City of Fallen Angels (The Mortal Instruments #4)(7)
Author: Cassandra Clare

The door shut behind Clary. Simon turned to head down Kent, toward the G train stop at Lorimer Street. It was nearly full dark now, the sky overhead a swirl of gray and black. Simon heard tires squeal on the road behind him, but he didn’t turn around. Cars drove too fast on this street all the time, despite the cracks and potholes. It wasn’t until the blue van drew up beside him and screeched to a stop that he turned to look.

The van’s driver yanked the keys from the ignition, killing the engine, and threw open the door. It was a man-a tall man, dressed in a gray hooded tracksuit and sneakers, the hood pulled down so low that it hid most of his face. He leaped down from the driver’s seat, and Simon saw that there was a long, shimmering knife in his hand.

Later Simon would think that he should have run. He was a vampire, faster than any human. He could outrun anyone. He should have run, but he was too startled; he stood still as the man, gleaming knife in hand, came toward him. The man said something in a low, guttural voice, something in a language Simon didn’t understand.

Simon took a step back. "Look," he said, reaching for his pocket. "You can have my wallet-"

The man lunged at Simon, plunging the knife toward his chest. Simon stared down in disbelief. Everything seemed to be happening very slowly, as if time were stretching out. He saw the point of the knife near his chest, the tip denting the leather of his jacket-and then it sheared to the side, as if someone had grabbed his attacker’s arm and yanked. The man screamed as he was jerked up into the air like a puppet being hauled up by its strings. Simon looked around wildly-surely someone must have heard or noticed the commotion, but no one appeared. The man kept screaming, jerking wildly, while his shirt tore open down the front, as if ripped apart by an invisible hand.

Simon stared in horror. Huge wounds were appearing on the man’s torso. His head flew back, and blood sprayed from his mouth. He stopped screaming abruptly-and fell, as if the invisible hand had opened, releasing him. He hit the ground and broke apart like glass shattering into a thousand shining pieces that scattered themselves across the pavement.

Simon dropped to his knees. The knife that had been meant to kill him lay a little way away, within arm’s reach. It was all that was left of his attacker, save a pile of shimmering crystals that were already beginning to blow away in the brisk wind. He touched one cautiously.

It was salt. He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. He knew what had happened, and why.

And the Lord said unto him, Therefore whosoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold.

So this was what sevenfold looked like.

He barely made it to the gutter before he doubled over and vomited blood into the street.

The moment Simon opened the door, he knew he’d miscalculated. He’d thought his mother would be asleep by now, but she wasn’t. She was awake, sitting in an armchair facing the front door, her phone on the table next to her, and she saw the blood on his jacket immediately.

To his surprise she didn’t scream, but her hand flew to her mouth. "Simon."

"It’s not my blood," he said quickly. "I was over at Eric’s, and Matt had a nosebleed-"

"I don’t want to hear it." That sharp tone was one she rarely used; it reminded him of the way she’d talked during those last months when his father had been sick, anxiety like a knife in her voice. "I don’t want to hear any more lies."

Simon dropped his keys onto the table next to the door. "Mom-"

"All you do is tell me lies. I’m tired of it."

"That’s not true," he said, but he felt sick, knowing it was. "I just have a lot going on in my life right now."

"I know you do." His mother got to her feet; she had always been a skinny woman, and she looked bony now, her dark hair, the same color as his, streaked with more gray than he had remembered where it fell around her face. "Come with me, young man. Now."

Puzzled, Simon followed her into the small bright-yellow kitchen. His mother stopped and pointed toward the counter. "Care to explain those?"

Simon’s mouth went dry. Lined up along the counter like a row of toy soldiers were the bottles of blood that had been in the mini-fridge inside his closet. One was half-full, the others entirely full, the red liquid inside them shining like an accusation. She had also found the empty blood bags he had washed out and carefully stuffed inside a shopping bag before dumping them into his trash can. They were spread out over the counter too, like a grotesque decoration.

"I thought at first the bottles were wine," Elaine Lewis said in a shaking voice. "Then I found the bags. So I opened one of the bottles. It’s blood. Isn’t it?"

Simon said nothing. His voice seemed to have fled.

"You’ve been acting so strangely lately," his mother went on. "Out at all hours, you never eat, you barely sleep, you have friends I’ve never met, never heard of. You think I can’t tell when you’re lying to me? I can tell, Simon. I thought maybe you were on drugs."

Simon found his voice. "So you searched my room?"

His mother flushed. "I had to! I thought-I thought if I found drugs there, I could help you, get you into a rehab program, but this?" She gestured wildly at the bottles. "I don’t even know what to think about this. What’s going on, Simon? Have you joined some kind of cult?"

Simon shook his head.

"Then, tell me," his mother said, her lips trembling. "Because the only explanations I can think of are horrible and sick. Simon, please-"

"I’m a vampire," Simon said. He had no idea how he had said it, or even why. But there it was. The words hung in the air between them like poisonous gas.

His mother’s knees seemed to give out, and she sank into a kitchen chair. "What did you say?" she breathed.

"I’m a vampire," Simon said. "I’ve been one for about two months now. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. I didn’t know how."

Elaine Lewis’s face was chalk white. "Vampires don’t exist, Simon."

"Yes," he said. "They do. Look, I didn’t ask to be a vampire. I was attacked. I didn’t have a choice. I’d change it if I could." He thought wildly back to the pamphlet Clary had given him so long ago, the one about coming out to your parents. It had seemed like a funny analogy then; now it didn’t.

"You think you’re a vampire," Simon’s mother said numbly. "You think you drink blood."

"I do drink blood," Simon said. "I drink animal blood." "But you’re a vegetarian." His mother looked to be on the verge of tears.

