The City of Fallen Angels (Mortal Instruments 4)(50)

He had been only nine years old. But a baby—

Jocelyn put her hand over her mouth. Her eyes were very large and dark, fixed on the body of the child. Clary looked down. At first glance the baby—a boy—looked normal.

He had all ten fingers and all ten toes. But looking closer—looking the way she would look if she wanted to see past a glamour—she saw that the child’s fingers were not fingers at all, but claws, curving inward, sharply pointed. The child’s skin was gray, and its eyes, wide open and staring, were absolutely black—not just the irises, but the whites as well.

Jocelyn whispered, “That’s how Jonathan’s eyes were when he was born—like black tunnels. They changed later, to look more human, but I remember. . . .”

And with a shudder she turned and hurried from the room, the morgue door swinging shut behind her.



Clary glanced at Catarina, who looked impassive. “The doctors couldn’t tell?” she asked.

“I mean, his eyes—and those hands—”

Catarina shook her head. “They don’t see what they don’t want to see,” she said, and shrugged. “There’s some kind of magic at work here I haven’t seen much of before.

Demon magic. Bad stuff.” She slipped something out of her pocket. It was a swatch of fabric, tucked into a plastic Ziploc bag. “This is a piece of what he was wrapped in when they brought him in. It stinks of demon magic too. Give it to your mother. Maybe she can show it to the Silent Brothers, see if they can get something from it. Find out who did this.”

Numbly, Clary took it. As her hands closed over the bag, a rune rose up behind her eyes—a matrix of lines and swirls, the whisper of an image that was gone as soon as she slid the Baggie into the pocket of her coat.

Her heart was pounding, though. This isn’t going to the Silent Brothers, she thought. Not till I see what that rune does to it.

“You’ll talk to Magnus?” said Catarina. “Tell him I showed your mama what she wanted to see.”

Clary nodded mechanically, like a doll. Suddenly all she wanted was to get out of there, out of the yellow-lit room, away from the smell of death and the tiny defiled body lying still on its slab. She thought of her mother, every year on Jonathan’s birthday taking out that box and crying over the lock of his hair, crying over the son she should have had, replaced by a thing like this one. I don’t think this was what she wanted to see, Clary thought. I think this was what she was hoping was impossible. But “Sure,” was all she said. “I’ll tell him.” what she was hoping was impossible. But “Sure,” was all she said.

“I’ll tell him.”

The Alto Bar was your typical hipster dive, located partially under the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway overpass in Greenpoint. But it had an all-ages night every Saturday, and Eric was friends with the owner, so they let Simon’s band play pretty much any Saturday they wanted, despite the fact that they kept changing their name and couldn’t be counted on to draw a crowd.

Kyle and the other band members were already onstage, setting up their equipment and doing final checks. They were going to run through one of their old sets, with Kyle on vocals; he learned lyrics fast, and they were feeling pretty confident. Simon had agreed to stay backstage until the show started, which seemed to relieve some of Kyle’s stress.

Now Simon peered around the dusty velvet curtain at the back of the stage, trying to get a glimpse of who might be out there.

The interior of the bar had once been stylishly decorated, with pressed-tin walls and ceiling, reminiscent of an old speakeasy, and frosted art deco glass behind the bar. It was a lot grungier now than it had been when it opened, with permanent smoke stains on the walls. The floor was covered in sawdust that had formed into clumps as a result of beer spills and worse.

On the plus side, the tables that lined the walls were mostly full. Simon saw Isabelle sitting at a table by herself, dressed in a short silver mesh dress that looked like chain mail, and her demon-stomping boots. Her hair was pulled up into a messy bun, stuck through with silver chopsticks. Simon knew each of those chopsticks was razor sharp, able to slice through metal or bone. Her lipstick was bright red, like fresh blood.

Get a grip, Simon told himself. Stop thinking about blood.

More tables were taken up by other friends of the band. Blythe and Kate, the respective girlfriends of Kirk and Matt, were at a table together sharing a plate of pallid-looking nachos. Eric had various girlfriends scattered at tables around the room, and most of his friends from school were there too, making the place look a lot more full.

Sitting off in the corner, at a table all by herself, was Maureen, Simon’s one fan—a tiny waifish blond girl who looked about twelve but claimed she was sixteen. He figured she was probably actually about fourteen. Seeing him sticking his head around the curtain, she waved and smiled vigorously.

Simon pulled his head back in like a turtle, yanking the curtains closed.

“Hey,” said Jace, who was sitting on an overturned speaker, looking at his cell phone,

“do you want to see a photo of Alec and Magnus in Berlin?”

“Not really,” said Simon.

“Magnus is wearing lederhosen.”

“And yet, still no.”

Jace shoved the phone into his pocket and looked at Simon quizzically. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Simon said, but he wasn’t. He felt light-headed and nauseated and tense, which he put down to the strain of worrying about what was going to happen tonight. And it didn’t help that he hadn’t fed; he was going to have to deal with that, and soon. He wished Clary were here, but he knew she couldn’t come. She had some wedding responsibility to attend to, and had told him a long time ago that she wasn’t going to be able to make it.