallowed his nerves. She was probably asleep. He looked up to find all three of the people at the table staring at him.

“Who called?” Isabelle asked.

“It was Maia. She says Luke’s up and talking. That he’s going to be okay.” There was a chatter of relieved voices, but Simon was still staring down at the ring on his hand. “She gave me an idea.”

Isabelle had been on her feet, heading toward him; at that, she paused, looking worried. Simon supposed he didn’t blame her. His ideas had been downright suicidal of late. “What is it?” she said.

“What do we need to summon Raziel? How much space?” Simon asked.

Magnus paused over a book. “A mile around at least. Water would be good. Like Lake Lyn—”

“Luke’s farm,” Simon said. “Upstate. An hour or two away. It should be shut up now, but I know how to get there. And there’s a lake. Not as big as Lyn, but…”

Magnus closed the book he was holding. “That’s not a bad idea, Seamus.”

“A few hours?” Isabelle said, looking up at the clock. “We could be there by—”

“Oh, no,” said Magnus. He pushed the book away from him. “While your enthusiasm is boundless and impressive, Isabelle, I’m too exhausted to properly cast the summoning spell at the moment. And this isn’t something I want to take risks with. I think we can all agree.”

“So when?” Alec asked.

“We need a few hours sleep at least,” Magnus said. “I say we leave early afternoon. Sherlock—sorry, Simon—call and see if you can borrow Jordan’s truck in the meantime. And now…” He pushed his papers to the side. “I’m going to sleep. Isabelle, Simon, you’re more than welcome to use the spare room again if you like.”

“Different spare rooms would be better,” Alec muttered.

Isabelle looked at Simon with questioning dark eyes, but he was already reaching into his pocket for his phone. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be back by noon, but for now there’s something important I have to do.”



In the daylight Paris was a city of narrow, curving streets that opened out into wide avenues, mellow golden buildings with slate-colored roofs, and a glittering river that sliced across it like a dueling scar. Sebastian, despite his claim that he was going to prove to Clary that he had a plan, didn’t say much as they made their way up a street lined with art galleries and stores selling dusty old books, to reach the Quai des Grands Augustins by the river’s edge.

There was a cool wind coming off the Seine, and she shivered. Sebastian unwound the scarf from around his neck and handed it to her. It was a heathery black and white tweed, still warm from being wrapped around his neck.

“Don’t be stupid,” he said. “You’re cold. Put it on.”

Clary wound it around her neck. “Thanks,” she said reflexively, and winced.

There. She had thanked Sebastian. She waited for a bolt of lightning to shoot out of the clouds and strike her dead. But nothing happened.

He gave her an odd look. “You all right? You look like you’re going to sneeze.”

“I’m fine.” The scarf smelled like citrusy cologne and boy. She wasn’t sure what she’d thought it would smell like. They started to walk again. This time Sebastian slowed his pace, walking alongside her, pausing to explain that neighborhoods in Paris were numbered, and they were crossing from the sixth into the fifth, the Latin Quarter, and that the bridge they could see spanning the river in the distance was the Pont Saint-Michel. There were a lot of young people walking past them, Clary noticed; girls her age or older, impossibly stylish in tight-fitting pants and sky-high heels, long hair blowing in the wind off the Seine. Quite a few of them stopped to give Sebastian appreciative glances, which he didn’t seem to notice.

Jace, she thought, would have noticed. Sebastian was striking, with his icy white hair and black eyes. She had thought he was handsome the first time she’d met him, and he’d had his hair dyed black then; it hadn’t suited him, really. He looked better like this. The pallor of his hair gave his skin some color, drew your eyes to the flush along his high cheekbones, the graceful shape of his face. His eyelashes were incredibly long, a shade darker than his hair, and curled slightly, just like Jocelyn’s—so unfair. Why hadn’t she gotten the curling lashes in the family? And why didn’t he have a single freckle? “So,” she said abruptly, cutting him off in the middle of a sentence, “what are we?”

He gave her a sidelong look. “What do you mean, ‘What are we?’”