The City of Fallen Angels (Mortal Instruments 4)(16)

She snorted.

“How are your mom and Luke, anyway?”

“Disgustingly in love. It’s horrible. Anyway—” She patted him on the shoulder. “I should go in. See you tomorrow?”

He nodded. “Sure. Tomorrow.”

He watched heras she ranacross the street and up the stairs to Luke’s frontdoor.

Tomorrow. He wondered how long it had been since he had gone more than a few days without seeing Clary. He wondered about being a fugitive and a wanderer on the earth, like Camille had said. Like Raphael had said. Thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground. He wasn’t Cain, who had killed his brother, but the curse believed he was. It was strange, he thought, waiting to lose everything, not knowing if it would happen, or not.

The door shut behind Clary. Simon turned to head down Kent, toward the G train stop at Lorimer Street. It was nearly full dark now, the sky overhead a swirl of gray and black.

Simon heard tires squeal on the road behind him, but he didn’t turn around. Cars drove too fast on this street all the time, despite the cracks and potholes. It wasn’t until the blue van drew up beside him and screeched to a stop that he turned to look.

The van’s driver yanked the keys from the ignition, killing the engine, and threw open the door. It was a man—a tall man, dressed in a gray hooded tracksuit and sneakers, the hood pulled down so low that it hid most of his face.

He leaped down from the driver’s seat, and Simon saw that there was a long, shimmering knife in his hand.

Later Simon would think that he should have run. He was a vampire, faster than any human. He could outrun anyone. He should have run, but he was too startled; he stood still as the man, gleaming knife in hand, came toward him. The man said something in a low, guttural voice, something in a language Simon didn’t understand.

Simon took a step back. “Look,” he said, reaching for his pocket. “You can have my wallet—”



The man lunged at Simon, plunging the knife toward his chest. Simon stared down in disbelief. Everything seemed to be happening very slowly, as if time were stretching out.

He saw the point of the knife near his chest, the tip denting the leather of his jacket—and then it sheared to the side, as if someone had grabbed his attacker’s arm and yanked. The man screamed as he was jerked up into the air like a puppet being hauled up by its strings.

Simon looked around wildly—surely someone must have heard or noticed the commotion, but no one appeared.

The man kept screaming, jerking wildly, while his shirt tore open down the front, as if ripped apart by an invisible hand.

Simon stared in horror. Huge wounds were appearing on the man’s torso. His head flew back, and blood sprayed from his mouth. He stopped screaming abruptly—and fell, as if the invisible hand had opened, releasing him. He hit the ground and broke apart like glass shattering into a thousand shining pieces that scattered themselves across the pavement.

Simon dropped to his knees. The knife that had been meant to kill him lay a little way away, within arm’s reach. It was all that was left of his attacker, save a pile of shimmering crystals that were already beginning to blow away in the brisk wind. He touched one cautiously.

It was salt. He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. He knew what had happened, and why.

And the Lord said unto him, Therefore whosoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold.

So this was what sevenfold looked like.

He barely made it to the gutter before he doubled over and vomited blood into the street.

The moment Simon opened the door, he knew he’d miscalculated. He’d thought his mother would be asleep by now, but she wasn’t. She was awake, sitting in an armchair facing the front door, her phone on the table next to her, and she saw the blood on his jacket immediately.

To his surprise she didn’t scream, but her hand flew to her mouth. “Simon.”

“It’s not my blood,” he said quickly. “I was over at Eric’s, and Matt had a nosebleed—”

“I don’t want to hear it.” That sharp tone was one she rarely used; it reminded him of the way she’d talked during those last months when his father had been sick, anxiety like a knife in her voice. “I don’t want to hear any more lies.”

Simon dropped his keys onto the table next to the door. “Mom—”

“All you do is tell me lies. I’m tired of it.”

“That’s not true,” he said, but he felt sick, knowing it was. “I just have a lot going on in my life right now.”



“I know you do.” His mother got to her feet; she had always been a skinny woman, and she looked bony now, her dark hair, the same color as his, streaked with more gray than he had remembered where it fell around her face.

“Come with me, young man. Now.”

Puzzled, Simon followed her into the small bright-yellow kitchen. His mother stopped and pointed toward the counter. “Care to explain those?”

Simon’s mouth went dry. Lined up along the counter like a row of toy soldiers were the bottles of blood that had been in the mini-fridge inside his closet. One was half-full, the others entirely full, the red liquid inside them shining like an accusation. She had also found the empty blood bags he had washed out and carefully stuffed inside a shopping bag before dumping them into his trash can. They were spread out over the counter too, like a grotesque decoration.