Cassandra Clare: The Mortal Instruments Series

by Cassandra Clare

  “And what’s that?”

  “That everything that passes between us this night, here, remains a secret. No one can know. Not your redheaded little friend, Clary. Not either of your lady friends. None of the Light-woods. No one.”

  Simon sat back. “And what if I don’t want to promise?”

  “Then you may leave, if you like,” she said. “But then you will never know what I wished to tell you. And that will be a loss you will regret.”

  “I’m curious,” Simon said. “But I’m not sure I’m that curious.”

  Her eyes held a little spark of surprise and amusement and perhaps, Simon thought, even a little respect. “Nothing I have to say to you concerns them. It will not affect their safety, or their well-being. The secrecy is for my own protection.”

  Simon looked at her suspiciously. Did she mean it? Vampires weren’t like faeries, who couldn’t lie. But he had to admit he was curious. “All right. I’ll keep your secret, unless I think something you say is putting my friends in danger. Then all bets are off.”

  Her smile was frosty; he could tell she didn’t like being disbelieved. “Very well,” she said. “I suppose I have little choice when I need your help so badly.” She leaned forward, one slim hand toying with the stem of her wineglass. “Until quite recently I led the Manhattan clan, happily. We had beautiful quarters in an old prewar building on the Upper West Side, not that rat hole of a hotel Santiago keeps my people in now. Santiago—Raphael, as you call him—was my second in command. My most loyal companion—or so I thought. One night I found out that he was murdering humans, driving them to that old hotel in Spanish Harlem and drinking their blood for his amusement. Leaving their bones in the Dumpster outside. Taking stupid risks, breaking Covenant Law.” She took a sip of wine. “When I went to confront him, I realized he had told the rest of the clan that I was the murderer, the lawbreaker. It was all a setup. He meant to kill me, so that he might seize power. I fled, with only Walker and Archer to keep me safe.”

  “So all this time he’s claimed he’s just leading until you return?”

  She made a face. “Santiago is an accomplished liar. He wishes me to return, that’s for certain—so he can murder me and take charge of the clan in earnest.”

  Simon wasn’t sure what she wanted to hear. He wasn’t used to adult women looking at him with big tear-filled eyes, or spilling out their life stories to him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said finally.

  She shrugged, a very expressive shrug that made him wonder if perhaps her accent was French. “It is in the past,” she said. “I have been hiding out in London all this time, looking for allies, biding my time. Then I heard about you.” She held up her hand. “I cannot tell you how; I am sworn to secrecy. But the moment I did, I realized that you were what I had been waiting for.”

  “I was? I am?”

  She leaned forward and touched his hand. “Raphael is afraid of you, Simon, as well he should be. You are one of his own, a vampire, but you cannot be harmed or killed; he cannot lift a finger against you without bringing down God’s wrath on his head.”

  There was a silence. Simon could hear the soft electrical hum of the Christmas lights overhead, the water plashing in the stone fountain in the center of the courtyard, the buzz and hum of the city. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “You said it.”

  “What was that, Simon?”

  “The word. The wrath of—” The word bit and burned in his mouth, just as it always did.

  “Yes. God.” She retracted her hand, but her eyes were warm. “There are many secrets of our kind, so many that I can tell you, show you. You will learn you are not damned.”

  “Ma’am—”

  “Camille. You must call me Camille.”

  “I still don’t understand what you want from me.”

  “Don’t you?” She shook her head, and her brilliant hair flew around her face. “I want you to join with me, Simon. Join with me against Santiago. We will walk together into his rat-infested hotel; the moment his followers see that you are with me, they will leave him and come to me. I believe they are loyal to me beneath their fear of him. Once they see us together, that fear will be gone, and they will come to our side. Man cannot contend with the divine.”

  “I don’t know,” Simon said. “In the Bible, Jacob wrestled an angel, and he won.”

  Camille looked at him with her eyebrows arched.

  Simon shrugged. “Hebrew school.”

