City of Fallen Angels (The Mortal Instruments #4)(11)
Author: Cassandra Clare

A grinding noise interrupted his reverie. The garage door was ratcheting upward, bright light spearing into the dark interior of the space. Simon sat up, his whole body suddenly on the alert.

"Eric?"

"Nah. It’s me. Kyle."

"Kyle?" Simon said blankly, before he remembered-the guy they’d agreed to take on as a lead singer. Simon almost flopped back down onto the ground again. "Oh. Right. None of the other guys are here right now, so if you were hoping to practice…"

"It’s cool. That’s not why I came." Kyle stepped into the garage, blinking in the darkness, his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. "You’re whatshisname, the bassist, right?"

Simon got to his feet, brushing garage floor dust off his clothes. "I’m Simon."

Kyle glanced around, a perplexed furrow between his brows. "I left my keys here yesterday, I think. Been looking for them everywhere. Hey, there they are." He ducked behind the drum set and emerged a second later, rattling a set of keys triumphantly in his hand. He looked much the same as he had the day before. He had a blue T-shirt on today under a leather jacket, and a gold saint’s medal sparkled around his neck. His dark hair was messier than ever. "So," Kyle said, leaning against one of the speakers. "Were you, like, sleeping here? On the floor?"

Simon nodded. "Got thrown out of my house." It wasn’t precisely true, but it was all he felt like saying.

Kyle nodded sympathetically. "Mom found your weed stash, huh? That sucks."

"No. No … weed stash." Simon shrugged. "We had a difference of opinion about my lifestyle."

"So, she found out about your two girlfriends?" Kyle grinned. He was good-looking, Simon had to admit, but unlike Jace, who seemed to know exactly how good-looking he was, Kyle looked like someone who probably hadn’t brushed his hair in weeks. There was an open, friendly puppyishness about him that was appealing, though. "Yeah, Kirk told me about it. Good for you, man."

Simon shook his head. "It wasn’t that."

There was a short silence between them. Then:

"I … don’t live at home either," Kyle said. "I left a couple of years ago." He hugged his arms around himself, hanging his head down. His voice was low. "I haven’t talked to my parents since then. I mean, I’m doing all right on my own but … I get it."

"Your tattoos," Simon said, touching his own arms lightly. "What do they mean?"

Kyle stretched his arms out. "Shaantih shaantih shaantih," he said. "They’re mantras from the Upanishads. Sanskrit. Prayers for peace."

Normally Simon would have thought that getting yourself tattooed in Sanskrit was kind of pretentious. But right now, he didn’t. "Shalom," he said.

Kyle blinked at him. "What?"

"Means peace," said Simon. "In Hebrew. I was just thinking the words sounded sort of alike."

Kyle gave him a long look. He seemed to be deliberating. Finally he said, "This is going to sound sort of crazy-"

"Oh, I don’t know. My definition of crazy has become pretty flexible in the past few months."

"-but I have an apartment. In Alphabet City. And my roommate just moved out. It’s a two-bedroom, so you could crash in his space. There’s a bed in there and everything."

Simon hesitated. On the one hand he didn’t know Kyle at all, and moving into the apartment of a total stranger seemed like a stupid move of epic proportions. Kyle could turn out to be a serial killer, despite his peace tattoos. On the other hand he didn’t know Kyle at all, which meant no one would come looking for him there. And what did it matter if Kyle did turn out to be a serial killer? he thought bitterly. It would turn out worse for Kyle than it would for him, just like it had for that mugger last night.

"You know," he said, "I think I’ll take you up on that, if it’s okay."

Kyle nodded. "My truck’s just outside if you want to ride into the city with me."

Simon bent to grab his duffel bag and straightened with it slung over his shoulder. He slid his phone into his pocket and spread his hands wide, indicating his readiness. "Let’s go."

