City of Lost Souls (The Mortal Instruments #5)(6)
Author: Cassandra Clare

She brushed her teeth and was pulling her wavy hair back into a ponytail as she left the bathroom, just catching Simon slipping back into his messenger bag a bottle of what was almost surely the blood he’d bought at Taki’s.

She came forward and ruffled his hair. "You can keep the bottles in the fridge, you know," she said. "If you don’t like it room temperature."

"Ice-cold blood is worse than room temperature, actually. Warm is best, but I think your mom would balk at me heating it up in saucepans."

"Does Jordan care?" Clary asked, wondering if in fact Jordan even still remembered Simon lived with him. Simon had been at her house every night for the past week. In the first few days after Jace had disappeared, she hadn’t been able to sleep. She had piled five blankets over herself, but she’d been unable to get warm. Shivering, she would lie awake imagining her veins sluggish with frozen blood, ice crystals weaving a coral-like shining net around her heart. Her dreams were full of black seas and ice floes and frozen lakes and Jace, his face always hidden from her by shadows or a breath of cloud or his own shining hair as he turned away from her. She would fall asleep for minutes at a time, always waking up with a sick drowning feeling.

The first day the Council had interrogated her, she’d come home and crawled into bed. She’d lain there wide awake until there’d been a knock on her window and Simon had crawled inside, nearly tumbling onto the floor. He’d climbed onto the bed and stretched out beside her without a word. His skin had been cold from the outside, and he’d smelled like city air and oncoming winter chill.

She had touched her shoulder to his, dissolving a tiny part of the tension that clamped her body like a clenched fist. His hand had been cold, but it had been familiar, like the texture of his corduroy jacket against her arm.

"How long can you stay?" she had whispered into the darkness.

"As long as you want."

She’d turned on her side to look at him. "Won’t Izzy mind?"

"She’s the one who told me I should come over here. She said you weren’t sleeping, and if having me with you will make you feel better, I can stay. Or I could just stay until you fall asleep."

Clary had exhaled her relief. "Stay all night," she’d said. "Please."

He had. That night she had had no bad dreams.

As long as he was there, her sleep was dreamless and blank, a dark ocean of nothingness. A painless oblivion.

"Jordan doesn’t really care about the blood," Simon said now. "His whole thing is about me being comfortable with what I am. Get in touch with your inner vampire, blah, blah."

Clary slid next to him onto the bed and hugged a pillow. "Is your inner vampire different from your… outer vampire?"

"Definitely. He wants me to wear midriff-baring shirts and a fedora. I’m fighting it."

Clary smiled faintly. "So your inner vampire is Magnus?"

"Wait, that reminds me." Simon dug around in his messenger bag and produced two volumes of manga. He waved them triumphantly before handing them to Clary. "Magical Love Gentleman volumes fifteen and sixteen," he said. "Sold out everywhere but Midtown Comics."

She picked them up, looking at the colorful back-to-front covers. Once upon a time she would have waved her arms in fangirl joy; now it was all she could do to smile at Simon and thank him, but he had done it for her, she reminded herself, the gesture of a good friend. Even if she couldn’t even imagine distracting herself with reading right now. "You’re awesome," she said, bumping him with her shoulder. She lay down against the pillows, the manga books balanced on her lap. "And thanks for coming with me to the Seelie Court. I know it brings up sucky memories for you, but-I’m always better when you’re there."

"You did great. Handled the Queen like a pro." Simon lay down next to her, their shoulders touching, both of them looking up at the ceiling, the familiar cracks in it, the old glow-in-the-dark paste-on stars that no longer shed light. "So you’re going to do it? Steal the rings for the Queen?"

"Yes." She let out her held breath. "Tomorrow. There’s a local Conclave meeting at noon. Everyone’ll be in it. I’m going in then."

"I don’t like it, Clary."

She felt her body tighten. "Don’t like what?"

"You having anything to do with faeries. Faeries are liars."

"They can’t lie."

