City of Fallen Angels (The Mortal Instruments #4)(23)
Author: Cassandra Clare

"Okay. If you say so." She sounded a little doubtful. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a card, and handed it to him. It had a name on it, Satrina Kendall. Underneath the name was a title, BAND PROMOTER, in small capitals, and a phone number and address. "That’s me," she said. "I liked what you guys did in there. If you’re interested in making it a little more big-time, give me a call."

And with that, she turned and sashayed away, leaving Simon staring after her. Surely, he thought, there was no way this night could get any more bizarre.

Shaking his head-a move that sent water drops flying in all directions-he squelched around the corner to where the van was parked. The door of the bar was open, and people were streaming out. Everything still looked unnaturally bright, Simon thought, but his prismatic vision was beginning to fade slightly. The scene in front of him looked ordinary-the bar emptying out, the side doors open, and the van with its back doors open, already being loaded up with gear by Matt, Kirk, and a variety of their friends. As Simon drew closer, he saw that Isabelle was leaning against the side of the van, one leg drawn up, the heel of her boot braced against the van’s blistered side. She could have been helping with the teardown, of course-Isabelle was stronger than anyone else in the band, with the possible exception of Kyle-but she clearly couldn’t be bothered. Simon would hardly have expected anything else.

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?"

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.

Isabelle was looking from Simon to Maia, recognition slowly dawning on her face. "Wait a second," she said. "Are you two dating?"

Maia set her chin. "Are you?"

"Yes," Isabelle said. "For quite a few weeks now."

Maia’s eyes narrowed. "Us, too. We’ve been dating since September."

"I can’t believe it," Isabelle said. She genuinely looked as if she couldn’t. "Simon?" She turned to him, her hands on her hips. "Do you have an explanation?"

The band, who had finally shoved all the equipment into the van-the drums packing out the back bench seat and the guitars and basses in the cargo section-were hanging out the back of the car, openly staring. Eric put his hands around his mouth to make a megaphone. "Ladies, ladies," he intoned. "There is no need to fight. There is enough Simon to go around."

Isabelle whipped around and shot a glare at Eric so terrifying that he fell instantly silent. The back doors of the van slammed shut, and it took off down the road. Traitors, Simon thought, though to be fair, they probably assumed he would catch a ride home in Kyle’s car, which was parked around the corner. Assuming he lived long enough.

"I can’t believe you, Simon," Maia said. She was standing with her hands on her h*ps as well, in a pose identical to Isabelle’s. "What were you thinking? How could you lie like that?"

"I didn’t lie," Simon protested. "We never said we were exclusive!" He turned to Isabelle. "Neither did we! And I know you were dating other people-"

"Not people you know," Isabelle said, blisteringly. "Not your friends. How would you feel if you found out I was dating Eric?"

"Stunned, frankly," said Simon. "He really isn’t your type."

"That’s not the point, Simon." Maia had moved closer to Isabelle, and the two of them faced him down together, an immovable wall of female rage. The bar had finished emptying out, and aside from the three of them, the street was deserted. He wondered about his chances if he made a break for it, and decided they weren’t good. Werewolves were fast, and Isabelle was a trained vampire hunter.

"I’m really sorry," Simon said. The buzz from the blood he’d drunk was beginning to wear off, thankfully. He felt less dizzy with overwhelming sensation, but more panicked. To make things worse, his mind kept returning to Maureen, and what he’d done to her, and whether she was all right. Please let her be all right. "I should have told you guys. It’s just-I really like you both, and I didn’t want to hurt either of your feelings."

The moment it was out of his mouth, he realized how stupid he sounded. Just another jerkish guy making excuses for his jerk behavior. Simon had never thought of himself like that. He was a nice guy, the kind of guy who got overlooked, passed up for the sexy bad boy or the tortured artist type. For the self-involved kind of guy who would think nothing of dating two girls at once while maybe not exactly lying about what he was doing, but not telling the truth about it either.

"Wow," he said, mostly to himself. "I am a huge ass**le."

"That’s probably the first true thing you’ve said since I got here," said Maia.

"Amen," said Isabelle. "Though if you ask me, it’s too little, too late-"

The side door of the bar opened, and someone came out. It was Kyle. Simon felt a wave of relief. Kyle looked serious, but not as serious as Simon thought he would look if something awful had happened to Maureen.

He started down the steps toward them. The rain was barely a drizzle now. Maia and Isabelle had their backs to him; they were glaring at Simon with the laser focus of rage. "I hope you don’t expect either of us to speak to you again," Isabelle said. "And I’m going to have a talk with Clary-a very, very serious talk about her choice of friends."

"Kyle," Simon said, unable to keep the relief out of his voice as Kyle came into earshot. "Uh, Maureen-is she-"

He had no idea how to ask what he wanted to ask without letting Maia and Isabelle know what had happened, but as it turned out, it didn’t matter, because he never managed to get the rest of the words out. Maia and Isabelle turned; Isabelle looked annoyed and Maia surprised, clearly wondering who Kyle was.

