City of Lost Souls

Simon’s mouth went dry. He had seen countless paintings of angels, believed in them, had heard Magnus’s warning. And still he felt as if he had been struck through with a spear as before him a pair of wings unfolded. They seemed to span the sky. They were vast, white and gold and silver, the feathers of them set with burning golden eyes. The eyes regarded him with scorn. Then the wings lifted, scattering clouds before them, and folded back, and a man—or the shape of a man, towering and many stories tall, unfolded itself and rose.

Simon’s teeth had started to chatter. He wasn’t sure why. But waves of power, of something more than power—of the elemental force of the universe—seemed to roll off the Angel as he rose to his full height. Simon’s first and rather bizarre thought was that it looked as if someone had taken Jace and blown him up to the size of a billboard. Only he didn’t quite look like Jace at all. He was gold all over, from his wings to his skin to his eyes, which had no whites at all, only a sheen of gold like a membrane. His hair was gold and looked cut from pieces of metal that curled like wrought ironwork. He was alien and terrifying. Too much of anything could destroy you, Simon thought. Too much darkness could kill, but too much light could blind.

Who dares to summon me? The Angel spoke in Simon’s mind, in a voice like great bells sounding.

Tricky question, Simon thought. If he were Jace, he could say “one of the Nephilim,” and if he were Magnus, he could say he was one of Lilith’s children and a High Warlock. Clary and the Angel had already met, so he supposed they’d just chum it up. But he was Simon, without any titles to his name or any great deeds in his past. “Simon Lewis,” he said finally, setting the spell book down and straightening up. “Night’s Child, and… your servant.”

My servant? Raziel’s voice was frozen with icy disapproval. You summon me like a dog and dare to call yourself my servant? You shall be blasted from this world, that your fate may serve as a warning to others not to do likewise. It is forbidden for my own Nephilim to summon me. Why should it be different for you, Daylighter?

Simon supposed he should not be shocked that the Angel knew what he was, but it was startling nevertheless, as startling as the Angel’s size. Somehow he had thought Raziel would be more human. “I—”

Do you think because you carry the blood of one of my descendants, I must show you mercy? If so, you have gambled and lost. The mercy of Heaven is for the deserving. Not for those who break our Covenant Laws.

The Angel raised a hand, his finger pointed directly at Simon.

Simon braced himself. This time he did not try to say the words, only thought them. Hear, O Israel! The Lord is our God, the Lord is one—

What Mark is that? Raziel’s voice was confounded. On your forehead, child.

“It is the Mark,” Simon stammered. “The first Mark. The Mark of Cain.”

Raziel’s great arm lowered slowly. I would kill you, but the Mark prevents it. That Mark was meant to be set between your brows by Heaven’s hand, yet I know it was not. How can this be?

The Angel’s obvious bafflement emboldened Simon. “One of your children, the Nephilim,” he said. “One especially gifted. She set it there, to protect me.” He took a step closer to the edge of the circle. “Raziel, I came to ask a favor of you, in the name of those Nephilim. They face a grave danger. One of their own has—has been turned to darkness, and he threatens all the rest. They need your help.”

I do not intervene.

“But you did intervene,” Simon said. “When Jace was dead, you brought him back. Not that we’re not all really happy about that, but if you hadn’t, none of this would be happening. So in a way it rests on you to set it right.”

I may not be able to kill you, Raziel mused. But there is no reason I should give you what you want.

“I haven’t even said what I want,” said Simon.

You want a weapon. Something that can sever Jonathan Morgenstern from Jonathan Herondale. You would kill the one and preserve the other. Easiest of course to simply kill both. Your Jonathan was dead, and perhaps death longs for him still, and he for it. Has that ever crossed your mind?

“No,” said Simon. “I know we’re not much compared to you, but we don’t kill our friends. We try to save them. If Heaven didn’t want it that way, we ought never have been given the ability to love.” He shoved his hair back, baring the Mark more fully. “No, you don’t need to help me. But if you don’t, there’s nothing stopping me from calling you up again and again, now that I know you can’t kill me. Think of it as me leaning against your Heavenly doorbell… forever.”

Raziel, incredibly, seemed to chuckle at that. You are stubborn, he said. A veritable warrior of your people, like him whose name you bear, Simon Maccabeus. And as he gave everything for his brother Jonathan, so shall you give everything for your Jonathan. Or are you not willing?

“It’s not just for him,” said Simon, a little dazed. “But, yes, whatever you want. I will give it to you.”

If I give you what you want, will you also vow never to bother me again?

“I don’t think,” said Simon, “that that will be a problem.”