City of Fallen Angels (The Mortal Instruments #4)(22)
Author: Cassandra Clare

"Smile," she said.

Twin jolts of pain went through Simon as his fangs slid free, digging into his lip. He heard Maureen gasp, and then her phone went flying as he caught hold of her and spun her toward him, and his canine teeth sank into her throat.

Blood exploded into his mouth, the taste of it like nothing else. It was as if he had been starving for air and now was breathing, inhaling great gasps of cold, clean oxygen, and Maureen struggled and pushed at him, but he barely noticed. He didn’t even notice when she went limp, her dead weight dragging him to the floor so that he was lying on top of her, his hands gripping her shoulders, clenching and unclenching as he drank.

You have never fed on someone purely human, have you? Camille had said. You will.

And when you do, you will never forget it.

Chapter 9

FROM FIRE UNTO FIRE

Clary reached the door and burst out into the rain-drenched evening air. It was coming down in sheets now, and she was instantly soaked. Choking on rainwater and tears, she darted past Eric’s familiar-looking yellow van, rain sheeting off its roof into the gutter, and was about to race across the street against the light when a hand caught her arm and spun her around.

It was Jace. He was as soaked as she was, the rain sticking his fair hair to his head and plastering his shirt to his body like black paint. "Clary, didn’t you hear me calling you?"

"Let go of me." Her voice shook.

"No. Not until you talk to me." He looked around, up and down the street, which was deserted, the rain exploding off the black pavement like fast-blooming flowers. "Come on."

Still holding her by the arm, he half-dragged her around the van and into a narrow alley that bordered the Alto Bar. High windows above them let through the blurred sound of the music that was still being played inside. The alley was brick-walled, clearly a dumping ground for old bits of no longer usable musical equipment. Broken amps and old mikes littered the ground, along with shattered beer glasses and cigarette butts.

Clary jerked her arm out of Jace’s grasp and turned to face him. "If you’re planning to apologize, don’t bother." She pushed her wet, heavy hair back from her face. "I don’t want to hear it."

"I was going to tell you that I was trying to help out Simon," he said, rainwater running off his eyelashes and down his cheeks like tears. "I’ve been at his place for the past-"

"And you couldn’t tell me? Couldn’t text me a single line letting me know where you were? Oh, wait. You couldn’t, because you still have my goddamned phone. Give it to me."

Silently he reached into his jeans pocket and handed it to her. It looked undamaged. She jammed it into her messenger bag before the rain could ruin it. Jace watched her as she did it, looking as if she’d hit him in the face. It only made her angrier. What right did he have to be hurt?

"I think," he said slowly, "that I thought that the closest thing to being with you was being with Simon. Watching out for him. I had some stupid idea that you’d realize I was doing it for you and forgive me-"

All of Clary’s rage rose to the surface, a hot, unstoppable tide. "I don’t even know what you think I’m supposed to forgive you for," she shouted. "Am I supposed to forgive you for not loving me anymore? Because if that’s what you want, Jace Lightwood, you can go right ahead and-" She took a step back, blindly, and nearly tripped over an abandoned speaker. Her bag slid to the ground as she put her hand out to right herself, but Jace was already there. He moved forward to catch her, and kept moving, until her back hit the alley wall, and his arms were around her, and he was kissing her frantically.

She knew she ought to push him away; her mind told her it was the sensible thing to do, but no other part of her cared about what was sensible. Not when Jace was kissing her like he thought he might go to hell for doing it, but it would be worth it.

She dug her fingers into his shoulders, into the damp fabric of his T-shirt, feeling the resistance of the muscles underneath, and kissed him back with all the desperation of the past few days, all the not knowing where he was or what he was thinking, all the feeling like a part of her heart had been ripped out of her chest and she could never get enough air. "Tell me," she said between kisses, their wet faces sliding against each other. "Tell me what’s wrong-Oh," she gasped as he drew away from her, only far enough to reach his hands down and put them around her waist. He lifted her up so she stood on top of a broken speaker, making them almost the same height. Then he put his hands on either side of her head and leaned forward, so their bodies almost touched-but not quite. It was nerve-wracking. She could feel the feverish heat that came off him; her hands were still on his shoulders, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted him wrapped around her, holding her tight. "W-why," she breathed, "can’t you talk to me? Why can’t you look at me?"