As soon as Maia really saw Kyle, her face changed; her eyes went wide, the blood draining from her face. And Kyle, in his turn, was staring at her with the look of someone who has woken up from a nightmare only to discover that it is real and continuing. His mouth moved, shaping words, but no sound came out.

"Whoa," Isabelle said, looking from one of them to the other. "Do you two-know each other?"

Maia’s lips parted. She was still staring at Kyle. Simon had time only to think that she had never looked at him with anything like that intensity, when she whispered "Jordan"-and lunged for Kyle, her claws out and sharp, and sank them into his throat.

Chapter 10

Part Two

For Every Life

Nothing is free. Everything has to be paid for. For every profit in one thing, payment in some other thing. For every life, a death. Even your music, of which we have heard so much, that had to be paid for. Your wife was the payment for your music. Hell is now satisfied.

-Ted Hughes, "The Tiger’s Bones"

10

232 RIVERSIDE DRIVE

Simon sat in the armchair in Kyle’s living room and stared at the frozen image on the TV screen in the corner of the room. It had been paused on the game Kyle had been playing with Jace, and the image was one of a dank-looking underground tunnel with a heap of collapsed bodies on the ground and some very realistic-looking pools of blood. It was disturbing, but Simon didn’t have either the energy or the inclination to bother to turn it off. The images that had been running through his head all night were worse.

The light streaming into the room through the windows had strengthened from watery dawn light to the pale illumination of early morning, but Simon barely noticed. He kept seeing Maureen’s limp body on the ground, her blond hair stained with blood. His own staggering progress out into the night, her blood singing through his veins. And then Maia lunging at Kyle, tearing into him with her claws. Kyle had lain there, not lifting a hand to defend himself. He probably would have let her kill him if Isabelle hadn’t interfered, pulling Maia bodily off him and rolling her onto the pavement, holding her there until her rage dissolved into tears. Simon had tried to go to her, but Isabelle had held him off with a furious glare, her arm around the other girl, her hand up to ward him off.

"Get out of here," she’d said. "And take him with you. I don’t know what he did to her, but it must have been pretty bad."

And it was. Simon knew that name, Jordan. It had come up before, when he’d asked her how she’d been turned into a werewolf. Her ex-boyfriend had done it, she’d said. He’d done it with a savage and vicious attack, and he’d run off afterward, leaving her to deal with the aftermath alone.

His name had been Jordan.

That was why Kyle had only one name next to his door buzzer. Because it was his last name. His full name must have been Jordan Kyle, Simon realized. He’d been stupid, unbelievably stupid, not to have figured it out before. Not that he needed another reason to hate himself right now.

Kyle-or rather, Jordan-was a werewolf; he healed fast. By the time Simon had hauled him, none too gently, to his feet and had led him back over to his car, the deep slashes in his throat and under the torn rags of his shirt had healed to crusted-over scars. Simon had taken his keys from him and driven them back to Manhattan mostly in silence, Jordan sitting almost motionless in the passenger seat, staring down at his bloody hands.

"Maureen’s fine," he’d said finally as they drove over the Williamsburg Bridge. "It looked worse than it was. You’re not that good at feeding off humans yet, so she hadn’t lost too much blood. I put her in a cab. She doesn’t remember anything. She thinks she fainted in front of you, and she’s really embarrassed."

Simon knew he ought to thank Jordan, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. "You’re Jordan," he said. "Maia’s old boyfriend. The one who turned her into a werewolf."

They were on Kenmare now; Simon turned north, heading up the Bowery with its flophouses and lighting stores. "Yeah," Jordan said at last. "Kyle’s my last name. I started to go by it when I joined the Praetor."

"She would’ve killed you if Isabelle had let her."

"She has a perfect right to kill me if she wants to," said Jordan, and fell silent. He didn’t say anything else as Simon found parking and they trudged up the stairs to the apartment. He’d gone into his room without even taking off his bloody jacket, and slammed the door.

Simon had packed his things into his backpack and had been about to leave the apartment when he’d hesitated. He wasn’t sure why, even now, but instead of leaving he’d dropped his bag by the door and come back to sit in this chair, where he’d stayed all night.

He wished he could call Clary, but it was too early in the morning, and besides, Isabelle had said she and Jace had gone off together, and the thought of interrupting some special moment of theirs wasn’t appealing. He wondered how his mother was. If she could have seen him last night, with Maureen, she would have thought he was every bit the monster she’d accused him of being.

Maybe he was.

He looked up as Jordan’s door cracked open and Jordan emerged. He was barefoot, still in the same jeans and shirt he’d been wearing yesterday. The scars on his throat had faded to red lines. He looked at Simon. His hazel eyes, normally so bright and cheerful, were darkly shadowed. "I thought you would leave," he said.