The City of Fallen Angels (Mortal Instruments 4)(77)

“Camille.” Magnus spoke with infinite patience. “What do you want?”

Her chest rose and fell quickly. Since she had no need to breathe, Magnus knew this was mainly for effect. “I know you have the ear of the Shadowhunters,” she said. “I want you to speak to them on my behalf.”

“You want me to cut a deal for you,” Magnus translated.

She cut her eyes at him. “Your diction has always been so regrettably modern.”

“They’re saying you killed three Shadowhunters,” said Magnus. “Did you?”

“They were Circle members,” she said, her lower lip trembling. “They had tortured and killed my kind in the past. . .

.”

“Is that why you did it? Revenge?” When she was silent, Magnus said, “You know what they do to those who kill Nephilim, Camille.”

Her eyes shone. “I need you to intercede for me, Magnus. I want immunity. I want a signed promise from the Clave that if I give them information, they will spare my life and set me free.”

“They’ll never set you free.”



“Then they’ll never know why their colleagues had to die.”

“Had to die?”Magnus mused. “Interesting wording, Camille.Am Icorrect that there is more to this thanmeets the eye? More than blood or revenge?”

She was silent, looking at him, her chest rising and falling artfully. Everything about her was artful—the fall of her silvery hair, the curve of her throat, even the blood on her wrists.

“If you want me to speak to them for you,” Magnus said, “you have to tell me at least some small thing. A show of good faith.”

She smiled brilliantly. “I knew you would speak to them for me, Magnus. I knew the past was not entirely dead for you.”

“Consider it undead if you like,” Magnus said. “The truth, Camille?”

She ran her tongue across her lower lip. “You can tell them,” she said, “that I was under orders when I killed those Shadowhunters. It did not disturb me to do it, for they had killed my kin, and their deaths were deserved. But I would not have done it unless requested to do so by someone else, someone much more powerful than myself.”

Magnus’s heart beat a little faster. He didn’t like the sound of this. “Who?”

But Camille shook her head. “Immunity, Magnus.”

“Camille—”

“They will stake me out in the sun and leave me to die,” she said. “That is what they do to those who slay Nephilim.”

Magnus got to his feet. His scarf was dusty from lying on the ground. He looked at the stains mournfully. “I’ll do what I can, Camille. But I make no promises.”

“You never would,” she murmured, her eyes half-lidded. “Come here, Magnus. Come close to me.”

He did not love her, but she was a dream out of the past, so he moved toward her, until he was standing close enough to touch her. “Remember,” she said softly. “Remember London? The parties at de Quincey’s? Remember Will Herondale? I know you do. That boy of yours, that Lightwood. They even look alike.”

“Do they?” Magnus said, as if he had never thought about it.

“Pretty boys have always been your undoing,” she said. “But what can some mortal child give you? Ten years, twenty, before dissolution begins to claim him. Forty years, fifty, before death takes him. I can give you all of eternity.”

He touched her cheek. It was colder than the floor had been. “You could give me the past,” he said a little sadly.

“But Alec is my future.”



“Magnus—,” she began.

The Institute door opened, and Maryse stood in the doorway, outlined by the witchlight behind her. Beside her was Alec, his arms crossed over his chest. Magnus wondered if Alec had heard any of the conversation between him and Camille through the door—

surely not?

“Magnus,” said Maryse Lightwood. “Have you come to some agreement?”

Magnus dropped his hand.“I’m not sure I’d call it anagreement,” he said, turning to Maryse.“ButIdo think we have some things to talk about.”

Dressed, Clary went with Jace to his room, where he packed a small canvas bag with things to bring with him to the Silent City, as if, she thought, he were going to some grim sleepover party. Weapons mostly—a few seraph blades; his stele; and almost as an afterthought, the silver-handled knife, its blade now cleaned of blood. He slid on a black leather jacket, and she watched as he zipped it, pulling loose strands of blond hair free of his collar.

When he turned to look at her, slinging his bag across his shoulder, he smiled faintly, and she saw the slight chip in his front left incisor that she had always thought was endearing, a little flaw in looks that would otherwise be too perfect. Her heart contracted, and for a moment she looked away from him, hardly able to breathe.

He held out his hand to her. “Let’s go.”

There was no way to summon the Silent Brothers to come and get them, so Jace and Clary took a taxi heading downtown toward Houston and the Marble Cemetery. Clary supposed they could just have Portaled into the Bone City—she’d been there before; she knew what it looked like—but Jace said there were rules about that sort of thing, and Clary couldn’t shake the feeling that the Silent Brothers might find it rather rude.