City of Bones (The Mortal Instruments, #1)(71)

She heard a squeak, and the rat’s pink nose poked out from beneath the bar. With an exclamation of relief, Clary seized the rat in her hands. “Simon! You understood me!”

The rat, huddled in the hollow of her palms, squeaked glumly. Delighted, she hugged him to her chest. “Oh, poor baby,” she crooned, almost as if he really were a pet. “Poor Simon, it’ll be fine, I promise—”

“I wouldn’t feel too sorry for him,” Jace said. “That’s probably the closest he’s ever gotten to second base.”

“Shut up !” Clary glared at Jace furiously, but she did loosen her grip on the rat. His whiskers were trembling, whether in anger or agitation or simple terror, she couldn’t tell. “Get Magnus,” she said sharply. “We have to turn him back.”

“Let’s not be hasty.” Jace was actually grinning, the bastard. He reached toward Simon as if he meant to pet him. “He’s cute like that. Look at his little pink nose.”

Simon bared long yellow teeth at Jace and made a snapping motion. Jace pulled his outstretched hand back. “Izzy, go fetch our magnificent host.”

“Why me?” Isabelle looked petulant.

“Because it’s your fault the mundane’s a rat, idiot,” he said, and Clary was struck by how rarely any of them, other than Isabelle, ever said Simon’s actual name. “And we can’t leave him here.”

“You’d be happy to leave him if it weren’t for her,” Isabelle said, managing to inject the single syllable word with enough venom to poison an elephant. She stalked off, her skirt flouncing around her hips.

“I can’t believe she let you drink that blue drink,” Clary said to rat-Simon. “Now you see what you get for being so shallow.”

Simon squeaked irritably. Clary heard someone chuckle and glanced up to see Magnus leaning over her. Isabelle stood behind him, her expression furious. “Rattus norvegicus,” said Magnus, peering at Simon. “A common brown rat, nothing exotic.”

“I don’t care what kind of rat he is,” Clary said crossly. “I want him turned back.”

Magnus scratched his head thoughtfully, shedding glitter. “No point,” he said.

“That’s what I said.” Jace looked pleased.

“NO POINT?” Clary shouted, so loudly that Simon hid his head under her thumb. “HOW CAN YOU SAY THERE’s NO POINT?”

“Because he’ll turn back on his own in a few hours,” said Magnus. “The effect of the cocktails is temporary. No point working up a transformation spell; it’ll just traumatize him. Too much magic is hard on mundanes; their systems aren’t used to it.”

“I doubt his system is used to being a rat, either,” Clary pointed out. “You’re a warlock; can’t you just reverse the spell?”

Magnus considered. “No,” he said.

“You mean you won’t.”

“Not for free, darling, and you can’t afford me.”

“I can’t take a rat home on the subway either,” Clary said plaintively. “I’ll drop him, or one of the MTA police will arrest me for transporting pests on the transit system.” Simon chirped his annoyance. “Not that you’re a pest, of course.”

A girl who had been shouting by the door was now joined by six or seven others. The sound of angry voices rose above the hum of the party and the strains of the music. Magnus rolled his eyes. “Excuse me,” he said, backing into the crowd, which closed behind him instantly.

Isabelle, wobbling on her sandals, expelled a gusty sigh. “So much for his help.”

“You know,” Alec said, “you could always put the rat in your backpack.”

Clary looked at him hard, but couldn’t find anything wrong with the idea. It wasn’t as if she had a pocket she could have tucked him in. Isabelle’s clothes didn’t allow for pockets; they were too tight. Clary was amazed they allowed for Isabelle.

Shrugging off her pack, she found a hiding place for the small brown rat that had once been Simon, nestled between her rolled-up sweater and her sketchpad. He curled up atop her wallet, looking reproachful. “I’m sorry,” she said miserably.

“Don’t bother,” Jace said. “Why mundanes always insist on taking responsibility for things that aren’t their fault is a mystery to me. You didn’t force that cocktail down his idiotic throat.”

“If it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t have been here at all,” Clary said in a small voice.

“Don’t flatter yourself. He came because of Isabelle.”

Angrily Clary jerked the top of the bag closed and stood up. “Let’s get out of here. I’m sick of this place.”

The tight knot of shouting people by the door turned out to be more vampires, easily recognizable by the pallor of their skin and the dead blackness of their hair. They must dye it, Clary thought. They couldn’t possibly all be naturally dark-haired; and besides, some of them had blond eyebrows. They were loudly complaining about their vandalized motorbikes and the fact that some of their friends were missing and unaccounted for.

“They’re probably drunk and passed out somewhere,” Magnus said, waving long white fingers in a bored manner. “You know how you lot tend to turn into bats and piles of dust when you’ve downed a few too many Bloody Marys.”