The City of Fallen Angels (Mortal Instruments 4)(33)

They had reached the stoop, effectively trapping him on the steps. Simon tore his iPod headphones from his ears and hastily held his hands up. “Look,” he said, “I don’t know what this is about, but you really want to leave me alone.”

The muggers just looked at him. Or at least he thought they were looking at him. Under the shadows of their hoods, it was impossible to see their faces.

“I’m getting the feeling someone sent you after me,” he said. “But it’s a suicide mission.

Seriously. I don’t know what they’re paying you, but it’s not enough.”

One of the tracksuited figures laughed. The other had reached into his pocket and drawn something out.

Something that shone black under the streetlights.

A gun.

“Oh, man,” Simon said. “You really, really don’t want to do that. I’m not kidding.” He took a step back, up one of the stairs. Maybe if he got enough height, he could actually jump over them, or past them. Anything but let them attack him. He didn’t think he could face what that meant. Not again.

The man with the gun raised it. There was a click as he pulled the hammer back.

Simon bit his lip. In his panic his fangs had come out. Pain shot through him as they sank into his skin. “Don’t—”

A dark object fell from the sky. At first Simon thought something had merely tumbled from one of the upper windows—an air conditioner ripping loose, or someone too lazy to drag their trash downstairs. But the falling thing, he saw, was a person—falling with direction, purpose, and grace. The person landed on the mugger, knocking him flat. The gun skittered out of his hand, and he screamed, a thin, high sound. windows—an air conditioner ripping loose, or someone too lazy to drag their trash downstairs. But the falling thing, he saw, was a person—falling with direction, purpose, and grace. The person landed on the mugger, knocking him flat. The gun skittered out of his hand, and he screamed, a thin, high sound.

The second mugger bent and seized the gun. Before Simon could react, the guy had raised it and pulled the trigger. A spark of flame appeared at the gun’s muzzle.

And the gun blew apart. It blew apart, and the mugger blew apart along with it, too fast to even scream. He had intended a quick death for Simon, and an even quicker death was what he got in return. He shattered apart like glass, like the outward-flying colors in a kaleidoscope. There was a soft explosion—the sound of displaced air— and then nothing but a soft drizzle of salt, falling onto the pavement like solidified rain.

Simon’s vision blurred, and he sank down onto the steps. He was aware of a loud humming in his ears, and then someone grabbed him roughly by the wrists and shook him, hard. “Simon. Simon!”

He looked up. The person grabbing him and shaking him was Jace. The other boy wasn’t in gear, but was still wearing his jeans and the jacket he’d taken back from Clary. He was disheveled, his clothes and face streaked with dirt and soot. His hair was wet from the rain.

“What the hell was that?” Jace asked.

Simon looked up and down the street. It was still deserted. The asphalt shone, black and wet and empty. The second mugger was gone.

“You,” he said, a little groggily. “You jumped the muggers—”

“Those weren’t muggers. They were following you since you got off the subway.

Someone sent those guys.” Jace spoke with complete surety.

“The other one,” Simon said. “What happened to him?”

“He just vanished.” Jace snapped his fingers. “He saw what happened to his friend, and he was gone, like that. I don’t know what they were, exactly. Not demons, but not exactly human, either.”



“Yeah, I figured that part out, thanks.”

Jace looked at him more closely. “That—what happened to the mugger—that was you, wasn’t it? Your Mark, here.” He pointed at his forehead. “I saw it burn white before that guy just . . . dissolved.”

Simon said nothing.

“I’ve seen a lot,” Jace said. There was no sarcasm in his voice, for a change, or any mockery. “But I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“I didn’t do it,” Simon said softly. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Youdidn’t have to,” said Jace. His goldeneyes burned inhis soot-streaked face. “‘For itis written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’”





WAKE THE DEAD


Jace’s room was as neat as ever—bed made perfectly, the books that lined the shelves arranged in alphabetical order, notes and textbooks stacked carefully on the desk. Even his weapons were lined up along the wall in order of size, from a massive broadsword to a set of small daggers.

Clary, standing in the doorway, held back a sigh. The neatness was all very well. She was used to it. It was, she had always thought, Jace’s way of exerting control over the elements of a life that otherwise might seem overwhelmed with chaos. He had lived so long not knowing who—or even what—he really was, she could hardly begrudge him the careful alphabetization of his poetry collection.

She could, however—and did—begrudge the fact that he wasn’t there. If he hadn’t gone back home after leaving the bridal shop, where had he gone? As she looked around the room, a feeling of unreality came over her. It wasn’t possible that any of this was happening, was it? She knew how breakups went from hearing other girls complain about them. First the pulling away, the gradual refusal to return notes or phone calls. The vague messages saying nothing was wrong, that the other person just wanted a little space. Then the speech about how “It’s not you, it’s me.” Then the crying part.