  “‘And Jacob called the name of the place Peniel: for I have seen God face to face.’ You see, you are not the only one who knows your scripture.” Her narrow look was gone, and she was smiling. “You may not realize it, Daylighter, but as long as you bear that Mark, you are the avenging arm of heaven. No one can stand before you. Certainly not one vampire.”

  “Are you afraid of me?” Simon asked.

  He was almost instantly sorry he had. Her green eyes darkened like thunderclouds. “Me, afraid of you?” Then she collected herself, her face smoothing, her expression lightening. “Of course not,” she said. “You are an intelligent man. I am convinced you will see the wisdom of my proposal and join with me.”

  “And what exactly is your proposal? I mean, I understand the part where we face down Raphael, but after that? I don’t really hate Raphael, or want to get rid of him just to get rid of him. He leaves me alone. That’s all I ever wanted.”

  She folded her hands together in front of her. She wore a silver ring with a blue stone in it on her left middle finger, over the material of her glove. “You think that is what you want, Simon. You think Raphael is doing you a favor in leaving you alone, as you put it. In reality he is exiling you. Right now you think you do not need others of your kind. You are content with the friends you have—humans and Shadowhunters. You are content to hide bottles of blood in your room and lie to your mother about what you are.”

  “How did you—”

  She went on, ignoring him. “But what about in ten years, when you are supposed to be twenty-six? In twenty years? Thirty? Do you think no one will notice that as they age and change, you do not?”

  Simon said nothing. He didn’t want to admit he hadn’t thought ahead that far. That he didn’t want to think ahead that far.

  “Raphael has taught you that other vampires are poison to you. But it does not need to be that way. Eternity is a long time to spend alone, without others of your kind. Others who understand. You befriend Shadowhunters, but you can never be of them. You will always be other and outside. With us you could belong.” As she leaned forward, white light sparked off her ring, stinging Simon’s eyes. “We have thousands of years of knowledge we could share with you, Simon. You could learn how to keep your secret; how to eat and drink, how to speak the name of God. Raphael has cruelly hidden this information from you, even led you to believe it doesn’t exist. It does. I can help you.”

  “If I help you first,” Simon said.

  She smiled, and her teeth were white and sharp. “We will help each other.”

  Simon leaned back. The iron chair was hard and uncomfortable, and he suddenly felt tired. Looking down at his hands, he could see that the veins had darkened, spidering across the backs of his knuckles. He needed blood. He needed to talk to Clary. He needed time to think.

  “I’ve shocked you,” she said. “I know. It is a great deal to take in. I would be happy to give you as much time as you needed to make up your mind about this, and about me. But we don’t have much time, Simon. While I remain in this city, I am in danger from Raphael and his cohorts.”

  “Cohorts?” Despite everything, Simon grinned slightly.

  Camille seemed baffled. “Yes?”

  “Well, it’s just . . . ‘Cohorts.’ It’s like saying ‘evildoers’ or ‘minions.’” She stared at him blankly. Simon sighed. “Sorry. You probably haven’t seen as many bad movies as I have.”

  Camille frowned faintly, a very fine line appearing between her brows. “I was told you would be slightly peculiar. Perhaps it is
just that I don’t know many vampires of your generation. But that will be good for me, I feel, to be around someone so . . . young.”

  “New blood,” said Simon.

  At that she did smile. “Are you ready, then? To accept my offer? To begin to work together?”

  Simon looked up at the sky. The strings of white lights seemed to blot out the stars. “Look,” he said, “I appreciate your offer. I really do.” Crap, he thought. There had to be some way to say this without him sounding like he was turning down a date to the prom. I’m really, really flattered you asked, but . . . Camille, like Raphael, always spoke stiffly, formally, as if she were in a fairy tale. Maybe he could try that. He said, “I require some time to make my decision. I’m sure you understand.”

  Very delicately, she smiled, showing only the tips of her fangs. “Five days,” she said. “And no longer.” She held out her gloved hand to him. Something gleamed in her palm. It was a small glass vial, the size that might hold a perfume sample, only it appeared to be full of brownish powder. “Grave dirt,” she explained. “Smash this, and I will know you are summoning me. If you do not summon me within five days I will send Walker for your answer.”

