The City of Fallen Angels (Mortal Instruments 4)(112)

Alec got to his feet. “Then I’d better find out what she’s doing.”

Camille’s chains rattled as she tried to rise to her knees. “Wait—but you said you would free me.”

Alec turned and looked down at her. “I didn’t. I said I would let the Clave have you.”

“But if you leave me here, nothing prevents Lilith from finding me first.” She tossed her matted hair back; lines of strain showed in her face. “Alexander, please. I beg you—”



“Who’s Will?” Alec said. The words came out abruptly, unexpectedly, and much to his horror.

“Will?” For a moment her face was blank; then it creased into a look of realization, and near amusement. “You heard my conversation with Magnus.”

“Some of it.” Alec exhaled carefully. “Will is dead, isn’t he? I mean, Magnus said it was a long time ago that he knew him. . . .”

“I know what’s bothering you, little Shadowhunter.” Camille’s voice had gone musical and soft. Behind her, through the windows, Alec could see the distant flickering lights of a plane as it flew over the city. “At first you were happy.

You thought of the moment, not of the future. Now you have realized. You will grow old, and will someday die. And Magnus will not. He will continue. You will not grow old together. You will grow apart instead.”

Alec thought of the people on the airplane, high up in the cold and icy air, looking down on the city like a field of glittering diamonds, far below. Of course, he had never been in an airplane himself. He was only guessing at how it would feel: lonely, distant, disconnected from the world. “You can’t know that,” he said. “That we’ll grow apart.”

She smiled pityingly. “You’re beautiful now,” she said. “But will you be in twenty years?

In forty? Fifty? Will he love your blue eyes when they fade, your soft skin when age cuts deep furrows in it? Your hands when they wrinkle and grow weak, your hair when it grows white—”

“Shut up.” Alec heard the crack in his own voice, and was ashamed. “Just shut up. I don’t want to hear it.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.” Camille leaned toward him, her green eyes luminous.

“What if I told you that you didn’t have to grow old? Didn’t have to die?”

Alec felt a wave of rage. “I’m not interested in becoming a vampire. Don’t even bother making the offer. Not if the only other alternative was death.”

For the briefest of moments her face twisted. It was gone in a flash as her control reasserted itself; she smiled a thin smile and said, “That wasn’t my suggestion. What if I told you there was another way? Another way for the two of you to be together forever?”

Alec swallowed. His mouth was as dry as paper. “Tell me,” he said.

Camille raised her hands. Her chains rattled. “Cut these free.”

“No. Tell me first.”

She shook her head. “I won’t do that.” Her expression was as hard as marble, as was her voice. “You said I had nothing to bargainwith. But Ido.And Iwill notgive it away.”

Alec hesitated. In his head he heard Magnus’s soft voice. She is a master of implication and manipulation. She always has been.



But Magnus, he thought. You never told me. Never warned me it would be like this, that I would wake up one day and realize that I was going somewhere you couldn’t follow.

That we are essentially not the same. There’s no “till death do us part” for those who never die.

He took a step toward Camille, and then another. Raising his right arm, he brought the seraph blade down, as hard as he could. It sheared through the metal of her chains; her wrists sprang apart, still in their manacles but free. She brought her hands up, her expression gloating, triumphant.

“Alec.” Isabelle spoke from the doorway; Alec turned and saw her standing there, her whip at her side. It was stained with blood, as were her hands and her silk dress. “What are you doing in here?”

“Nothing. I—” Alec felt a wave of shame and horror; almost without thinking, he moved to step in front of Camille, as if he could obscure her from his sister’s view.

“They’re all dead.” Isabelle sounded grim. “The cultists. We killed every one of them.

Now come on. We have to start looking for Simon.” She squinted at Alec. “Are you okay? You look really pale.”

“I cut her free,” Alec blurted. “I shouldn’t have. It’s just—”

“Cut who free?” Isabelle took a step into the room. The ambient city light sparked off her dress, making her shine like a ghost. “Alec, what are you blathering about?”

Her expression was blank, confused. Alec turned, following her gaze, and saw—nothing.

The pipe was still there, a length of chain lying beside it, the dust on the floor only very slightly disturbed. But Camille was gone.

Clary barely had time to put her arms up before the hellhound collided with her, a cannonball of muscle and bone and hot, stinking breath. Her feet went out from under her; she remembered Jace telling her the best way to fall, how to protect yourself, but the advice flew from her mind and she hit the ground with her elbows, agony shooting through her as the skin tore. A moment later the hound was on top of her, its paws crushing her chest, its gnarled tail swishing from side to side in a grotesque imitation of a wag. The tip of its tail was spiked with nail-like protrusions like a medieval mace, and a thick growl came from its barrel-chested body, so loud and strong that she could feel her bones vibrate.