The City of Fallen Angels (Mortal Instruments 4)(124)

“So what do we do?” Alec whispered.



Magnus shrugged, and smiled suddenly; with his messy black hair and the gleam in his goldgreen eyes, he looked like a mischievous teenager. “What everyone does,” he replied. “Like you said. Hope.”

Alec and Magnus had begun kissing in the corner of the room, and Simon wasn’t quite sure where to look. He didn’t want them to think he was staring at them during what was clearly a private moment, but wherever else he looked, he met the glaring eyes of Shadowhunters. Despite the fact that he’d fought with them in the bank against Camille, none of them looked at him with particular friendliness. It was one thing for Isabelle to accept him and to care about him, but Shadowhunters en masse were another thing entirely. He could tell what they were thinking.

“Vampire, Downworlder, enemy” was written all over their faces. It came as a relief when the doors burst open again and Jocelyn came flying in, still wearing her blue dress from the party. Luke was only a few steps behind her.

“Simon!” she cried as soon as she caught sight of him. She ran over to him, and to his surprise she hugged him fiercely before letting him go. “Simon, where’s Clary? Is she—”

Simon opened his mouth, but no sound came out. How could he explain to Jocelyn, of all people, what had happened that night? Jocelyn, who would be horrified to know that so much of Lilith’s evil, the children she had murdered, the blood she had spilled, had all been in the service of making more creatures like Jocelyn’s own dead son, whose body even now lay entombed on the rooftop where Clary was with Jace?

I can’t tell her any of this, he thought. I can’t. He looked past her at Luke, whose blue eyes rested on him expectantly. Behind Clary’s family he could see the Shadowhunters crowding around Isabelle as she presumably recounted the events of the evening.



“I—,” he began helplessly, and then the elevator doors opened again, and Clary stepped out. Her shoes were gone, her lovely satin dress in bloody rags, bruises already fading on her bare arms and legs. But she was smiling —radiant even, happier than Simon had seen her look in weeks.

“Mom!” she exclaimed, and then Jocelyn had flown at her and was hugging her. Clary smiled at Simon over her mother’s shoulder. Simon glanced around the room. Alec and Magnus were still wrapped up in each other, and Maia and Jordan had vanished. Isabelle was still surrounded by Shadowhunters, and Simon could hear gasps of horror and amazement rise from the group surrounding her as she recounted her story. He suspected some part of her was enjoying it. Isabelle did love being the center of attention, no matter what the cause.

He felt a hand come down on his shoulder. It was Luke. “Are you all right, Simon?”

Simon looked up at him. Luke looked as he always did: solid, professorial, utterly reliable. Not even the least bit put out that his engagement party had been disrupted by a sudden dramatic emergency.

Simon’s father had died so long ago that he barely remembered him. Rebecca recalled bits about him—that he had a beard, and would help her build elaborate towers out of blocks—but Simon didn’t. It was one of the things he’d thought he always had in common with Clary, that had bonded them: both with dead fathers, both brought up by strong single women.

Well, at least one of those things had turned out to be true, Simon thought. Though his mother had dated, he’d never had a consistent fatherly presence in his life, other than Luke. He supposed that in a way, he and Clary had shared Luke. And the wolf pack looked up to Luke for guidance, as well. For a bachelor who’d never had children, Simon thought, Luke had an awful lot of kids to look after.

“I don’t know,” Simon said, giving Luke the honest answer he’d like to think he’d have given his own father. “I don’t think so.”

Luke turned Simon to face him. “You’re covered in blood,” he said. “And I’m guessing it’s not yours, because . . .”

He gestured toward the Mark on Simon’s forehead. “But hey.” His voice was gentle.

“Even covered in blood and with the Mark of Cain on you, you’re still Simon. Can you tell me what happened?”

“It’s not my blood, you’re right,” Simon said hoarsely. “But it’s also kind of a long story.” He tilted his head back to look up at Luke; he’d always wondered if maybe he’d have another growth spurt some day, grow a few more inches than the five-ten he was now, be able to look Luke—not to mention Jace—straight in the eye. But that would never happen now. “Luke,” he said. “Do you think it’s possible to do something so bad, even if you didn’t mean to do it, that you can never come back from it? That no one can forgive you?”

Luke looked at him for a long, silent moment. Then he said, “Think of someone you love, Simon. Really love. Is there anything they could ever do that would mean you would stop loving them?”

Images flashed through Simon’s mind, like the pages of a flip-book: Clary, turning to smile at him over her shoulder; his sister, tickling him when he was just a little kid; his mother, asleep on the sofa with the coverlet pulled up to her shoulders; Izzy—

He shut the thoughts off hastily. Clary hadn’t done anything so terrible that he needed to dredge up forgiveness for her; none of the people he was picturing had. He thought of Clary, forgiving her mother for having stolen her memories. He thought of Jace, what he had done on the roof, how he had looked afterward. He had done what he had done withoutvolitionof his own, but Simondoubted Jace would be able to forgive himself, regardless.And then he thought of Jordan—not forgiving himself for what he had done to Maia, but forging ahead anyway, joining the Praetor Lupus, making a life out of helping others.