City of Lost Souls

Very well, said the Angel. I will tell you what I desire. I desire that blasphemous Mark on your forehead. I would take the Mark of Cain from you, for it was never your place to carry it.

“I—but if you take the Mark, then you can kill me,” Simon said. “Isn’t it the only thing standing between me and your Heavenly wrath?”

The Angel paused to consider for a moment. I shall swear not to harm you. Whether you bear the Mark or not.

Simon hesitated. The Angel’s expression turned thunderous. The vow of an Angel of Heaven is the most sacred there is. Do you dare to distrust me, Downworlder?

“I…” Simon paused for an excruciating moment. His eyes were filled with the memory of Clary standing on her tiptoes as she pressed the stele to his forehead; the first time he had seen the Mark work, when he had felt like the conductor for a lightning bolt, sheer energy passing through him with deadly force. It was a curse, one that had terrified him and made him an object of desire and fear. He had hated it. And yet now, faced with giving it up, the thing that made him special…

He swallowed hard. “Fine. Yes. I agree.”

The Angel smiled, and his smile was terrible, like looking directly into the sun. Then I swear not to harm you, Simon Maccabeus.

“Lewis,” Simon said. “My last name is Lewis.”

But you are of the blood and faith of the Maccabees. Some say the Maccabees were Marked by the hand of God. In either case you are a warrior of Heaven, Daylighter, whether you like it or not.

The Angel moved. Simon’s eyes watered, for Raziel seemed to draw the sky with him like a cloth, in swirls of black and silver and cloud-white. The air around him shuddered. Something flashed overhead like the glint of light off metal, and an object struck the sand and rocks beside Simon with a metallic clatter.

It was a sword—nothing special to look at either, a beaten-up-looking old iron sword with a blackened hilt. The edges were ragged, as if acid had eaten at them, though the tip was sharp. It looked like something that an archeological dig might have turned up, that hadn’t been properly cleaned yet.

The Angel spoke. Once when Joshua was near Jericho, he looked up and saw a man standing before him with a drawn sword in his hand. Joshua went to him and said, “Are you one of us, or one of our adversaries?” He replied, “Neither, but as commander of the army of the Lord, I have now come.”

Simon glanced down at the unprepossesing object at his feet. “And that’s this sword?”

It is the sword of the Archangel Michael, commander of the armies of Heaven. It possesses the power of Heaven’s fire. Strike your enemy with this, and it will burn the evil out of him. If he is more evil than good, more Hell’s than Heaven’s, it will also burn the life from him. It will most certainly sever his bond with your friend—and it can harm only one of them at a time.

Simon bent down and picked the sword up. It sent a shock through his hand, up his arm, into his motionless heart. Instinctively he raised it, and the clouds above seemed to part for a moment, a ray of light arcing down to strike the dull metal of the sword and make it sing.

The Angel looked down upon him with cold eyes. The name of the sword cannot be spoken by your meager human tongue. You may call it Glorious.

“I… ,” Simon began. “Thank you.”

Do not thank me. I would have killed you, Daylighter, but your Mark, and now my vow, prevent it. The Mark of Cain was meant to be placed upon you by God, and it was not. It shall be wiped from your brow, its protection removed. And if you call upon me again, I will not help you.

Instantly the beam of light shining down from the clouds intensified, striking the sword like a whip of fire, surrounding Simon in a cage of brilliant light and heat. The sword burned; he cried out and fell to the ground, pain lancing through his head. It felt as if someone were jabbing a red hot needle between his eyes. He covered his face, burying his head in his arms, letting the pain wash over him. It was the worst agony he had felt since the night he had died.

It faded slowly, ebbing like the tide. He rolled onto his back, staring up, his head still aching. The black clouds were beginning to roll back, showing a widening strip of blue; the Angel was gone, the lake surging under the growing light as if the water were boiling.

Simon began to sit up slowly, his eyes squinted painfully against the sun. He could see someone racing down the path from the farmhouse to the lake. Someone with long black hair, and a purple jacket that flew out behind her like wings. She hit the end of the path and leaped onto the lakeside, her boots kicking up puffs of sand behind her. She reached him and threw herself down, wrapping her arms around him. “Simon,” she whispered.

He could feel the strong, steady beat of Isabelle’s heart.

“I thought you were dead,” she went on. “I saw you fall down, and—I thought you were dead.”