City of Heavenly Fire (The Mortal Instruments, #6)(69)

“I take it you saw Isabelle yesterday?”

“You take it right.”

“And it didn’t go well?”

Simon was spared answering by Raphael’s reappearance. He was carrying a stoppered glass bottle full of red liquid. Simon took it eagerly.

The scent of the blood came through the glass, billowy and sweet. Simon yanked the stopper out and swallowed, his fang teeth snapping out, despite the fact that he didn’t need them. Vampires weren’t meant to drink out of bottles. His teeth scraped against his skin as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

Raphael’s brown eyes glittered. “I was sorry to hear about your werewolf friend.”

Simon stiffened. Clary put a hand on his arm. “You don’t mean that,” Simon said. “You hated me having a Praetorian Guard.”

Raphael hummed thoughtfully. “No guard, no Mark of Cain. All your protections stripped away. It must be strange, Daylighter, to know that you can truly die.”

Simon stared at him. “Why do you try so hard?” he said, and took another swallow from the bottle. It tasted bitter this time, a little acidic. “To make me hate you? Or is it just that you hate me?”

There was a long silence. Simon realized that Raphael was barefoot, standing just at the edge of the sunlight where it lay in a stripe along the hardwood floor. Another step forward, and the light would char his skin.

Simon swallowed, tasting the blood in his mouth, feeling slightly unsteady. “You don’t hate me,” he realized, looking at the white scar at the base of Raphael’s throat, where sometimes a crucifix rested. “You’re jealous.”

Without another word Raphael shut the door between them.



Clary exhaled. “Wow. That went well.”

Simon didn’t say anything, just turned and walked away, down the steps. He paused at the bottom to finish his bottle of blood, and then, to her surprise, tossed it. It flew partway down the street and hit a lamppost, shattering, leaving a smear of blood on the iron.

“Simon?” Clary hurried down the steps. “Are you all right?”

He made a vague gesture. “I don’t know. Jordan, Maia, Raphael, it’s all—it’s too much. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“You mean, about talking to the Inquisitor for him?” Clary moved to catch up with Simon as he began walking aimlessly down the street. The wind had come up, ruffling his brown hair.

“About anything.” He wobbled a little as he walked away from her. Clary squinted suspiciously. If she hadn’t known better, she would have guessed he was drunk. “I don’t belong here,” he said. He had stopped in front of the Inquisitor’s residence. He cocked his head back, staring up at the windows. “What do you think they’re doing in there?”

“Having dinner?” Clary guessed. The witchlight lamps were starting to come on, illuminating the street. “Living their lives? Come on, Simon. They probably knew people who died in the battle last night. If you want to see Isabelle, tomorrow is the Council meeting and—”

“She knows,” he said. “That her parents are probably breaking up. That her father had an affair.”

“He what?” Clary said, staring at Simon. “When?”

“Long time ago.” Simon’s voice was definitely slurred. “Before Max. He was going to leave but—he found out about Max, so he stayed. Maryse told Isabelle, years ago. Not fair, to put all that on a little girl. Izzy’s strong, but still. You shouldn’t do that. Not to your child. You should—carry your own burdens.”

“Simon.” She thought of his mother, turning him away from her door. You shouldn’t do that. Not to your child. “How long have you known? About Robert and Maryse?”

“Months.” He moved toward the front gate of the house. “I always wanted to help her, but she never wanted me to say anything, do anything—your mother knows, by the way. She told Izzy who Robert had the affair with. It wasn’t anyone she’d ever heard of. I don’t know if that makes it worse or better.”

“What? Simon, you’re wobbling. Simon—”

Simon crashed into the fence around the Inquisitor’s house with a loud rattling noise. “Isabelle!” he called, tipping his head back. “Isabelle!”

“Holy—” Clary grabbed Simon by the sleeve. “Simon,” she hissed. “You’re a vampire, in the middle of Idris. Maybe you shouldn’t be shouting for attention.”

Simon ignored this. “Isabelle!” he called again. “Let down your raven hair!”

“Oh, my God,” Clary muttered. “There was something in that blood Raphael gave you, wasn’t there? I’m going to kill him.”

“He’s already dead,” Simon observed.

“He’s undead. Obviously he can still die, you know, again. I’ll re-kill him. Simon, come on. Let’s head back, and you can lie down and put ice on your head—”

“Isabelle!” Simon shouted.

One of the upper windows of the house swung open, and Isabelle leaned out. Her raven hair was unbound, tumbling around her face. She looked furious, though. “Simon, shut up!” she hissed.

“I won’t!” Simon announced mutinously. “For you are my lady fair, and I shall win your favor.”