City of Lost Souls

Simon had fallen back asleep after “speaking” with Clary. When he awoke again, the lights were on, and Isabelle knelt on the edge of the bed, wearing jeans and a worn T-shirt she must have borrowed from Alec. It had holes in the sleeves, and the stitching around the hem was coming undone. She had the collar pulled away from her throat and was using the tip of a stele to trace a rune onto the skin of her chest, just below her collarbone.

He raised himself up on his elbows. “What are you doing?”

“Iratze,” she said. “For this.” She tucked her hair back behind her ear, and he saw the two puncture wounds he’d made in the side of her throat. As she finished the rune, they smoothed over, leaving only the faintest white flecks behind.

“Are you… all right?” His voice came out in a whisper. Smooth. He was trying to bite back the other questions he wanted to ask. Did I hurt you? Do you think I’m a monster now? Have I creeped you out completely?

“I’m fine. I slept a lot later than I normally ever do, but I think that’s probably a good thing.” Seeing his expression, Isabelle slid her stele into her belt. She crawled toward Simon with a catlike grace and positioned herself over him, her hair falling down around them. They were so close their noses touched. She looked at him unblinklingly. “Why are you so crazy?” she said, and he could feel her breath against his face, as soft as a whisper.

He wanted to pull her down and kiss her—not bite her, just kiss her—but at that exact moment the apartment door buzzer sounded. A second later, someone knocked on the bedroom door—banged on it, really, making it shake on its hinges.

“Simon. Isabelle.” It was Magnus. “Look, I don’t care if you’re asleep or doing unspeakable things to each other. Get dressed and come out to the living room. Now.”

Simon locked gazes with Isabelle, who looked as puzzled as he did. “What’s going on?”

“Just get out here,” Magnus said, and the sound of his retreating feet was loud as he stalked away from their room.

Isabelle rolled off Simon, much to his disappointment, and sighed. “What do you think it is?”

“No idea,” said Simon. “Emergency meeting of Team Good, I guess.” He’d found the phrase amusing when Clary had used it. Isabelle, though, just shook her head and sighed.

“I’m not sure there is any such thing as Team Good these days,” she said.





13

THE BONE CHANDELIER



As the serpent’s head drove down toward Clary, a shining blur slashed across it, almost blinding her. A seraph blade, its shimmering knife edge slicing the demon’s head cleanly off. The head crumpled, spraying venom and ichor; Clary rolled to one side, but some of the toxic substance splattered onto her torso. The demon vanished before its two halves could strike the floor. Clary bit down on her cry of pain and moved to get to her feet. A hand was suddenly thrust into her field of vision—an offer to pull her to her feet. Jace, she thought, but as she looked up, she realized she was staring at her brother.

“Come on,” said Sebastian, his hand still out. “There are more of them.”

She grabbed his hand and let him lift her to her feet. He was splattered with demon blood too—blackish-green stuff that burned where it touched, leaving scorched patches on his clothing. As she stared at him, one of the snake-headed things—Elapid demons, she realized belatedly, remembering an illustration in a book—reared up behind him, its neck flattening out like a cobra’s. Without thinking, Clary grabbed his shoulder and shoved him out of the way, hard; he staggered back as the demon struck, and Clary rose to meet it with the dagger she had yanked from her belt. She turned her body aside as she drove the dagger home, avoiding the creature’s fangs; its hiss turned to a gurgle as the blade sank in and she dragged it down, gutting the creature open the way someone might gut a fish. Burning demon blood exploded over her hand in a hot torrent. She screamed but kept her grip on the dagger as the Elapid winked out of existence.