City of Fallen Angels (11 page)

Maybe that was the secret, he thought. Keep moving. Like a shark. Go to where no one can find you.
A fugitive and a wanderer shalt thou be in the earth
.

But that only worked if there was no one you cared about leaving behind.

He slept fitfully all night. His natural urge was to sleep during the day, despite his Daylighter powers, and he fought off restlessness and dreams before waking up late with the sun streaming in through the window. After throwing on clean clothes from his knapsack, he left the bedroom to find Kyle in the kitchen, frying bacon and eggs in a Teflon pan.

“Hey, roommate,” Kyle greeted him cheerfully. “Want some breakfast?”

The sight of the food made Simon feel vaguely sick to his stomach. “No, thanks. I’ll take some coffee, though.” He perched himself on one of the slightly lopsided bar stools.

Kyle pushed a chipped mug across the counter toward him. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, bro. Even if it’s already noon.”

Simon put his hands around the mug, feeling the heat seep into his cold skin. He cast about for a topic of conversation—one that wasn’t how little he ate. “So, I never asked you yesterday—what do you do for a living?”

Kyle picked a piece of bacon out of the pan and bit into it. Simon noticed that the gold medal at his throat had a pattern of leaves on it, and the words
“Beati Bellicosi.” “Beati,”
Simon knew, was a word that had something to do with saints; Kyle must be Catholic. “Bike messenger,” he said, chewing. “It’s awesome. I get to ride around the city, seeing everything, talking to everyone. Way better than high school.”

“You dropped out?”

“Got my GED senior year. I prefer the school of life.” Simon would have thought Kyle sounded ridiculous if it weren’t for the fact that he said “school of life” the way he said everything else—with total sincerity. “What about you? Any plans?”

Oh, you know. Wander the earth, causing death and destruction to innocent people. Maybe drink some blood. Live forever but never have any fun. The usual
. “I’m kind of winging it at the moment.”

“You mean you don’t want to be a musician?” Kyle asked.

To Simon’s relief his phone rang before he had to answer that. He fished it out of his pocket and looked at the screen. It was Maia. “Hey,” he greeted her. “What’s up?”

“Are you going to be at that dress fitting with Clary this afternoon?” she asked, her voice crackling down the line. She was probably calling from pack headquarters in Chinatown, where the reception wasn’t great. “She told me she was making you go to keep her company.”

“What? Oh, right. Yes. I’ll be there.” Clary had demanded that Simon accompany her to her bridesmaid’s dress fitting so afterward they could shop for comics and she could feel, in her words, like “less of a frilled-up girly-girl.”

“Well, I’m going to come too, then. I have to give Luke a message from the pack, and besides, I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“I know. I’m really sorry—”

“It’s fine,” she said lightly. “But you’re going to have to let me know what you’re wearing to the wedding eventually, because otherwise we’ll clash.”

She hung up, leaving Simon staring at the phone. Clary had been right. The wedding was D-day, and he was woefully unprepared for the battle.

“One of your girlfriends?” Kyle asked curiously. “Was that redheaded chick at the garage one of them? Because she was cute.”

“No. That’s Clary; she’s my best friend.” Simon pocketed his phone. “And she has a boyfriend. Like, really, really,
really
has a boyfriend. The nuclear bomb of boyfriends. Trust me on this one.”

Kyle grinned. “I was just asking.” He dumped the bacon pan, now empty, into the sink. “So, your two girls. What are they like?”

“They’re very, very … different.” In some ways, Simon thought, they were opposites. Maia was calm and grounded; Isabelle lived at a high pitch of excitement. Maia was a steady light in the darkness; Isabelle a burning star, spinning through the void. “I mean, they’re both great. Beautiful, and smart…”

“And they don’t know about each other?” Kyle leaned against the counter. “Like, at all?”

Simon found himself explaining—how when he’d come back from Idris (though he didn’t mention the place by name), they’d both started calling him, wanting to hang out. And because he liked them both, he went. And somehow things started to turn casually romantic with each of them, but there never seemed to be a chance to explain to either of them that he was seeing someone else, too. And somehow it had snowballed, and here he was, not wanting to hurt either of them, and not knowing how to go on, either.