"You know what I mean. ‘Faeries are misleaders’ sounds lame, though."

She turned her head and looked at him, her chin against his collarbone. His arm came up automatically and circled her shoulders, pulling her against him. His body was cool, his shirt still damp from the rain. His usually stick-straight hair had dried in windblown curls. "Believe me, I don’t like getting mixed up with the Court. But I’d do it for you," she said. "And you’d do it for me, wouldn’t you?"

"Of course I would. But it’s still a bad idea." He turned his head and looked at her. "I know how you feel. When my father died-"

Her body tightened. "Jace isn’t dead."

"I know. I wasn’t saying that. It’s just-You don’t need to say you’re better when I’m there. I’m always there with you. Grief makes you feel alone, but you’re not. I know you don’t believe in-in religion-the same way I do, but you can believe you’re surrounded by people who love you, can’t you?" His eyes were wide, hopeful. They were the same dark brown they had always been, but different now, as if another layer had been added to their color, the same way his skin seemed both poreless and translucent at the same time.

I believe it, she thought. I’m just not sure it matters. She knocked her shoulder gently against his again. "So, do you mind if I ask you something? It’s personal but important."

A note of wariness crept into his voice. "What is it?"

"With the whole Mark of Cain thing, does that mean if I accidentally kick you during the night, I get kicked in the shins seven times by an invisible force?"

She felt him laugh. "Go to sleep, Fray."

3 : Bad Angels

"Man, I thought you’d forgotten you lived here," Jordan said the moment Simon walked into the living room of their small apartment, his keys still dangling in his hand. Jordan was usually to be found sprawled out on their futon, his long legs dangling over the side, the controller for their Xbox in his hand. Today he was on the futon, but he was sitting up straight, his broad shoulders hunched forward, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, the controller nowhere to be seen. He sounded relieved to see Simon, and in a moment Simon realized why.

Jordan wasn’t alone in the apartment. Sitting across from him in a nubbly orange velvet armchair-none of Jordan’s furniture matched-was Maia, her wildly curling hair contained in two braids. The last time Simon had seen her, she’d been glamorously dressed for a party. Now she was back in uniform: jeans with frayed cuffs, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a caramel leather jacket. She looked as uncomfortable as Jordan did, her back straight, her gaze straying to the window. When she saw Simon, she clambered gratefully to her feet and gave him a hug. "Hey," she said. "I just stopped by to see how you were doing."

"I’m fine. I mean, as fine as I could be with everything going on."

"I didn’t mean about the whole Jace thing," she said. "I meant about you. How are you holding up?"

"Me?" Simon was startled. "I’m all right. Worried about Isabelle and Clary. You know the Clave was investigating her-"

"And I heard she got cleared. That’s good." Maia let him go. "But I was thinking about you. And what happened with your mom."

"How did you know about that?" Simon shot Jordan a look, but Jordan shook his head, almost imperceptibly. He hadn’t told.

Maia pulled on a braid. "I ran into Eric, of all people. He told me what happened and that you’d backed out of Millenium Lint’s gigs for the past two weeks because of it."

"Actually, they changed their name," Jordan said. "They’re Midnight Burrito now."

Maia shot Jordan an irritated look, and he slid down a little in his seat. Simon wondered what they’d been talking about before he’d gotten home. "Have you talked to anyone else in your family?" Maia asked, her voice soft. Her amber eyes were full of concern. Simon knew it was churlish, but there was something about being looked at like that that he didn’t like. It was as if her concern made the problem real, when otherwise he could pretend it wasn’t happening.

"Yeah," he said. "Everything’s fine with my family."

"Really? Because you left your phone here." Jordan picked it up from the side table. "And your sister’s been calling you about every five minutes all day. And yesterday."

A cold feeling spread through Simon’s stomach. He took the phone from Jordan and looked at the screen. Seventeen missed calls from Rebecca.

"Crap," he said. "I was hoping to avoid this."

"Well, she’s your sister," said Maia. "She was going to call you eventually."