Chapter 5

HELL CALLS HELL

Kyle’s apartment turned out to be a pleasant surprise. Simon expected a filthy walk-up in an Avenue D tenement, with roaches crawling on the walls and a bed made out of mattress foam and milk crates. In reality it was a clean two-bedroom with a small living area, a ton of bookshelves, and lots of photos on the walls of famous surfing spots. Admittedly, Kyle seemed to be growing marijuana plants on the fire escape, but you couldn’t have everything.

Simon’s room was basically an empty box. Whoever had lived there before had left nothing behind but a futon mattress. It had bare walls, bare floors, and a single window, through which Simon could see the neon sign of the Chinese restaurant across the street. "You like it?" Kyle inquired, hovering in the doorway, his hazel eyes open and friendly.

"It’s great," Simon replied honestly. "Exactly what I needed."

The most expensive item in the apartment was the flat-screen TV in the living room. They threw themselves down on the futon couch and watched bad TV as the sunlight dimmed outside. Kyle was cool, Simon decided. He didn’t poke, didn’t pry, didn’t ask questions. He didn’t seem to want anything in exchange for the room except for Simon to pitch in grocery money. He was just a friendly guy. Simon wondered if he’d forgotten what ordinary human beings were like.

After Kyle headed out to work an evening shift, Simon went into his room, collapsed on the mattress, and listened to the traffic going by on Avenue B.

He’d been haunted by thoughts of his mother’s face since he’d left: the way she’d looked at him with loathing and fear, as if he were an intruder in her house. Even if he didn’t need to breathe, the thought of it had still constricted his chest. But now…

When he was a kid, he’d always liked traveling, because being in a new place had meant being away from all his problems. Even here, just a river away from Brooklyn, the memories that had been eating at him like acid-the mugger’s death, his mother’s reaction to the truth of what he was-seemed blurred and distant.

Maybe that was the secret, he thought. Keep moving. Like a shark. Go to where no one can find you. A fugitive and a wanderer shalt thou be in the earth.

But that only worked if there was no one you cared about leaving behind.

He slept fitfully all night. His natural urge was to sleep during the day, despite his Daylighter powers, and he fought off restlessness and dreams before waking up late with the sun streaming in through the window. After throwing on clean clothes from his knapsack, he left the bedroom to find Kyle in the kitchen, frying bacon and eggs in a Teflon pan.

"Hey, roommate," Kyle greeted him cheerfully. "Want some breakfast?"

The sight of the food made Simon feel vaguely sick to his stomach. "No, thanks. I’ll take some coffee, though." He perched himself on one of the slightly lopsided bar stools.

Kyle pushed a chipped mug across the counter toward him. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, bro. Even if it’s already noon."

Simon put his hands around the mug, feeling the heat seep into his cold skin. He cast about for a topic of conversation-one that wasn’t how little he ate. "So, I never asked you yesterday-what do you do for a living?"

Kyle picked a piece of bacon out of the pan and bit into it. Simon noticed that the gold medal at his throat had a pattern of leaves on it, and the words "Beati Bellicosi." "Beati," Simon knew, was a word that had something to do with saints; Kyle must be Catholic. "Bike messenger," he said, chewing. "It’s awesome. I get to ride around the city, seeing everything, talking to everyone. Way better than high school."

"You dropped out?"

"Got my GED senior year. I prefer the school of life." Simon would have thought Kyle sounded ridiculous if it weren’t for the fact that he said "school of life" the way he said everything else-with total sincerity. "What about you? Any plans?"

Oh, you know. Wander the earth, causing death and destruction to innocent people. Maybe drink some blood. Live forever but never have any fun. The usual. "I’m kind of winging it at the moment."

"You mean you don’t want to be a musician?" Kyle asked.

To Simon’s relief his phone rang before he had to answer that. He fished it out of his pocket and looked at the screen. It was Maia. "Hey," he greeted her. "What’s up?"

"Are you going to be at that dress fitting with Clary this afternoon?" she asked, her voice crackling down the line. She was probably calling from pack headquarters in Chinatown, where the reception wasn’t great. "She told me she was making you go to keep her company."

"What? Oh, right. Yes. I’ll be there." Clary had demanded that Simon accompany her to her bridesmaid’s dress fitting so afterward they could shop for comics and she could feel, in her words, like "less of a frilled-up girly-girl."

