The City of Fallen Angels (Mortal Instruments 4)(87)

Isabelle, who had been watching them over her shoulder, smiled a catlike smile. “Good idea.”

They made their way through the crowd to the area where the tables were, only to find that their table was already half-occupied. Clary sat in one of the seats, looking down into a champagne glass full of what was most likely ginger ale. Next to her were Alec and Magnus, both in the dark suits they’d worn when they’d come from Vienna.



Magnus seemed to be playing with the fringed edges of his long white scarf. Alec, his arms crossed over his chest, was staring ferociously into the distance.

Clary, on seeing Simon and Jordan, bounced to her feet, relief evident on her face. She came around the table to greet Simon, and he saw that she was wearing a very plain gold silk dress and low gold sandals. Without heels to give her height, she looked tiny. The Morgenstern ring was around her neck, its silver glinting against the chain that held it.

She reached up to hug him and muttered, “I think Alec and Magnus are fighting.”

“Looks like it,” he muttered back. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

At that, she detached her arms from his neck. “He got held up at the Institute.” She turned. “Hey, Kyle.”

He smiled a little awkwardly. “It’s Jordan, actually.”

“So I’ve heard.” Clary gestured toward the table. “Well, we might as well sit. I think pretty soon there’s going to be toasting and stuff. And then, hopefully, food.”

They all sat. There was a long, awkward silence.

“So,” Magnus said finally, running a long white finger around the rim of his champagne glass. “Jordan. I hear you’re in the Praetor Lupus. I see you’re wearing one of their medallions. What does it say on it?”

Jordan nodded. He was flushed, his hazel eyes sparkling, his attention clearly only partly on the conversation. He was following Maia around the room with his eyes, his fingers nervously clenching and unclenching on the edge of the tablecloth. Simon doubted he was even aware of it. “Beati bellicosi: Blessed are the warriors.”

“Good organization,” said Magnus. “I knew the man who founded it, back in the 1800s.

Woolsey Scott.

Respectable old werewolf family.”

Alec made an ugly sound in the back of his throat. “Did you sleep with him, too?”

Magnus’s cat eyes widened. “Alexander!”

“Well, I don’t know anything about your past, do I?” Alec demanded. “You won’t tell me anything; you just say it doesn’t matter.”

Magnus’s face was expressionless, but there was a dark tinge of anger to his voice. “Does this mean every time I mention anyone I’ve ever met, you’re going to ask me if I had an affair with them?”

Alec’s expression was stubborn, but Simon couldn’t help having a flash of sympathy; the hurt behind his blue eyes was clear. “Maybe.”

“I met Napoleon once,” said Magnus. “We didn’t have an affair, though. He was shockingly prudish for a Frenchman.”



“You met Napoleon?” Jordan, who appeared to be missing most of the conversation, looked impressed. “So it’s true what they say about warlocks, then?”

Alec gave him a very unpleasant look. “What’s true?”

“Alexander,” said Magnus coldly, and Clary met Simon’s eyes across the table. Hers were wide, green, and full of an expression that said Uh-oh. “You can’t be rude to everyone who talks to me.”

Alec made a wide, sweeping gesture. “And why not? Cramping your style, am I? I mean, maybe you were hoping to flirt with werewolf boy here. He’s pretty attractive, if you like the messy-haired, broad-shouldered, chiseledgoodlooks type.”

“Hey, now,” said Jordan mildly.

Magnus put his head in his hands.

“Or there are plenty of pretty girls here, since apparently your taste goes both ways. Is there anything you aren’t into?”

“Mermaids,” said Magnus into his fingers. “They always smell like seaweed.”

“It’s not funny,” Alec said savagely, and kicking back his chair, he got up from the table and stalked off into the crowd.

Magnus still had his head in his hands, the black spikes of his hair sticking out between his fingers. “I just don’t see,” he said to no one in particular, “why the past has to matter.”

To Simon’s surprise it was Jordan who answered. “The past always matters,” he said.

“That’s what they tell you when you join the Praetor. You can’t forget the things you did in the past, or you’ll never learn from them.”

Magnus looked up, his gold-green eyes glinting through his fingers. “How old are you?”

he demanded. “Sixteen?”

“Eighteen,” said Jordan, looking slightly frightened.

Alec’s age, thought Simon, suppressing an interior grin. He didn’t really find Alec and Magnus’s drama funny, but it was hard not to feel a certain bitter amusement at Jordan’s expression. Jordan had to be twice Magnus’s size— despite being tall, Magnus was slender to the point of skinniness—but Jordan was clearly afraid of him. Simon turned to share a glance with Clary, but she was staring off toward the front door, her face gone suddenly bone white. Dropping her napkin onto the table, she murmured, “Excuse me,”