  Simon took the vial and slipped it into his pocket. “And if the answer is no?”

  “Then I will be disappointed. But we will part friends.” She pushed her wineglass away. “Good-bye, Simon.”

  Simon stood up. The chair made a metallic squeaking sound as it dragged over the ground, too loud. He felt like he should say something else, but he had no idea what. For the moment, though, he seemed to be dismissed. He decided that he’d rather look like one of those weird modern vampires with bad manners than risk getting dragged back into the conversation. He left without saying anything else.

  On his way back through the restaurant, he passed Walker and Archer, who were standing by the big wooden bar, their shoulders hunched under their long gray coats. He felt the force of their glares on him as he walked by and wiggled his fingers at them—a gesture somewhere between a friendly wave and a kiss-off. Archer bared his teeth—flat human teeth—and stalked past him toward the garden, Walker on his heels. Simon watched as they took their places in chairs across from Camille; she didn’t look up as they seated themselves, but the white lights that had illuminated the garden went out suddenly—not one by one but all at the same time—leaving Simon staring at a disorienting square of darkness, as if someone had switched off the stars. By the time the waiters noticed and hurried outside to rectify the problem, flooding the garden with pale light once again, Camille and her human subjugates had vanished.

  Simon unlocked the front door of his house—one of a long chain of identical brick-fronted row houses that lined his Brooklyn block—and pushed it open slightly, listening hard.

  He had told his mother he was going out to practice with Eric and his other bandmates for a gig on Saturday. There had been a time when she simply would have believed him, and that would have been that; Elaine Lewis had always been a relaxed parent, never imposing a curfew on either Simon or his sister or insisting that they be home early on school nights. Simon was used to staying out until all hours with Clary, letting himself in with his key, and collapsing into bed at two in the morning, behavior that hadn’t excited much comment from his mother.

  Things were different now. He had been in Idris, the Shadowhunters’ home country, for almost two weeks. He had vanished from home, with no chance to offer an excuse or explanation. The warlock Magnus Bane had stepped in and performed a memory spell on Simon’s mother so that she now had no recollection that he had been missing at all. Or at least, no conscious recollection. Her behavior had changed, though. She was suspicious now, hovering, always watching him, insisting he be home at certain times. The last time he had come home from a date with Maia, he had found Elaine in the foyer, sitting in a chair facing the door, her arms crossed over her chest and a look of barely tempered rage on her face.

  That night, he’d been able to hear her breathing before he’d seen her. Now he could hear only the faint sound of the television coming from the living room. She must have waited up for him, probably watching a marathon of one of those hospital dramas she loved. Simon swung the door closed behind him and leaned against it, trying to gather his energy to lie.

  It was hard enough not eating around his family. Thankfully his mother went to work early and got back late, and Rebecca, who went to college in New Jersey and only came home occasionally to do her laundry, wasn’t around often enough to notice anything odd. His mom was usually gone in the morning by the time he got up, the breakfast and lunch she’d lovingly prepared for him left out on the kitchen counter. He’d dump it into a trash bin on his way to school. Dinner was tougher. On the nights she was there, he had to push his food around his plate, pretend he wasn’t hungry or that he wanted to take his food into his bedroom so he could eat while studying. Once or twice he’d forced the food down, just to make her happy, and spent hours in the bathroom afterward, sweating and retching until it was out of his system.

  He hated having to lie to her. He’d always felt a little sorry for Clary, with her fraught relationship with Jocelyn, the most overprotective parent he’d ever known. Now the shoe was on the other foot. Since Valentine’s death, Jocelyn’s grip on Clary had relaxed to the point where she was practically a normal parent. Meanwhile, whenever Simon was home, he could feel the weight of his mother’s gaze on him, like an accusation wherever he went.

  Squaring his shoulders, he dropped his messenger bag by the door and headed into the living room to face the music. The TV was on, the news blaring. The local announcer was reporting on a human interest story—a baby found abandoned in an alley behind a hospital downtown. Simon was surprised; his mom hated the news. She found it depressing. He glanced toward the couch, and his surprise faded. His mother was asleep, her glasses on the table beside her, a half-empty glass on the floor. Simon could smell it from here—probably whiskey. He felt a pang. His mom hardly ever drank.