"Well, I’m going to come too, then. I have to give Luke a message from the pack, and besides, I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages."

"I know. I’m really sorry-"

"It’s fine," she said lightly. "But you’re going to have to let me know what you’re wearing to the wedding eventually, because otherwise we’ll clash."

She hung up, leaving Simon staring at the phone. Clary had been right. The wedding was D-day, and he was woefully unprepared for the battle.

"One of your girlfriends?" Kyle asked curiously. "Was that redheaded chick at the garage one of them? Because she was cute."

"No. That’s Clary; she’s my best friend." Simon pocketed his phone. "And she has a boyfriend. Like, really, really, really has a boyfriend. The nuclear bomb of boyfriends. Trust me on this one."

Kyle grinned. "I was just asking." He dumped the bacon pan, now empty, into the sink. "So, your two girls. What are they like?"

"They’re very, very … different." In some ways, Simon thought, they were opposites. Maia was calm and grounded; Isabelle lived at a high pitch of excitement. Maia was a steady light in the darkness; Isabelle a burning star, spinning through the void. "I mean, they’re both great. Beautiful, and smart…"

"And they don’t know about each other?" Kyle leaned against the counter. "Like, at all?"

Simon found himself explaining-how when he’d come back from Idris (though he didn’t mention the place by name), they’d both started calling him, wanting to hang out. And because he liked them both, he went. And somehow things started to turn casually romantic with each of them, but there never seemed to be a chance to explain to either of them that he was seeing someone else, too. And somehow it had snowballed, and here he was, not wanting to hurt either of them, and not knowing how to go on, either.

"Well, if you ask me," Kyle said, turning to dump his remaining coffee out in the sink, "you ought to pick one of them and quit dogging around. I’m just saying."

Since his back was to Simon, Simon couldn’t see his face, and for a moment he wondered if Kyle was actually angry. His voice sounded uncharacteristically stiff. But when Kyle turned around, his expression was as open and friendly as ever. Simon decided he must have imagined it.

"I know," he said. "You’re right." He glanced back toward the bedroom. "Look, are you sure it’s okay, me staying here? I can clear out whenever…"

"It’s fine. You stay as long as you need." Kyle opened a kitchen drawer and scrabbled around until he found what he was looking for-a set of spare keys on a rubber-band ring. "There’s a set for you. You’re totally welcome here, okay? I gotta go to work, but you can hang around if you want. Play Halo, or whatever. Will you be here when I get back?"

Simon shrugged. "Probably not. I have a dress fitting to get to at three."

"Cool," said Kyle, slinging a messenger bag over his shoulder and heading toward the door. "Get them to make you something in red. It’s totally your color."

"So," Clary said, stepping out of the dressing room. "What do you think?"

She did an experimental twirl. Simon, balanced on one of Karyn’s Bridal Shop’s uncomfortable white chairs, shifted position, winced, and said, "You look nice."

She looked better than nice. Clary was her mother’s only bridesmaid, so she’d been allowed to pick out whatever dress she wanted. She’d selected a very simple coppery silk with narrow straps that flattered her small frame. Her only jewelry was the Morgenstern ring, worn on a chain around her neck; the very plain silver chain brought out the shape of her collarbones and the curve of her throat.

Not that many months ago, seeing Clary dressed up for a wedding would have conjured up in Simon a mix of feelings: dark despair (she would never love him) and high excitement (or maybe she would, if he could get up the nerve to tell her how he felt). Now it just made him feel a little wistful.

"Nice?" echoed Clary. "Is that it? Sheesh." She turned to Maia. "What do you think?"

Maia had given up on the uncomfortable chairs and was sitting on the floor, her back against a wall that was decorated with tiaras and long gauzy veils. She had Simon’s DS balanced on one of her knees and seemed to be at least partly absorbed in playing Grand Theft Auto. "Don’t ask me," she said. "I hate dresses. I’d wear jeans to the wedding if I could."