"I know, but I’ve been sort of fending her off-leaving messages when I knew she wouldn’t be there, that kind of thing. I just… I guess I was avoiding the inevitable."

"And now?"

Simon set the phone down on the windowsill. "Keep avoiding it?"

"Don’t." Jordan took his hands out of his pockets. "You should talk to her."

"And say what?" The question came out more sharply than Simon had intended.

"Your mother must have told her something," said Jordan. "She’s probably worried."

Simon shook his head. "She’ll be coming home for Thanksgiving in a few weeks. I don’t want her to get mixed up in what’s going on with my mom."

"She’s already mixed up in it. She’s your family," said Maia. "Besides, this-what’s going on with your mom, all of it-this is your life now."

"Then, I guess I want her to stay out of it." Simon knew he was being unreasonable, but he didn’t seem to be able to help it. Rebecca was-special. Different. From a part of his life that had so far remained untouched by all this weirdness. Maybe the only part.

Maia threw her hands up and turned to Jordan. "Say something to him. You’re his Praetorian guard."

"Oh, come on," said Simon before Jordan could open his mouth. "Are either of you in touch with your parents? Your families?"

They exchanged quick looks. "No," Jordan said slowly, "but neither of us had good relationships with them before-"

"I rest my case," said Simon. "We’re all orphans. Orphans of the storm."

"You can’t just ignore your sister," insisted Maia.

"Watch me."

"And when Rebecca comes home and your house looks like the set of The Exorcist? And your mom has no explanation for where you are?" Jordan leaned forward, his hands on his knees. "Your sister will call the police, and your mom will end up committed."

"I just don’t think I’m ready to hear her voice," Simon said, but he knew he’d lost the argument. "I have to head back out, but I promise, I’ll text her."

"Well," Jordan said. He was looking at Maia, not Simon, as he said it, as if he hoped she’d notice he’d made progress with Simon and be pleased. Simon wondered if they’d been seeing each other at all during the past two weeks when he’d been largely absent. He would have guessed no from the awkward way they’d been sitting when he’d come in, but with these two it was hard to be sure. "It’s a start."

The rattling gold elevator stopped at the third floor of the Institute; Clary took a deep breath and stepped out into the hallway. The place was, as Alec and Isabelle had promised her it would be, deserted and quiet. The traffic on York Avenue outside was a soft murmur. She imagined she could hear the brush of dust motes against one another as they danced in the window light. Along the wall were the pegs where the residents of the Institute hung their coats when they came inside. One of Jace’s black jackets still dangled from a hook, the sleeves empty and ghostly.

With a shiver she set off down the hallway. She could remember the first time Jace had taken her through these corridors, his careless light voice telling her about Shadowhunters, about Idris, about the whole secret world she had never known existed. She had watched him as he’d talked-covertly, she’d thought, but she knew now that Jace noticed everything-watching the light glint off his pale hair, the quick movements of his graceful hands, the flex of the muscles in his arms as he’d gestured.

She reached the library without encountering another Shadowhunter and pushed the door open. The room still gave her the same shiver it had the first time she’d seen it. Circular because it was built inside a tower, the library had a second floor gallery, railed, that ran along the midpoint of the walls, just above the rows of bookshelves. The desk Clary still thought of as Hodge’s rested in the center of the room, carved from a single slab of oak, the wide surface rested on the backs of two kneeling angels. Clary half-expected Hodge to stand up behind it, his keen-eyed raven, Hugo, perched on his shoulder.

Shaking off the memory, she headed quickly for the circular staircase at the far end of the room. She was wearing jeans and rubber-soled sneakers, and a soundless rune was carved into her ankle; the silence was almost eerie as she bounded up the steps and onto the gallery. There were books up here too, but they were locked away behind glass cases. Some looked very old, their covers frayed, their bindings reduced to a few strings. Others were clearly books of dark or dangerous magic-Unspeakable Cults, The Demon’s Pox, A Practical Guide to Raising the Dead.