City of Lost Souls

Simon let her hold him, propping himself up on his hands. He realized he was listing like a ship with a hole in the side, and tried not to move. He was afraid that if he did, he would fall over. “I am dead.”


“I know,” Izzy snapped. “I mean more dead than usual.”

“Iz.” He raised his face to hers. She was kneeling over him, her legs around his, her arms around his neck. It looked uncomfortable. He let himself fall back into the sand, taking her with him. He thumped down onto his back in the cold sand with her on top of him and stared up into her black eyes. They seemed to take up the whole sky.

She touched his forehead in wonder. “Your Mark’s gone.”

“Raziel took it away. In exchange for the sword.” He gestured toward the blade. Up at the farmhouse, he could see two dark specks standing in front of the sunporch, watching them. Alec and Magnus. “It’s the Archangel Michael’s sword. It’s called Glorious.”

“Simon…” She kissed his cheek. “You did it. You got the Angel. You got the sword.”

Magnus and Alec had started down the path to the lake. Simon closed his eyes, exhausted. Isabelle leaned over him, her hair brushing the sides of his face. “Don’t try to talk.” She smelled like tears. “You’re not cursed anymore,” she whispered. “You’re not cursed.”

Simon linked his fingers with hers. He felt as if he were floating on a dark river, the shadows closing in around him. Only her hand anchored him to earth. “I know.”





19

LOVE AND BLOOD



Methodically and carefully Clary was tearing Jace’s room apart. She was still in her tank top, though she’d pulled on a pair of jeans; her hair was scraped behind her head in a messy bun, and her nails were powdered with dust. She had searched under his bed, in all the drawers and cabinets, crawled under the wardrobe and desk, and looked in the pockets of all his clothes for a second stele, but she had found nothing.

She had told Sebastian she was exhausted, that she needed to go upstairs and lie down; he had seemed distracted and had waved her away. Images of Jace’s face kept flashing behind her eyelids every time she shut her eyes—the way he had looked at her, betrayed, as if he didn’t know her anymore.

But there was no point dwelling on that. She could sit on the edge of the bed and cry into her hands, thinking about what she had done, but it would do no one any good. She owed it to Jace, to herself, to keep moving. Searching. If she could just find a stele—

She was lifting the mattress off the bed, searching the space between it and the box springs, when a knock came on the door.

She dropped the mattress, though not before discerning that there was nothing under it. She tightened her hands into fists, took a deep breath, stalked to the door and threw it open.

Sebastian stood on the threshold. For the first time he was wearing something other than black and white. The same black trousers and boots, admittedly, but he also wore a scarlet leather tunic, intricately worked with gold and silver runes, and held together by a row of metal clasps across the front. There were hammered silver bracelets on each of his wrists, and he wore the Morgenstern ring.

She blinked at him. “Red?”

“Ceremonial,” he replied. “Colors mean different things to Shadowhunters than they do to humans.” He said the word “humans” with contempt. “You know the old Nephilim children’s rhyme, don’t you?

Black for hunting through the night

For death and sorrow, the color’s white.

Gold for a bride in her wedding gown,

And red to call enchantment down.”

“Shadowhunters get married in gold?” Clary said. Not that she cared particularly, but she was trying to wedge her body into the gap between the door and the frame so that he couldn’t look behind her and see the mess she’d made out of Jace’s normally neat room.

“Sorry to crush your dreams of a white wedding.” He grinned at her. “Speaking of which, I brought you something to wear.”

He drew his hand out from behind his back. He was holding a folded item of clothing. She took it from him and let it unroll. It was a long, drifting column of scarlet fabric with an odd golden sheen to the material, like the edge of a flame. The straps were gold.

“Our mother used to wear this to Circle ceremonies before she betrayed our father,” he said. “Put it on. I want you to wear it tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Well, you can hardly go to the ceremony in what you’re wearing now.” His eyes raked her, from her bare feet to the tank top clinging to her body with sweat, to her dusty jeans. “How you look tonight—the impression you make on our new acolytes—is important. Put it on.”

Her mind was whirling. The ceremony tonight. Our new acolytes. “How much time do I have—to get ready?” she asked.

“An hour perhaps,” he said. “We should be at the sacred site by midnight. The others will be gathering there. It wouldn’t do to be late.”