He ducked his head down to look into her face. His eyes, surrounding by lashes darkened with rainwater, were impossibly gold.

"Because I love you."

She couldn’t stand it anymore. She took her hands off his shoulders, hooked her fingers through his belt loops, and pulled him against her. He let her do it with no resistance, his hands flattening against the wall, folding his body against hers until they were pressed together everywhere-chests, hips, legs-like puzzle pieces. His hands slid down to her waist and he kissed her, long and lingering, making her shudder.

She pulled away. "That doesn’t make any sense."

"Neither does this," he said, "but I don’t care. I’m sick of trying to pretend I can live without you. Don’t you understand that? Can’t you see it’s killing me?"

She stared at him. She could see he meant what he said, could see it in the eyes she knew as well as her own, in the bruised shadows under those eyes, the pulse pounding in his throat. Her desire for answers battled the more primal part of her brain, and lost. "Kiss me then," she whispered, and he pressed his mouth against hers, their hearts slamming together through the thin layers of wet fabric that divided them. And she was drowning in it, in the sensation of him kissing her; of rain everywhere, running off her eyelashes; of letting his hands slide freely over the wet, crumpled fabric of her dress, made thin and clinging by the rain. It was almost like having his hands on her bare skin, her chest, her hips, her stomach; when he reached the hem of her dress, he gripped her legs, pressing her harder back against the wall while she wrapped them around his waist.

He made a noise of surprise, low in his throat, and dug his fingers into the thin fabric of her tights. Not unexpectedly, they ripped, and his wet fingers were suddenly on the bare skin of her legs. Not to be outdone, she slid her hands under the hem of his soaked shirt, and let her fingers explore what was underneath: the tight, hot skin over his ribs, the ridges of his abdomen, the scars on his back, the angle of his hipbones above the waistband of his jeans. This was uncharted territory for her, but it seemed to be driving him crazy: he was moaning softly against her mouth, kissing her harder and harder, as if it would never be enough, not quite enough-

And a horrific clanging noise exploded in Clary’s ears, shattering her out of her dream of kissing and rain. With a gasp she pushed Jace away, hard enough that he let go of her and she tumbled off the speaker to land unsteadily on her feet, hastily straightening her dress. Her heart was slamming against her rib cage like a battering ram, and she felt dizzy.

"Dammit." Isabelle, standing in the mouth of the alley, her wet black hair like a cloak around her shoulders, kicked a trash can out of her way and glowered. "Oh, for goodness’ sake," she said. "I can’t believe you two. Why? What’s wrong with bedrooms? And privacy?"

Clary looked at Jace. He was utterly drenched, water running off him in sheets, his fair hair, plastered to his head, nearly silver in the faint glow of the distant streetlights. Just looking at him made Clary want to touch him again, Isabelle or no Isabelle, with a longing that was nearly painful. He was staring at Izzy with the look of someone who had been slapped out of a dream-bewilderment, anger, dawning realization.

"I was just looking for Simon," Isabelle said defensively, seeing Jace’s expression. "He ran offstage, and I’ve no idea where he went." The music had stopped, Clary realized, at some point; she hadn’t noticed when. "Anyway, he’s obviously not here. Go back to what you were doing. What’s the point in wasting a perfectly good brick wall when you have someone to throw against it, that’s what I always say." And she stalked off, back toward the bar.

Clary looked at Jace. At any other time they would have laughed together at Isabelle’s moodiness, but there was no humor in his expression, and she knew immediately that whatever they had had between them-whatever had blossomed out of his momentary lack of control-it was gone now. She could taste blood in her mouth and wasn’t sure if she had bitten her own lip or he had.

