The City of Fallen Angels (Mortal Instruments 4)(68)

Simon stepped back as the Shadowhunters of the Conclave swarmed around him, all in black like a murder of crows; he saw Jace, his face pale and set like white marble, slide a broadsword blade through one of the human servants as he passed him, as casually as a pedestrian might swat a fly. Maryse stalked ahead, her flying black hair reminding Simon of Isabelle. She dispatched the second cowering minion with a whipsaw movement of her seraph blade, and advanced on Camille, her shining blade outstretched. Jace was beside her, and another Shadowhunter—a tall man with black runes twining his forearms like vines—was on her other side.

The rest of the Shadowhunters had spread out and were canvassing the bank, sweeping it with those odd things they used—Sensors—checking every corner for demon activity.

They ignored the bodies of Camille’s human servants, lying motionless in their pools of drying blood. They ignored Simon as well. He might as well have been another pillar, for all the attention they paid him.

“Camille Belcourt,” said Maryse, her voice echoing off the marble walls. “You have broken the Law and are subject to the Law’s punishments. Will you surrender and come with us, or will you fight?”

Camille was crying, making no attempt to cover her tears, which were tinged with blood.

They streaked her white face with red lines as she choked, “Walker—and my Archer—”

Maryse looked baffled. She turned to the man on her left. “What is she saying, Kadir?”



“Her human servants,” he replied. “I believe she is mourning their deaths.”

Maryse flipped her hand dismissively. “It is against the Law to make servants of human beings.”

“I made them before Downworlders were subject to your accursed laws, you bitch. They have been with me two hundred years. They were like children to me.”

Maryse’s hand tightened on the hilt of her blade. “What would you know of children?”

she whispered. “What does your kind know of anything but destroying?”

Camille’s tear-streaked face flashed for a moment with triumph. “I knew it,” she said.

“Whatever else you might say, whatever lies you tell, you hate our kind. Don’t you?”

Maryse’s face tightened. “Take her,” she said. “Bring her to the Sanctuary.”

Jace moved swiftly to one side of Camille and took hold of her; Kadir seized her other arm. Together, they pinioned her between them.

“Camille Belcourt, you stand accused of the murder of humans,” Maryse intoned. “And of the murder of Shadowhunters. You will be taken to the Sanctuary, where you will be questioned. The sentence for the murder of Shadowhunters is death, but it is possible that if you cooperate with us, your life will be spared. Do you understand?” asked Maryse.

Camille tossed her head defiantly. “There is only one man I will answer to,” she said. “If you do not bring him to me, I will tell you nothing. You can kill me, but I will tell you nothing.”

“Very well,” said Maryse. “What man is that?”

Camille bared her teeth. “Magnus Bane.”

“Magnus Bane?” Maryse looked flabbergasted. “The High Warlock of Brooklyn? Why do you want to talk to him?”

“I will answer to him,” Camille said again. “Or I will answer to no one.”

And that was that. She said not another word. As she was dragged away by Shadowhunters, Simon watched her go. He did not feel, as he had thought he would, triumphant. He felt hollow, and strangely sick to his stomach. He looked down at the bodies of the slain servants; he hadn’t liked them much either, but they hadn’t asked to be what they were, not really. In a way, maybe neither had Camille. But she was a monster to Nephilim anyway. And maybe not just because she had killed Shadowhunters; maybe there was no way, really, for them to think of her as anything else.

Camille had been pushed through the Portal; Jace stood on the other side of it, gesturing impatiently for Simon to follow. “Are you coming or not?” he called.

Whatever else you might say, whatever lies you tell, you hate our kind.

“Coming,” Simon said, and moved reluctantly forward.





SANCTUARY


“What do you think Camille wants to see Magnus for?” Simon asked.

He and Jace were standing against the back wall of the Sanctuary, which was a massive room attached to the main body of the Institute through a narrow passageway. It wasn’t part of the Institute per se; it had been left deliberately unconsecrated in order that it might be used as a holding place for demons and vampires.

Sanctuaries, Jace had informed Simon, had gone out of fashion somewhat since Projecting had been invented, but every once in a while they found a use for theirs.

Apparently, this was one of those times.

It was a big room, stone-bound and pillared, with an equally stone-bound entryway beyond a wide set of double doors; the entryway led to the corridor connecting the room to the Institute. Huge gouges in the stone floor indicated that whatever had been caged here over the years had been pretty nasty—and big. Simon couldn’t help wondering how many enormous rooms full of pillars he was going to have to spend time in. Camille was standing against one of the pillars, her arms behind her, guarded on either side by Shadowhunter warriors. Maryse was pacing back and forth, occasionally conferring with Kadir, clearly trying to sort out some kind of plan. There were no windows in the room, for obvious reasons, but witchlight torches burned everywhere, giving the whole scene a peculiar whitish cast.