"I was. I’m not now. I can’t be. Blood is what I live on." Simon’s throat felt tight. "I’ve never hurt a person. I’d never drink someone’s blood. I’m still the same person. I’m still me."

His mother seemed to be fighting for control. "Your new friends-are they vampires too?"

Simon thought of Isabelle, Maia, Jace. He couldn’t explain Shadowhunters and werewolves, too. It was too much. "No. But-they know I am one."

"Did-did they give you drugs? Make you take something? Something that would make you hallucinate?" She seemed to have barely heard his answer.

"No. Mom, this is real."

"It’s not real," she whispered. "You think it’s real. Oh, God. Simon. I’m so sorry. I should have noticed. We’ll get you help. We’ll find someone. A doctor. Whatever it costs-"

"I can’t go to a doctor, Mom."

"Yes, you can. You need to be somewhere. A hospital, maybe-"

He held out his wrist to her. "Feel my pulse," he said.

She looked at him, bewildered. "What?"

"My pulse," he said. "Take it. If I have one, okay. I’ll go to the hospital with you. If not, you have to believe me."

She wiped the tears from her eyes and slowly reached to take his wrist. After so long taking care of Simon’s father when he’d been sick, she knew how to take a pulse as well as any nurse. She pressed her index fingertip to the inside of his wrist, and waited.

He watched as her face changed, from misery and upset to confusion, and then to terror. She stood up, dropping his hand, backing away from him. Her eyes were huge and dark in her white face. "What are you?"

Simon felt sick. "I told you. I’m a vampire."

"You’re not my son. You’re not Simon." She was shuddering. "What kind of living thing doesn’t have a pulse? What kind of monster are you? What have you done with my child?"

"I am Simon-" He took a step toward his mother.

She screamed. He had never heard her scream like that, and he never wanted to again. It was a horrible noise.

"Get away from me." Her voice broke. "Don’t come any closer." She began to whisper. "Barukh ata Adonai sho’me’a t’fila…"

She was praying, Simon realized with a jolt. She was so terrified of him that she was praying that he would go away, be banished. And what was worse was that he could feel it. The name of God tightened his stomach and made his throat ache.

She was right to pray, he thought, sick to his soul. He was cursed. He didn’t belong in the world. What kind of living thing doesn’t have a pulse?

"Mom," he whispered. "Mom, stop."

She looked at him, wide-eyed, her lips still moving.

"Mom, you don’t need to be so upset." He heard his own voice as if from a distance, soft and soothing, a stranger’s voice. He kept his eyes fixed on his mother as he spoke, capturing her gaze with his as a cat might capture a mouse. "Nothing happened. You fell asleep in the armchair in the living room. You’re having a bad dream that I came home and told you I was a vampire. But that’s crazy. That would never happen."

She had stopped praying. She blinked. "I’m dreaming," she repeated.

"It’s a bad dream," Simon said. He moved toward her and put his hand on her shoulder. She didn’t pull away. Her head was drooping, like a tired child’s. "Just a dream. You never found anything in my room. Nothing happened. You’ve just been sleeping, that’s all."

He took her hand. She let him lead her into the living room, where he settled her into the armchair. She smiled when he pulled a blanket over her, and closed her eyes.

He went back into the kitchen and swiftly, methodically, swept the bottles and containers of blood into a garbage bag. He tied it at the top and brought it to his room, where he changed his bloody jacket for a new one, and threw some things quickly into a duffel bag. He flipped the light off and left, closing the door behind him.

His mother was already asleep as he passed through the living room. He reached out and lightly touched her hand.

"I’ll be gone for a few days," he whispered. "But you won’t worry. You won’t expect me back. You think I’m on a school field trip. There’s no need to call. Everything is fine."

He drew his hand back. In the dim light his mother looked both older and younger than he was used to. She was as small as a child, curled under the blanket, but there were new lines on her face he didn’t remember being there before.

"Mom," he whispered.

He touched her hand, and she stirred. Not wanting her to wake, he jerked his fingers back and moved soundlessly to the door, grabbing his keys from the table as he went.

The Institute was quiet. It was always quiet these days. Jace had taken to leaving his window open at night, so he could hear the noises of traffic going by, the occasional wail of ambulance sirens and the honking of horns on York Avenue. He could hear things mundanes couldn’t, too, and these sounds filtered through the night and into his dreams-the rush of air displaced by a vampire’s airborne motorcycle, the flutter of winged fey, the distant howl of wolves on nights when the moon was full.

It was only half-full now, casting just enough light for him to read by as he sprawled on the bed. He had his father’s silver box open in front of him, and was going through what was inside it. One of his father’s steles was in there, and a silver-handled hunting dagger with the initials SWH on the handle, and-of most interest to Jace-a pile of letters.

Over the past six weeks he had taken to reading a letter or so every night, trying to get a sense for the man who was his biological father. A picture had begun to emerge slowly, of a thoughtful young man with hard-driving parents who had been drawn to Valentine and the Circle because they had seemed to offer him an opportunity to distinguish himself in the world. He had kept writing to Amatis even after their divorce, something she hadn’t mentioned before. In those letters, his disenchantment with Valentine and sickness at the Circle’s activities were clear, though he rarely, if ever, mentioned Jace’s mother, Celine. It made sense-Amatis wouldn’t have wanted to hear about her replacement-and yet Jace could not help hating his father a little for it. If he hadn’t cared about Jace’s mother, why marry her? If he’d hated the Circle so much, why hadn’t he left it? Valentine had been a madman, but at least he’d stood by his principles.

And then, of course, Jace only felt worse for preferring Valentine to his real father. What kind of person did that make him?

A knock on the door drew him out of his self-recriminations; he got to his feet and went to answer it, expecting Isabelle to be there, wanting to either borrow something or complain about something.