"Jace-" She took a step toward him.

"Don’t," he said, his voice very rough. "I can’t."

And then he was gone, running as fast as only he could run, a blur that vanished into the distance before she could even take a breath to call him back.

"Simon!"

The angry voice exploded in Simon’s ears. He would have released Maureen then-or so he told himself-but he didn’t get the chance. Strong hands grabbed him by the arms, hauling him off her. He was dragged to his feet by a white-faced Kyle, still tousled and sweaty from the set they’d just finished. "What the hell, Simon. What the hell-"

"I didn’t mean to," Simon gasped. His voice sounded blurry to his own ears; his fangs were still out, and he hadn’t learned to talk around the goddamn things yet. Past Kyle, on the floor, he could see Maureen lying in a crumpled heap, horribly still. "It just happened-"

"I told you. I told you." Kyle’s voice rose, and he pushed Simon, hard. Simon stumbled back, his forehead burning, as an invisible hand seemed to lift Kyle and fling him hard against the wall behind him. He hit it and slid to the ground, landing in a wolflike crouch, on his hands and knees. He staggered to his feet, staring. "Jesus Christ. Simon-"

But Simon had dropped to his knees beside Maureen, his hands on her, frantically feeling at her throat for a pulse. When it fluttered under his fingertips, faint but steady, he nearly wept with relief.

"Get away from her." Kyle, sounding strained, moved to stand over Simon. "Just get up and move away."

Simon got up reluctantly and faced Kyle over Maureen’s limp form. Light was lancing through the gap in the curtains that led to the stage; he could hear the other band members out there, chattering to one another, starting the teardown. Any minute they’d be coming back here.

"What you just did," Kyle said. "Did you-push me? Because I didn’t see you move."

"I didn’t mean to," Simon said again, wretchedly. It seemed to be all he said these days.

Kyle shook his head, his hair flying. "Get out of here. Go wait by the van. I’ll deal with her." He bent down and lifted Maureen in his arms. She looked tiny against the bulk of him, like a doll. He fixed Simon with a glare. "Go. And I hope you feel really goddamn terrible."

Simon went. He moved to the fire door and shoved it open. No alarm went off; the alarm had been busted for months. The door swung shut behind him, and he leaned up against the back wall of the club as every part of his body began to tremble.

The club backed onto a narrow street lined with warehouses. Across the way was a vacant lot blocked off with a sagging chain-link fence. Ugly scrub grass grew up through the cracks in the pavement. Rain was sheeting down, soaking the garbage that littered the street, floating old beer cans on the runoff-filled gutters.

Simon thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. The whole night seemed to have exploded with prismatic light. The fence was a linked chain of brilliant silver wires, each raindrop a platinum tear.

I hope you feel really goddamn terrible, Kyle had said. But this was much worse. He felt fantastic, alive in a way he never had before. Human blood was clearly somehow the perfect, the ideal food for vampires. Waves of energy were running through him like electric current. The pain in his head, his stomach, was gone. He could have run ten thousand miles.

It was awful.

"Hey, you. Are you all right?" The voice that spoke was cultured, amused; Simon turned and saw a woman in a long black trench coat, a bright yellow umbrella open over her head. With his brand-new prismatic vision, it looked like a glimmering sunflower. The woman herself was beautiful-though everything looked beautiful to him right now-with gleaming black hair and a red-lipsticked mouth. He dimly recalled seeing her sitting at one of the tables during the band’s performance.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He must have looked pretty shell-shocked, if total strangers were coming up to inquire about his well-being.

"You look like maybe you got banged on the head there," she said, indicating his forehead. "That’s a nasty bruise. Are you sure I can’t call anyone for you?"

He reached up hastily to move his hair across his forehead, hiding the Mark. "I’m fine. It’s nothing."