City of Lost Souls

“Of course some of us,” Jordan muttered, “are easier to rehabilitate than others.”


As Rufus’s heavy tread faded down the hall, Scott threw himself into the high-backed chair behind the desk and buzzed a joltingly modern-looking intercom. After requesting breakfast in a terse voice, he leaned back, hands clasped behind his head.

“I’m all ears,” he said.

As Jordan recounted their story, and their request, to Praetor Scott, Maia couldn’t keep her eyes and mind from wandering. She wondered what it would have been like to have been raised here, in this elegant house of rules and regulations, rather than with the comparatively lawless freedom of the pack. At some point a werewolf dressed all in black—it seemed to be the regulation outfit of the Praetor—came in with sliced roast beef, cheese, and protein drinks on a pewter tray. Maia eyed the breakfast with some dismay. It was true that werewolves needed more protein than normal people, much more, but roast beef for breakfast?

“You’ll find,” Praetor Scott said as Maia drank her protein shake gingerly, “that, in fact, refined sugar is harmful to werewolves. If you cease consuming it for a period of time, you will cease desiring it. Hasn’t your pack leader told you that?”

Maia tried to imagine Luke, who liked to make pancakes in odd and amusing shapes, lecturing her about sugar, and failed. Now was not the time to mention that, though. “No, he has, of course,” she said. “I tend to, ah, backslide in times of stress.”

“I understand your concern for your pack leader,” said Scott. A gold Rolex glinted on his wrist. “Normally we maintain a strict policy of noninterference regarding matters not related to new-fledged Downworlders. We do not, in fact, prioritize werewolves over other Downworlders, though only lycanthropes are allowed into the Praetor.”

“But that’s exactly why we do need your help,” said Jordan. “Packs are by their nature always moving, transitional. They have no opportunity to build up things like libraries of stored knowledge. I’m not saying they don’t have wisdom, but everything is an oral tradition and every pack knows different things. We could go from pack to pack, and maybe someone would know how to cure Luke, but we don’t have time. Here”—he gestured at the books lining the walls—“is the closest thing werewolves have to, say, the archives of the Silent Brothers or the Spiral Labyrinth of the warlocks.”

Scott looked unconvinced. Maia set her protein shake down. “And Luke isn’t just any pack leader,” she said. “He’s the lyncanthrope’s representative on the Council. If you helped cure him, you would know that the Praetor would always have a Council voice in their favor.”

Scott’s eyes glinted. “Interesting,” he said. “Very well. I’ll have a look through the books. It’ll probably take a few hours. Jordan, I suggest that if you’re going to drive back to Manhattan you get some rest. We don’t need you wrapping your truck around a tree.”

“I could drive—,” Maia began.

“You look equally exhausted. Jordan, as you know, there will always be a room for you here at the Praetor House, even though you’ve graduated. And Nick is on assignment, so there’s a bed for Maia. Why don’t you both get some rest, and I’ll call you down when I’m finished.” He swiveled around in his chair to examine the books on the walls.

Jordan gestured to Maia that this was their cue to leave; she stood up, brushing crumbs off her jeans. She was halfway to the door when Praetor Scott spoke again.

“Oh, and Maia Roberts,” he said, and his voice held a note of warning. “I hope you understand that when you make promises in other people’s names, it falls upon your head to make sure they follow through.”



Simon awoke still feeling exhausted, blinking in the darkness. The thick black curtains over the windows let in very little light, but his internal body clock told him it was daytime. That and the fact that Isabelle was gone, her side of the bed rumpled, the covers turned back.

Daytime, and he hadn’t talked to Clary since she’d gone. He drew his hand out from under the covers and looked at the gold ring on his right hand. Delicate, it was etched with what were either designs or words in an alphabet he didn’t know.

Clenching his jaw, he sat up and touched the ring. Clary?

The answer was immediate and clear. He nearly slid off the bed with relief. Simon. Thank God.

Can you talk?

No. He felt rather than heard a tense distraction in the voice of her mind. I’m glad you spoke to me, but now isn’t good. I’m not alone.

But you’re all right?

I’m fine. Nothing’s happened yet. I’m trying to gather information. I promise I’ll talk to you the moment I hear anything.

Okay. Take care of yourself.

You too.