City of Lost Souls

He shook his head. “Let’s get out of here, then. This place gives me the creeps.”


Maia agreed, relieved not to be the one who had to say it. She fell into step beside Jordan as they made their way down a set of stairs whose banister was so flaked with crumbling plaster that it resembled snow. She wasn’t sure why exactly she’d agreed to patrol with him, but she couldn’t deny that they made a decent team.

Jordan was easy to be with. Despite what had happened between them just before Jace had disappeared, he was respectful, keeping his distance without making her feel awkward. The moonlight was bright on both of them as they came out of the hospital and into the open space in front of it. It was a great white marble building whose boarded-over windows looked like blank eyes. A crooked tree, shedding its last leaves, hunched before the front doors.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” said Jordan. Maia looked over at him. He was staring at the old naval hospital, which was how she preferred it. She liked looking at Jordan when he wasn’t looking at her. That way she could watch the angle of his jawline, the way his dark hair curled against the back of his neck, the curve of his collarbone under the V of his T-shirt, without feeling like he expected anything from her for looking.

He’d been a pretty hipster boy when she’d met him, all angles and eyelashes, but he was older-looking now, with scarred knuckles and muscles that moved smoothly under his close-fitting green T-shirt. He still had the olive tone to his skin that echoed his Italian heritage, and the hazel eyes she remembered, though they had the gold-ringed pupils of lycanthropy now. The same pupils she saw when she looked in the mirror every morning. The pupils she had because of him.

“Maia?” He was looking at her quizzically. “What do you think?”

“Oh.” She blinked. “I, ah—No, I don’t think there was much point in searching the hospital. I mean, to be honest, I can’t see why they sent us down here at all. The Brooklyn Navy Yard? Why would Jace be here? It’s not like he had a thing for boats.”

Jordan’s expression went from quizzical to something much darker. “When bodies wind up in the East River, a lot of times they wash up here. The navy yard.”

“You think we’re looking for a body?”

“I don’t know.” With a shrug he turned and started walking. His boots rustled in the dry, choppy grass. “Maybe at this point I’m just searching because it feels wrong to give up.”

His pace was slow, unhurried; they walked shoulder to shoulder, nearly touching. Maia kept her eyes fixed on the Manhattan skyline across the river, a wash of brilliant white light reflecting in the water. As they neared the shallow Wallabout Bay, the arch of the Brooklyn Bridge came into view, and the lit-up rectangle of the South Street Seaport across the water. She could smell the polluted miasma of the water, the dirt and diesel of the navy yard, the scent of small animals moving in the grass.

“I don’t think Jace is dead,” she said finally. “I think he doesn’t want to be found.”

At that, Jordan did look at her. “Are you saying we shouldn’t be looking?”

“No.” She hesitated. They had come out by the river, near a low wall; she trailed her hand along the top of it as they walked. There was a narrow strip of asphalt between them and the water. “When I ran away to New York, I didn’t want to be found. But I would have liked the idea that someone was looking for me as hard as everyone’s looking for Jace Lightwood.”

“Did you like Jace?” Jordan’s voice was neutral.

“Like him? Well, not like that.”

Jordan laughed. “I didn’t mean like that. Although, he seems to be generally considered stunningly attractive.”

“Are you going to pull that straight-guy thing where you pretend that you can’t tell whether other guys are attractive or not? Jace, the hairy guy at the deli on Ninth, they all look the same to you?”

“Well, the hairy guy has that mole, so I think Jace comes out slightly ahead. If you like that whole chiseled, blond, Abercrombie-and-Fitch-wishes-they-could-afford-me thing.” He looked at her through his eyelashes.

“I always liked dark-haired boys,” she said in a low voice.

He looked at the river. “Like Simon.”

“Well—yeah.” Maia hadn’t thought about Simon that way in a while. “I guess so.”

“And you like musicians.” He reached up and pulled a leaf off a low-hanging branch overhead. “I mean, I’m a singer, and Bat was a DJ, and Simon—”

“I like music.” Maia pushed her hair back from her face.

“What else do you like?” Jordan tore at the leaf in his fingers. He paused and hoisted himself up to sit on the low wall, swinging around to face her. “I mean, is there anything you like so much you think you might want to do it for, like, a living?”