She looked up as he came closer. The rain had slowed, but she had clearly been out in it for some time; her hair was a heavy, wet curtain down her back. “Hey there,” she said, pushing off from the side of the van and coming toward him. “Where have you been?
You just ran offstage—”
“Yeah,” he said. “I wasn’t feeling well. Sorry.”
“As long as you’re better now.” She wrapped her arms around him and smiled up into his face. He felt a wave of relief that he didn’t feel any urge to bite her. Then another wave of guilt as he remembered why.
“You haven’t seen Jace anywhere, have you?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes. “I ran across him and Clary making out,” she said. “Although they’re gone now—home, I hope.
Those two epitomize ‘get a room.’”
“I didn’t think Clary was coming,” Simon said, though it wasn’t that odd; he supposed the cake appointment had been canceled or something. He didn’t even have the energy to be annoyed about what a terrible bodyguard Jace had turned out to be. It wasn’t as if he’d ever thought Jace took his personal safety all that seriously. He just hoped Jace and Clary had worked it out, whatever it was.
“Whatever.” Isabelle grinned. “Since it’s just us, do you want to go somewhere and—”
A voice—a very familiar voice—spoke out of the shadows just beyond the reach of the nearest streetlight.
“Simon?” “Simon?”
Oh, no, not now. Not right now.
He turned slowly. Isabelle’s arm was still loosely clasped around his waist, though he knew that wouldn’t last much longer. Not if the person speaking was who he thought it was.
It was.
Maia had moved into the light, and was standing looking at him, an expression of disbelief on her face. Her normally curly hair was pasted to her head with rain, her amber eyes very wide, her jeans and denim jacket soaked. She was clutching a rolled-up piece of paper in her left hand.
Simon was vaguely aware that off to the side the band members had slowed down their movements and were openly gawking. Isabelle’s arm slid off his waist. “Simon?” she said. “What’s going on?”
“You told me you were going to be busy,” Maia said, looking at Simon. “Then someone shoved this under the station door this morning.” She thrust the rolled-up paper forward; it was instantly recognizable as one of the flyers for the band’s performance tonight.