  Simon went into his mother’s bedroom and returned with a crocheted blanket. His mom was still asleep, her breathing slow and even. Elaine Lewis was a tiny, birdlike woman, with a halo of black curling hair, streaked with gray that she refused to dye. She worked during the day for an environmental nonprofit, and most of her clothes had animal motifs on them. Right now she was wearing a dress tie-dye printed with dolphins and waves, and a pin that had once been a live fish, dipped in resin. Its lacquered eye seemed to glare at Simon accusingly as he bent to tuck the blanket around her shoulders.

  She moved, fitfully, turning her head away from him. “Simon,” she whispered. “Simon, where are you?”

  Stricken, Simon let go of the blanket and stood up. Maybe he should wake her up, let her know he was okay. But then there would be questions he didn’t want to answer and that hurt look on her face he couldn’t stand. He turned and went into his bedroom.

  He had thrown himself down onto the covers and grabbed for the phone on his bedside table, about to dial Clary’s number, before he even thought about it. He paused for a moment, listening to the dial tone. He couldn’t tell her about Camille; he’d promised to keep the vampire’s offer a secret, and while Simon didn’t feel he owed Camille much, if there was one thing he had learned from the past few months, it was that reneging on promises made to supernatural creatures was a bad idea. Still, he wanted to hear Clary’s voice, the way he always did when he’d had a tough day. Well, there was always complaining to her about his love life; that seemed to amuse her no end. Rolling over in bed, he pulled the pillow over his head and dialed Clary’s number.

  2

  FALLING

  “So, did you have fun with Isabelle tonight?” Clary, her phone jammed against her ear, maneuvered herself carefully from one long beam to another. The beams were set twenty feet up in the rafters of the Institute’s attic, where the training room was located. Walking the beams was meant to teach you how to balance. Clary hated them. Her fear of heights made the w
hole business sickening, despite the flexible cord tied around her waist that was supposed to keep her from hitting the floor if she fell. “Have you told her about Maia yet?”

  Simon made a faint, noncommittal noise that Clary knew meant “no.” She could hear music in the background; she could picture him lying on his bed, the stereo playing softly as he talked to her. He sounded tired, that sort of bone-deep tired she knew meant that his light tone didn’t reflect his mood. She’d asked him if he was all right several times at the beginning of the conversation, but he’d brushed away her concern.

  She snorted. “You’re playing with fire, Simon. I hope you know that.”

  “I don’t know. Do you really think it’s such a big deal?” Simon sounded plaintive. “I haven’t had a single conversation with Isabelle—or Maia—about dating exclusively.”

  “Let me tell you something about girls.” Clary sat down on a beam, letting her legs dangle out into the air. The attic’s half-moon windows were open, and cool night air spilled in, chilling her sweaty skin. She had always thought the Shadowhunters trained in their tough, leatherlike gear, but as it turned out, that was for later training, which involved weapons. For the sort of training she was doing—exercises meant to increase her flexibility, speed, and sense of balance—she wore a light tank top and drawstring pants that reminded her of medical scrubs. “Even if you haven’t had the exclusivity conversation, they’re still going to be mad if they find out you’re dating someone they know and you haven’t mentioned it. It’s a dating rule.”

  “Well, how am I supposed to know that rule?”

  “Everyone knows that rule.”

  “I thought you were supposed to be on my side.”

  “I am on your side!”

  “So why aren’t you being more sympathetic?”

  Clary switched the phone to her other ear and peered down into the shadows below her. Where was Jace? He’d gone to get another rope and said he’d be back in five minutes. Of course, if he caught her on the phone up here, he’d probably kill her. He was rarely in charge of her training—that was usually Maryse, Kadir, or various other members of the New York Conclave pinch-hitting until a replacement for the Institute’s previous tutor, Hodge, could be found—but when he was, he took it very seriously. “Because,” she said, “your problems are not real problems. You’re dating two beautiful girls at once. Think about it. That’s like . . . rock-star problems.”