The City of Fallen Angels (Mortal Instruments 4)(104)

Clary’s green eyes flashed, but she didn’t move.

“So you see, Daylighter,” said Lilith, “I am only taking what is mine by right. The Law says that the one who was first brought back must be here in the circle when the second is returned.” She indicated Jace with a contemptuous flick of her finger. “He is here. You are here. All is in readiness.”

“Then you don’t need Clary,” said Simon. “Leave her out of it. Let her go.”

“Of course I need her. I need her to motivate you. I cannot hurt you, Mark-bearer, or threaten you, or kill you. But I can cut out your heart when I cut out her life. And I will.”

She looked toward Clary, and Simon’s gaze followed hers.

Clary. She was so pale that she looked almost blue, though perhaps that was the cold. Her green eyes were vast in her pale face. A trickle of drying blood spilled from her collarbone to the neckline of her dress, now spotted with red. Her hands hung at her sides, loose, but they were shaking.

Simon saw her as she was, but also as she had been when she was seven years old, skinny arms and freckles and those blue plastic barrettes she’d worn in her hair until she was eleven. He thought of the first time he’d noticed she had a real girl’s shape under the baggy T-shirt and jeans she always wore, and how he hadn’t been sure if he should look or look away. He thought of her laugh and her quick pencil moving across a page, leaving intricately designed images behind: spired castles, running horses, brightly colored characters she’d made up in her head. You can walk to school by yourself, her mother had said, but only if Simon goes with you. He thought of her hand in his when they crossed the street, and his own sense of the awesome task that he had undertaken: the responsibility for her safety.

He had been in love with her once, and maybe some part of him always would be, because she had been his first.

But that wasn’t what mattered now. She was Clary; she was part of him; she always had been and would be forever. As he stared at her, she shook her head, very slightly. He knew what she was saying. Don’t do it. Don’t give her what she wants. Let whatever happens to me happen.

He stepped into the circle; as his feet passed over the painted line, he felt a shiver, like an electric shock, go through him. “All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

“No!” Clary cried, but Simon didn’t look at her. He was watching Lilith, who smiled a cool, gloating smile as she raised her left hand and passed it across the surface of the coffin.

The lid of it vanished, peeling back in a way that reminded Simon bizarrely of peeling back the lid of a tin of sardines. As the top layer of glass pulled away, it melted and ran, dripping down the sides of the granite pedestal, crystallizing into tiny shards of glass as the drops struck the ground.

The coffin was open now, like a fish tank; Sebastian’s body drifted inside, and Simon thought he could once again see the flash of the rune on his chest as Lilith reached into the tank. As Simon watched, she took Sebastian’s dangling arms and crossed them over his chest with an oddly tender gesture, tucking the bandaged one under the one that was whole. She brushed a lock of his wet hair away from his still, white forehead, and stepped back, shaking milky water from her hands.

“To your work, Daylighter,” she said.

Simon moved toward the coffin. Sebastian’s face was slack, his eyelids still. No pulse beat in his throat. Simon remembered how much he had wanted to drink Maureen’s blood. How he had craved the feeling of his teeth sinking into her skin and freeing the salty blood beneath. But this—this was feeding off a corpse. The very thought made his stomach turn.

Though he wasn’t looking at her, he was aware of Clary watching him. He could feel her breath as he bent over Sebastian. He could sense Jace, too, watching him out of blank eyes. Reaching into the coffin, he closed his hands around Sebastian’s cold, slippery shoulders. Biting back the urge to be sick, he bent and sank his teeth into Sebastian’s throat. Black demon blood poured into his mouth, as bitter as poison.

***

Isabelle moved silently among the stone pedestals. Alec was with her, Sandalphon in his hand, sending light winging through the room. Maia was in one corner of the room, bent over and retching, her hand braced against the wall; Jordan hovered over her, looking as if he wanted to reach out and stroke her back, but was afraid of being rebuffed.

Isabelle didn’t blame Maia for throwing up. If she hadn’t had years of training, she would have thrown up herself.

She had never seen anything like what she was looking at now. There were dozens, maybe fifty, of the stone pedestals in the room. Atop each one was a low crib-like basket.

Inside each basket was a baby. And every one of the babies was dead.

She had held out hope at first, as she walked up and down the rows, that she might find one alive. But these children had been dead for some time. Their skin was gray, their small faces bruised and discolored. They were wrapped in thin blankets, and though it was cold in the room, Isabelle didn’t think it was cold enough for them to have frozen to death. She wasn’t sure how they had died; she couldn’t bear to investigate too closely.

This was clearly a matter for the Clave. wrapped in thin blankets, and though it was cold in the room, Isabelle didn’t think it was cold enough for them to have frozen to death.

She wasn’t sure how they had died; she couldn’t bear to investigate too closely. This was clearly a matter for the Clave.