City of Lost Souls

Isabelle had been trained to wake early every morning, rain or shine, and a slight hangover did nothing to prevent it from happening again. She sat up slowly and blinked down at Simon.

She’d never spent an entire night in a bed with anyone else, unless you counted crawling into her parents’ bed when she was four and afraid of thunderstorms. She couldn’t help staring at Simon as if he were some exotic species of animal. He lay on his back, his mouth slightly open, his hair in his eyes. Ordinary brown hair, ordinary brown eyes. His T-shirt was pulled up slightly. He wasn’t muscular like a Shadowhunter. He had a smooth flat stomach but no six-pack, and there was still a hint of softness to his face. What was it about him that fascinated her? He was plenty cute, but she had dated gorgeous faerie knights, sexy Shadowhunters.…

“Isabelle,” Simon said without opening his eyes. “Quit staring at me.”

Isabelle sighed irritably and swung herself out of bed. She rummaged in her bag for her gear, retrieved it, and headed out to find the bathroom.

It was halfway down the hall, and the door was just opening, Alec emerging in a cloud of steam. He had a towel around his waist and another around his shoulders and was rubbing energetically at his wet black hair. Isabelle supposed she shouldn’t be surprised to see him; he’d been trained to wake up early in the morning just like she had.

“You smell like sandalwood,” she said by way of greeting. She hated the smell of sandalwood. She liked sweet scents—vanilla, cinnamon, gardenia.

Alec looked at her. “We like sandalwood.”

Isabelle made a face. “Either that’s the royal ‘we’ or you and Magnus are turning into one of those couples that think they’re one person. ‘We like sandalwood.’ ‘We adore the symphony.’ ‘We hope you enjoy our Christmas present’—which, if you ask me, is just a cheap way of avoiding having to buy two gifts.”

Alec blinked wet lashes at her. “You’ll understand—”

“If you tell me I’ll understand when I’m in love, I’ll smother you with that towel.”

“And if you keep preventing me from going back to my room and getting dressed, I’ll get Magnus to summon up pixies to tie your hair in knots.”

“Oh, get out of my way.” Isabelle kicked at Alec’s ankle until he moved, unhurriedly, down the hall. She had the feeling if she turned around and looked at him he’d be sticking his tongue out at her, so she didn’t look. Instead she locked herself in the bathroom and turned on the shower, full steam. Then she looked at the rack of shower products and said an unladylike word.

Sandalwood shampoo, conditioner, and soap. Ugh.

When she finally emerged, dressed in her gear and with her hair up, she found Alec, Magnus, and Jocelyn waiting for her in the living room. There were doughnuts, which she didn’t want, and coffee, which she did. She poured a liberal amount of milk into it and sat back, looking at Jocelyn, who was also dressed—to Isabelle’s surprise—in Shadowhunter gear.

It was odd, she mused. People often told her she looked like her mother, though she didn’t see it herself, and she wondered now if it was in the same way that Clary looked like Jocelyn. The same color hair, yes, but also the same cast of features, the same tilt of the head, the same stubborn set to the jaw. The same sense that this person might look like a porcelain doll but was steel underneath. Although, Isabelle wished that, in the same way that Clary had gotten her mother’s green eyes, she’d gotten Maryse and Robert’s blue ones. Blue was so much more interesting than black.

“As with the Silent City, there is only one Adamant Citadel, but there are many doors through which one may find it,” said Magnus. “The closest to us is the old Augustinian Monastery on Grymes Hill, in Staten Island. Alec and I will Portal with you there and wait for you to return, but we can’t go with you all the way.”

“I know,” said Isabelle. “Because you’re boys. Cooties.”

Alec pointed a finger at her. “Take this seriously, Isabelle. The Iron Sisters aren’t like the Silent Brothers. They’re way less friendly and they don’t like being bothered.”

“I promise I’ll be on my best behavior,” Isabelle said, and set her empty coffee mug down on the table. “Let’s go.”

Magnus looked at her suspiciously for a moment, then shrugged. His hair was gelled up today into a million sharp points, and his eyes were smudged with black, making them look more catlike than ever. He moved past her to the wall, already murmuring in Latin; the familiar outline of a Portal, its arcane door shape outlined with glittering symbols, began to take form. Wind rose, cool and sharp, blowing back the tendrils of Isabelle’s hair.