The City of Fallen Angels (Mortal Instruments 4)(57)

It was awful.

“Hey, you. Are you all right?” The voice that spoke was cultured, amused; Simon turned and saw a woman in a long black trench coat, a bright yellow umbrella open over her head. With his brand-new prismatic vision, it looked like a glimmering sunflower. The woman herself was beautiful—though everything looked beautiful to him right now —

with gleaming black hair and a red-lipsticked mouth. He dimly recalled seeing her sitting at one of the tables during the band’s performance.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He must have looked pretty shell-shocked, if total strangers were coming up to inquire about his well-being.

“You look like maybe you got banged on the head there,” she said, indicating his forehead. “That’s a nasty bruise.

Are you sure I can’t call anyone for you?”

He reached up hastily to move his hair across his forehead, hiding the Mark. “I’m fine.

It’s nothing.”

“Okay. If you say so.” She sounded a little doubtful. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a card, and handed it to him. It had a name on it, Satrina Kendall. Underneath the name was a title, BAND PROMOTER, in small capitals, and a phone number and address. “That’s me,” she said. “I liked what you guys did in there. If you’re interested in making it a little more big-time, give me a call.”

And with that, she turned and sashayed away, leaving Simon staring after her. Surely, he thought, there was no way this night could get any more bizarre.

Shaking his head—a move that sent water drops flying in all directions—he squelched around the corner to where the van was parked. The door of the bar was open, and people were streaming out. Everything still looked unnaturally bright, Simon thought, but his prismatic vision was beginning to fade slightly. The scene in front of him looked ordinary—the bar emptying out, the side doors open, and the van with its back doors open, already being loaded up with gear by Matt, Kirk, and a variety of their friends. As Simon drew closer, he saw that Isabelle was leaning against the side of the van, one leg drawn up, the heel of her boot braced against the van’s blistered side.

She could have been helping with the teardown, of course—Isabelle was stronger than anyone else in the band, with the possible exception of Kyle—but she clearly couldn’t be bothered. Simon would hardly have expected anything else.



She looked up as he came closer. The rain had slowed, but she had clearly been out in it for some time; her hair was a heavy, wet curtain down her back. “Hey there,” she said, pushing off from the side of the van and coming toward him. “Where have you been?

You just ran offstage—”

“Yeah,” he said. “I wasn’t feeling well. Sorry.”

“As long as you’re better now.” She wrapped her arms around him and smiled up into his face. He felt a wave of relief that he didn’t feel any urge to bite her. Then another wave of guilt as he remembered why.

“You haven’t seen Jace anywhere, have you?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes. “I ran across him and Clary making out,” she said. “Although they’re gone now—home, I hope.

Those two epitomize ‘get a room.’”

“I didn’t think Clary was coming,” Simon said, though it wasn’t that odd; he supposed the cake appointment had been canceled or something. He didn’t even have the energy to be annoyed about what a terrible bodyguard Jace had turned out to be. It wasn’t as if he’d ever thought Jace took his personal safety all that seriously. He just hoped Jace and Clary had worked it out, whatever it was.

“Whatever.” Isabelle grinned. “Since it’s just us, do you want to go somewhere and—”

A voice—a very familiar voice—spoke out of the shadows just beyond the reach of the nearest streetlight.

“Simon?” “Simon?”

Oh, no, not now. Not right now.

He turned slowly. Isabelle’s arm was still loosely clasped around his waist, though he knew that wouldn’t last much longer. Not if the person speaking was who he thought it was.

It was.

Maia had moved into the light, and was standing looking at him, an expression of disbelief on her face. Her normally curly hair was pasted to her head with rain, her amber eyes very wide, her jeans and denim jacket soaked. She was clutching a rolled-up piece of paper in her left hand.

Simon was vaguely aware that off to the side the band members had slowed down their movements and were openly gawking. Isabelle’s arm slid off his waist. “Simon?” she said. “What’s going on?”

“You told me you were going to be busy,” Maia said, looking at Simon. “Then someone shoved this under the station door this morning.” She thrust the rolled-up paper forward; it was instantly recognizable as one of the flyers for the band’s performance tonight.



Isabelle was looking from Simon to Maia, recognition slowly dawning on her face. “Wait a second,” she said. “Are you two dating?”

Maia set her chin. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Isabelle said. “For quite a few weeks now.”

Maia’s eyes narrowed. “Us, too. We’ve been dating since September.”

“I can’t believe it,” Isabelle said. She genuinely looked as if she couldn’t. “Simon?” She turned to him, her hands on her hips. “Do you have an explanation?”