The City of Fallen Angels (Mortal Instruments 4)(92)

“Alexander—”

“Which,” Alec went on, staring down at the table again, “is especially unfair, because you are anything but trivial for me. I changed my whole life for you. But nothing ever changes for you, does it? I guess that’s what it means to live forever. Nothing ever really has to matter all that much.”

“I’m telling you that you do matter—”

“The Book of the White,” Alec said, suddenly. “Why did you want it so badly?”

Magnus looked at him, puzzled. “You know why. It’s a very powerful spellbook.”

“But you wanted it for something specific, didn’t you? A spell that was in it?” Alec took a ragged breath. “You don’t have to answer; I can tell by your face that you did. Was it—

was it a spell for making me immortal?”

Magnus felt shaken to his core. “Alec,” he whispered. “No. No, I—I wouldn’t do that.”

Alec fixed him with his piercing blue gaze. “Why not? Why through all the years of all the relationships you’ve ever had have you never tried to make any of them immortal like you? If you could have me with you forever, wouldn’t you want to?”



“Of course I would!” Magnus, realizing he was almost shouting, lowered his voice with an effort. “But you don’t understand. You don’t get something for nothing. The price for living forever—”

“Magnus.” It was Isabelle, hurrying toward them, her phone in her hand. “Magnus, I need to talk to you.”

“Isabelle.” Normally Magnus liked Alec’s sister. Not so much at the moment. “Lovely, wonderful Isabelle. Could you please go away? Now is a really bad time.”

Isabelle looked from Magnus to her brother, and back again. “Then, you don’t want me to tell you that Camille’s just escaped from the Sanctuary and my mother is demanding that you come back to the Institute right now to help them find her?”

“No,” Magnus said. “I don’t want you to tell me that.”

“Well, too bad,” Isabelle said. “Because it’s true. I mean, I guess you don’t have to go, but—”

The rest of the sentence hung in the air, but Magnus knew what she wasn’t saying. If he didn’t go, the Clave would be suspicious that he’d had something to do with Camille’s escape, and that was the last thing he needed.

Maryse would be furious, complicating his relationship with Alec even further. And yet—

“She escaped?” Alec said. “No one’s ever escaped from the Sanctuary.”

“Well,” said Isabelle, “now someone has.”

Alec slunk down lower in his seat. “Go,” he said. “It’s an emergency. Just go. We can talk later.”

“Magnus . . .” Isabelle sounded half-apologetic, but there was no mistaking the urgency in her voice.

“Fine.” Magnus stood up. “But,” he added, pausing byAlec’s chair and leaning inclose to him,“youare not trivial.”

Alec flushed. “If you say so,” he said.

“I say so,” said Magnus, and he turned to follow Isabelle out of the room.





Outside on the deserted street, Simon leaned against the wall of the Ironworks, against the ivy-covered brick, and stared up at the sky. The lights of the bridge washed out the stars so there was nothing to see but a sheet of velvety blackness. He wished with a sudden fierceness that he could breathe in the cold air to clear his head, that he could feel it on his face, on his skin. All he was wearing was a thin shirt, and it made no difference.

He couldn’t shiver, and even the memory of what it felt like to shiver was going away from him, little by little, every day, slipping away like the memories of another life.

“Simon?”



He froze where he stood. That voice, small and familiar, drifting like a thread on the cold air. Smile. That was the last thing she had said to him.

But it couldn’t be. She was dead.

“Won’t you look at me, Simon?” Her voice was as small as ever, barely a breath. “I’m right here.”

Dread clawed its way up his spine. He opened his eyes, and turned his head slowly.

Maureen stood in the circle of light cast by a streetlamp just at the corner of Vernon Boulevard. She wore a long white virginal dress. Her hair was brushed straight down over her shoulders, shining yellow in the lamplight. There was still some grave dirt caught in it. There were little white slippers on her feet. Her face was dead white, circles of rouge painted on her cheekbones, and her mouth colored a dark pink as if it had been drawn on with a felt-tip marker.

Simon’s knees gave out. He slid down the wall he had been leaning against, until he was sitting on the ground, his knees drawn up. His head felt like it was going to explode.

Maureen gave a girlish little giggle and stepped out of the lamplight. She moved toward him and looked down; her face wore a look of amused satisfaction.

“I thought you’d be surprised,” she said.

“You’re a vampire,” Simon said. “But—how? I didn’t do this to you. I know I didn’t.”

Maureen shook her head. “It wasn’t you. But it was because of you. They thought I was your girlfriend, you know.