The City of Fallen Angels (Mortal Instruments 4)(102)

“Get your witchlight,” she said to him. “I left mine at home.”

He shot her an irritated look. It was dark in the lobby, dark enough that a normal human wouldn’t have been able to see. Maia and Jordan both had the excellent night vision of werewolves. They were standing at opposite ends of the room, Jordan examining the big marble lobby desk, and Maia leaning against the far wall, apparently examining her rings.

“You’re supposed to bring it with you everywhere,” Alec replied.



“Oh? Did you bring your Sensor?” she snapped. “I didn’t think so. At least I have this.”

She tapped the pendant. “I can tell you that there’s something here. Something demonic.”

Jordan’s head snapped around. “There are demons here?”

“I don’t know—maybe only one. It pulsed and faded,” Isabelle admitted. “But it’s too big a coincidence for this just to have been the wrong address. We have to check it out.”

A dim light rose up all around her. She looked over and saw Alec holding up his witchlight, its blaze contained by his fingers. It threw strange shadows across his face, making him look older than he was, his eyes a darker blue.

“So let’s get going,” he said. “We’ll take it one floor at a time.”

They moved toward the elevator, Alec first, then Isabelle, Jordan and Maia dropping into line behind them.

Isabelle’s boots had Soundless runes carved into the soles, but Maia’s heels clicked on the marble floor as she walked. Frowning, she paused to discard them, and went barefoot the rest of the way. As Maia stepped into the elevator, Isabelle noticed that she wore a gold ring around her left big toe, set with a turquoise stone.

Jordan, glancing down at her feet, said in a surprised tone, “I remember that ring. I bought that for you at—”

“Shut up,” Maia said, hitting the door close button. The doors slid shut as Jordan lapsed into silence.

They paused at every floor. Most were still under construction—there were no lights, and wires hung down from the ceilings like vines. Windows had plywood nailed over them.

Drop cloths blew in the faint wind like ghosts. Isabelle kept a firm hand on her pendant, but nothing happened until they reached the tenth floor. As the doors opened, she felt a flutter against the inside of her cupped palm, as if she had been holding a tiny bird there and it had beaten its wings.

She spoke in a whisper. “There’s something here.”

Alec just nodded; Jordan opened his mouth to say something, but Maia elbowed him, hard. Isabelle slipped past her brother, into the hall outside the elevators. The ruby was pulsing and vibrating against her hand now like a distressed insect.

Behind her, Alec whispered, “Sandalphon.” Light blazed up around Isabelle, illuminating the hall. Unlike some of the other floors they had seen, this one seemed at least partly finished. Bare granite walls rose around her, and the floor was smooth black tile. A corridor led in two directions. One ended in a heap of construction equipment and tangled wires. The other ended in an archway. Beyond the archway, black space beckoned.

Isabelle turned to look back at her companions. Alec had put away his witchlight stone and was holding a blazing seraph blade, lighting the interior of the elevator like a lantern.

Jordan had produced a large, brutal-looking knife and was gripping it in his right hand.

Maia seemed to be in the process of putting her hair up; when she lowered her hands, she was holding a long, razor-tipped pin. Her nails had grown, too, and her eyes held a feral, greenish gleam.

“Follow me,” Isabelle said. “Quietly.”

Tap, tap went the ruby against Isabelle’s throat as she went down the hall, like the prodding of an insistent finger.

She didn’t hear the rest of them behind her, but she knew they were there from the long shadows cast against the dark granite walls. Her throat was tight, her nerves singing, the way they always did before she walked into battle.

This was the part she liked least, the anticipation before the release of violence. During a fight nothing mattered but the fight itself; now she had to struggle to keep her mind on the task at hand.

The archway loomed above them. It was carved marble, oddly old-fashioned for such a modern building, its sides decorated with scrollwork. Isabelle glanced up briefly as she passed through, and almost started. The face of a grinning gargoyle was carved into the stone, leering down at her. She made a face at it and turned to look at the room she had entered.

It was vast, high-ceilinged, clearly meant to someday be a full loft apartment. The walls were floor-to-ceiling windows, giving out onto a view of the East River with Queens in the distance, the Coca-Cola sign flashing bloodred and navy blue down onto the black water. The lights of surrounding buildings hovered glittering in the night air like tinsel on a Christmas tree. The room itself was dark, and full of odd, humped shadows, spaced at regular intervals, low to the ground. Isabelle squinted, puzzled. They weren’t animate; they appeared to be chunks of square, blocky furniture, but what—?

“Alec,” she said softly. Her pendant was writhing as if alive, its ruby heart painfully hot against her skin.

In a moment her brother was beside her. He raised his blade, and the room was full of light. Isabelle’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, dear God,” she whispered. “Oh, by the Angel, no.”