Camille frowned faintly, a very fine line appearing between her brows. “I was told you would be slightly peculiar.
Perhaps it is just that I don’t know many vampires of your generation. But that will be good for me, I feel, to be around someone so . . . young.”
“New blood,” said Simon.
At that she did smile. “Are you ready, then? To accept my offer? To begin to work together?”
Simon looked up at the sky. The strings of white lights seemed to blot out the stars.
“Look,” he said, “I appreciate your offer. I really do.” Crap, he thought. There had to be some way to say this without him sounding like he was turning down a date to the prom.
I’m really, really flattered you asked, but . . . Camille, like Raphael, always spoke stiffly, formally, as if she were in a fairy tale. Maybe he could try that. He said, “I require some time to make my decision. I’m sure you understand.”
Very delicately, she smiled, showing only the tips of her fangs. “Five days,” she said.
“And no longer.” She held out her gloved hand to him. Something gleamed in her palm.
It was a small glass vial, the size that might hold a perfume sample, only it appeared to be full of brownish powder. “Grave dirt,” she explained. “Smash this, and I will know you are summoning me. If you do not summon me within five days I will send Walker for your answer.”
Simon took the vial and slipped it into his pocket. “And if the answer is no?”
“Then I will be disappointed. But we will part friends.” She pushed her wineglass away.
“Good-bye, Simon.”
Simon stood up. The chair made a metallic squeaking sound as it dragged over the ground, too loud. He felt like he should say something else, but he had no idea what. For the moment, though, he seemed to be dismissed. He decided that he’d rather look like one of those weird modern vampires with bad manners than risk getting dragged back into the conversation. He left without saying anything else.
On his way back through the restaurant, he passed Walker and Archer, who were standing by the big wooden bar, their shoulders hunched under their long gray coats. He felt the force of their glares on him as he walked by and wiggled his fingers at them—a gesture somewhere between a friendly wave and a kiss-off. Archer bared his teeth —
flathumanteeth—and stalked pasthim toward the garden, Walker on his heels.
Simonwatched as theytook their places in chairs across from Camille; she didn’t look up as they seated themselves, but the white lights that had illuminated the garden went out suddenly—not one by one but all at the same time—leaving Simon staring at a disorienting square of darkness, as if someone had switched off the stars. By the time the waiters noticed and hurried outside to rectify the problem, flooding the garden with pale light once again, Camille and her human subjugates had vanished.
Simon unlocked the front door of his house—one of a long chain of identical brick-fronted row houses that lined his Brooklyn block—and pushed it open slightly, listening hard.
He had told his mother he was going out to practice with Eric and his other bandmates for a gig on Saturday.
There had been a time when she simply would have believed him, and that would have been that; Elaine Lewis had always been a relaxed parent, never imposing a curfew on either Simon or his sister or insisting that they be home early on school nights. Simon was used to staying out until all hours with Clary, letting himself in with his key, and collapsing into bed at two in the morning, behavior that hadn’t excited much comment from his mother.
Things were different now. He had been in Idris, the Shadowhunters’ home country, for almost two weeks. He had vanished from home, with no chance to offer an excuse or explanation. The warlock Magnus Bane had stepped in and performed a memory spell on Simon’s mother so that she now had no recollection that he had been missing at all. Or at least, no conscious recollection. Her behavior had changed, though. She was suspicious now, hovering, always watching him, insisting he be home at certain times. The last time he had come home from a date with Maia, he had found Elaine in the foyer, sitting in a chair facing the door, her arms crossed over her chest and a look of barely tempered rage on her face.
That night, he’d been able to hear her breathing before he’d seen her. Now he could hear only the faint sound of the television coming from the living room. She must have waited up for him, probably watching a marathon of one of those hospital dramas she loved.
Simon swung the door closed behind him and leaned against it, trying to gather his energy to lie.
It was hard enough not eating around his family. Thankfully his mother went to work early and got back late, and Rebecca, who went to college in New Jersey and only came home occasionally to do her laundry, wasn’t around often enough to notice anything odd.
His mom was usually gone in the morning by the time he got up, the breakfast and lunch she’d lovingly prepared for him left out on the kitchen counter. He’d dump it into a trash bin on his way to school. Dinner was tougher. On the nights she was there, he had to push his food around his plate, pretend he wasn’t hungry or that he wanted to take his food into his bedroom so he could eat while studying. Once or twice he’d forced the food down, just to make her happy, and spent hours in the bathroom afterward, sweating and retching until it was out of his system.
He hated having to lie to her. He’d always felt a little sorry for Clary, with her fraught relationship with Jocelyn, the most overprotective parent he’d ever known. Now the shoe was on the other foot. Since Valentine’s death, Jocelyn’s grip on Clary had relaxed to the point where she was practically a normal parent. Meanwhile, whenever Simon was home, he could feel the weight of his mother’s gaze on him, like an accusation wherever he went.
Squaring his shoulders, he dropped his messenger bag by the door and headed into the living room to face the music. The TV was on, the news blaring. The local announcer was reporting on a human interest story—a baby found abandoned in an alley behind a hospital downtown. Simon was surprised; his mom hated the news. She found it depressing. He glanced toward the couch, and his surprise faded. His mother was asleep, her glasses on the table beside her, a half-empty glass on the floor. Simon could smell it from here—probably whiskey. He felt a pang. His mom hardly ever drank.
Simon went into his mother’s bedroom and returned with a crocheted blanket. His mom was still asleep, her breathing slow and even. Elaine Lewis was a tiny, birdlike woman, with a halo of black curling hair, streaked with gray that she refused to dye. She worked during the day for an environmental nonprofit, and most of her clothes had animal motifs on them. Right now she was wearing a dress tie-dye printed with dolphins and waves, and a pin that had once been a live fish, dipped in resin. Its lacquered eye seemed to glare at Simon accusingly as he bent to tuck the blanket around her shoulders.
She moved, fitfully, turning her head away from him. “Simon,” she whispered. “Simon, where are you?”
Stricken, Simon let go of the blanket and stood up. Maybe he should wake her up, let her know he was okay. But then there would be questions he didn’t want to answer and that hurt look on her face he couldn’t stand. He turned and went into his bedroom.
He had thrown himself down onto the covers and grabbed for the phone on his bedside table, about to dial Clary’s number, before he even thought about it. He paused for a moment, listening to the dial tone. He couldn’t tell her about Camille; he’d promised to keep the vampire’s offer a secret, and while Simon didn’t feel he owed Camille much, if there was one thing he had learned from the past few months, it was that reneging on promises made to supernatural creatures was a bad idea. Still, he wanted to hear Clary’s voice, the way he always did when he’d had a tough day. Well, there was always complaining to her about his love life; that seemed to amuse her no end.
Rolling over in bed, he pulled the pillow over his head and dialed Clary’s number.