Going to see Jace? Simon thought, but he didn’t press the point. If she didn’t want to talk about it, he wasn’t going to make her. “Here we are.” He opened the diner door for her, and a blast of warm souvlaki-smelling air hit them.
They found a booth over by one of the big flat-screen TVs that lined the walls. They crowded into it as Jocelyn and Luke chattered animatedly with each other about wedding plans. Luke’s pack, it seemed, felt insulted that they hadn’t been invited to the ceremony—even though the guest list was tiny—and were insisting on holding their own celebration in a renovated factory in Queens. Clary listened, not saying anything; the waitress came around, handing out menus so stiffly laminated they could have been used as weapons. Simon set his own on the table and stared out the window. There was a gym across the street, and he could see people through the plate glass that fronted it, running on treadmills, arms pumping, headphones clamped to their ears. All that running and getting nowhere, he thought. Story of my life.
He tried to force his thoughts away from dark places, and almost succeeded. This was one of the most familiar scenes in his life, he thought—a corner booth in a diner, himself and Clary and her family. Luke had always been family, even when he hadn’t been about to marry Clary’s mom. Simon ought to feel at home. He tried to force a smile, only to realize that Clary’s mother had just asked him something and he hadn’t heard her.
Everyone at the table was staring at him expectantly.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t—What did you say?”
Jocelyn smiled patiently. “Clary told me you’ve added a new member to your band?”
Simon knew she was just being polite. Well, polite in that way parents were when they pretended to take your hobbies seriously. Still, she’d come to several of his gigs before, just to help fill up the room. She did care about him; she always had. In the very dark, tucked-away places of his mind, Simon suspected she had always known how he felt about Clary, and he wondered if she wouldn’t have wanted her daughter to make a different choice, had it been something she could control. He knew she didn’t entirely like Jace. It was clear even in the way she said his name.
“Yeah,” he said. “Kyle. He’s kind of a weird guy, but supernice.” Invited, by Luke, to expand on the topic of Kyle’s weirdness, Simon told them about Kyle’s apartment—
careful to leave out the detail that it was now his apartment too—his bike messenger job, and his ancient, beat-up pickup truck. “And he grows these weird plants on the balcony,”
he added. “Not pot—I checked. They have sort of silvery leaves—”
Luke frowned, but before he could say anything, the waitress arrived, carrying a big silver coffee pitcher. She was young, with bleached pale hair tied into two braids. As she bent to fill Simon’s coffee cup, one of them brushed his arm. He could smell sweat on her, and under that, blood. Human blood, the sweetest smell of all. He felt a familiar tightening in his stomach. Coldness spread through him. He was hungry, and all he had back at Kyle’s place was room-temperature blood that was already beginning to separate—a sickening prospect, even for a vampire.
You have never fed on a human, have you? You will. And when you do, you will not forget it .
He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the waitress was gone and Clary was staring at him curiously across the table. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine.” He closed his hand around his coffee cup. It was shaking. Above them the TV
was still blaring the nightly news.
“Ugh,” Clary said, looking up at the screen. “Are you listening to this?”
Simon followed her gaze. The news anchor was wearing that expression news anchors tended to wear when they were reporting on something especially grim. “No one has come forward to identify an infant boy found abandoned in an alley behind Beth Israel hospital several days ago,” he was saying. “The infant is white, weighs six pounds and eight ounces, and is otherwise healthy. He was discovered strapped to an infant car seat behind a Dumpster in the alley,” the anchor went on. “Most disturbing, a handwritten note tucked into the child’s blanket begged hospital authorities to euthanize the child because ‘I don’t have the strength to do it myself.’ Police say it is likely that the child’s mother was mentally ill, and claim they have ‘promising leads.’ Anyone with information about this child should call Crime Stoppers at—”
“That’s so horrible,” Clary said, turning away from the TV with a shudder. “I can’t understand how people just dump their babies off like they’re trash—”
“Jocelyn,” Luke said, his voice sharp with concern. Simon looked toward Clary’s mother.
She was as white as a sheet and looked as if she were about to throw up. She pushed her plate away abruptly, stood up from the table, and hurried toward the bathroom. After a moment Luke dropped his napkin and went after her.
“Oh, crap.” Clary put her hand over her mouth. “I can’t believe I said that. I’m so stupid.”
Simon was thoroughly perplexed. “What’s going on?”
Clary slunk down in her seat. “She was thinking about Sebastian,” she said. “I mean Jonathan. My brother. I assume you remember him.”
She was being sarcastic. None of them was likely to forget Sebastian, whose real name was Jonathan and who had murdered Hodge and Max and had nearly succeeded in helping Valentine win a war that would have seen the destruction of all Shadowhunters.
Jonathan, who had had burning black eyes and a smile like a razor blade.
Jonathan, whose blood had tasted like battery acid when Simon had bitten him once. Not that he regretted it.
“But your mom didn’t abandon him,” Simon said. “She stuck with raising him even though she knew there was something horribly wrong with him.”
“She hated him, though,” Clary said. “I don’t think she’s ever gotten over that. Imagine hating your own baby. She used to take out a box that had his baby things in it and cry over it every year on his birthday. I think she was crying over the son she would have had—you know, if Valentine hadn’t done what he had.”
“And you would have had a brother,” said Simon. “Like, an actual one. Not a murdering psychopath.”
Looking close to tears, Clary pushed her plate away. “I feel sick now,” she said. “You know that feeling like you’re hungry but you can’t bring yourself to eat?”
Simon looked over at the bleached-haired waitress, who was leaning against the diner counter. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”