The City of Fallen Angels (Mortal Instruments 4)(52)

We would be shamed and humiliated in front of other clans.”

Maryse made an impatient noise. “There are more important things than loss of face.”

“When you are a vampire, it can mean the difference between life and death.” Raphael’s voice dropped. “I gambled that she would believe I would do it, and she did. She agreed to go. I sent her away, but it left behind a conundrum. I could not take her place, for she had not abdicated it. I could not explain her departure without revealing what she had done. I had to pose it as a long absence, a need to travel. Wanderlust is not unheard of in our kind; it comes upon us now and then. When you can live forever, staying in one place can come to seem a dull prison after many, many years.”

“And how long did you think you could keep up the charade?” Luke inquired.

“As long as Icould,” said Raphael. “Until now, itseems.” He looked awayfrom them, toward the windowand the sparkling night outside.



Luke leaned back against one of the bookshelves. He was vaguely amused to notice that he seemed to be in the shape-shifter section, lined with volumes on the topics of werewolves, naga, kitsunes, and selkies. “You might be interested to know she has been telling much the same story about you,” he said, neglecting to mention whom she had been telling it to.

“I thought she had left the city.”

“Perhaps she did, but she has returned,” said Maryse. “And she is no longer satisfied only with human blood, it seems.”

“I do not know what I can tell you,” said Raphael. “I was trying to protect my clan. If the Law must punish me, then I will accept punishment.”

“We aren’t interested in punishing you, Raphael,” said Luke. “Not unless you refuse to cooperate.”

Raphael turned back to them, his dark eyes burning. “Cooperate with what?”

“We would like to capture Camille. Alive,” said Maryse. “We want to question her. We need to know why she has been killing Shadowhunters—and these Shadowhunters in particular.”

“If you sincerely hope to accomplish this, I hope you have a very clever plan.” There was a mixture of amusement and scorn in Raphael’s voice. “Camille is cunning even for our kind, and we are very cunning indeed.”

“I have a plan,” said Luke. “It involves the Daylighter. Simon Lewis.”

Raphael made a face. “I dislike him,” he said. “I would rather not be a part of a plan that relies upon his involvement.”

“Well,” said Luke, “isn’t that too bad for you.”

Stupid, Clary thought. Stupid not to bring an umbrella. The faint drizzle that her mother had told her was coming that morning had turned into nearly full-blown rain by the time she reached the Alto Bar on Lorimer Street. She pushed past the knot of people smoking out on the sidewalk and ducked gratefully into the dry warmth of the bar inside.

Millennium Lint was already onstage, the guys whaling away on their instruments, and Kyle, at the front, growling sexily into a microphone. Clary felt a moment of satisfaction.

It was largely down to her influence that they’d hired Kyle at all, and he was clearly doing them proud.

She glanced around the room, hoping to see either Maia or Isabelle. She knew it wouldn’t be both of them, since Simon carefully invited them only to alternating gigs. Her gaze fell on a slender figure with black hair, and she moved toward that table, only to stop midway. It wasn’t Isabelle at all, but a much older woman, her face made up with dark outlined eyes. She was wearing a power suit and reading a newspaper, apparently oblivious to the music.



“Clary! Over here!” Clary turned and saw the actual Isabelle, seated at a table close to the stage. She wore a dress that shone like a silver beacon; Clary navigated toward it and flung herself down in the seat opposite Izzy.

“Got caught in the rain, I see,” Isabelle observed.

Clary pushed her damp hair back from her face with a rueful smile. “You bet against Mother Nature, you lose.”

Isabelle raised her dark eyebrows. “I thought you weren’t coming tonight. Simon said you had some wedding blahblah to deal with.” Isabelle was not impressed with weddings or any of the trappings of romantic love, as far as Clary could tell.

“My mom wasn’t feeling well,” Clary said. “She decided to reschedule.”

This was true, up to a point. When they’d come home from the hospital, Jocelyn had gone into her room and shut the door. Clary, feeling helpless and frustrated, had heard her crying softly through the door, but her mom had refused to let her in or to talk about it.

Eventually Luke had come home, and Clary had gratefully left the care of her mother to him and headed out to kick around the city before going to see Simon’s band. She always tried to come to his gigs if she could, and besides, talking to him would make her feel better.

“Huh.” Isabelle didn’t inquire further. Sometimes her almost total lack of interest in other people’s problems was something of a relief. “Well, I’m sure Simon will be glad you came.”

Clary glanced toward the stage. “How’s the show been so far?”

“Fine.” Isabelle chewed thoughtfully on her straw. “That new lead singer they have is hot. Is he single? I’d like to ride him around town like a bad, bad pony—”