“Well, if you ask me,” Kyle said, turning to dump his remaining coffee out in the sink, “you ought to pick one of them and quit dogging around. I’m just saying.”

Since his back was to Simon, Simon couldn’t see his face, and for a moment he wondered if Kyle was actually angry. His voice sounded uncharacteristically stiff. But when Kyle turned around, his expression was as open and friendly as ever. Simon decided he must have imagined it.

“I know,” he said. “You’re right.” He glanced back toward the bedroom. “Look, are you sure it’s okay, me staying here? I can clear out whenever…”

“It’s fine. You stay as long as you need.” Kyle opened a kitchen drawer and scrabbled around until he found what he was looking for—a set of spare keys on a rubber-band ring. “There’s a set for you. You’re totally welcome here, okay? I gotta go to work, but you can hang around if you want. Play Halo, or whatever. Will you be here when I get back?”

Simon shrugged. “Probably not. I have a dress fitting to get to at three.”

“Cool,” said Kyle, slinging a messenger bag over his shoulder and heading toward the door. “Get them to make you something in red. It’s totally your color.”

“So,” Clary said, stepping out of the dressing room. “What do you think?”

She did an experimental twirl. Simon, balanced on one of Karyn’s Bridal Shop’s uncomfortable white chairs, shifted position, winced, and said, “You look nice.”

She looked better than nice. Clary was her mother’s only bridesmaid, so she’d been allowed to pick out whatever dress she wanted. She’d selected a very simple coppery silk with narrow straps that flattered her small frame. Her only jewelry was the Morgenstern ring, worn on a chain around her neck; the very plain silver chain brought out the shape of her collarbones and the curve of her throat.

Not that many months ago, seeing Clary dressed up for a wedding would have conjured up in Simon a mix of feelings: dark despair (she would never love him) and high excitement (or maybe she would, if he could get up the nerve to tell her how he felt). Now it just made him feel a little wistful.

“Nice?” echoed Clary. “Is that it? Sheesh.” She turned to Maia. “What do
you
think?”

Maia had given up on the uncomfortable chairs and was sitting on the floor, her back against a wall that was decorated with tiaras and long gauzy veils. She had Simon’s DS balanced on one of her knees and seemed to be at least partly absorbed in playing Grand Theft Auto. “Don’t ask me,” she said. “I hate dresses. I’d wear jeans to the wedding if I could.”

This was true. Simon rarely saw Maia out of jeans and T-shirts. In that way she was the opposite of Isabelle, who wore dresses and heels at even the most inappropriate times. (Though since he’d once seen her dispatch a Vermis demon with the stiletto heel of a boot, he was less inclined to worry about it.)

The shop bell tinkled, and Jocelyn came in, followed by Luke. Both were holding steaming cups of coffee, and Jocelyn was looking up at Luke, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining. Simon remembered what Clary had said about them being disgustingly in love. He didn’t find it disgusting himself, though that was probably because they weren’t
his
parents. They both seemed so happy, and he thought it was actually rather nice.

Jocelyn’s eyes widened when she saw Clary. “Honey, you look gorgeous!”

“Yeah, you have to say that. You’re my mother,” Clary said, but she grinned anyway. “Hey, is that coffee black by any chance?”

“Yep. Consider it a sorry-we’re-late gift,” Luke said, handing her the cup. “We got held up. Some catering issue or other.” He nodded toward Simon and Maia. “Hey, guys.”

Maia inclined her head. Luke was the head of the local wolf pack, of which Maia was a member. Though he’d broken her of the habit of calling him “Master” or “Sir,” she remained respectful in his presence. “I brought you a message from the pack,” she said, setting down her game console. “They have questions about the party at the Ironworks—”

As Maia and Luke fell into conversation about the party the wolf pack was throwing in honor of their alpha wolf’s marriage, the owner of the bridal shop, a tall woman who had been reading magazines behind the counter while the teenagers chatted, realized that the people who were actually going to
pay
for the dresses had just arrived, and hurried forward to greet them. “I just got your dress back in, and it looks
marvelous,”
she gushed, taking Clary’s mother by the arm and steering her toward the back of the store. “Come and try it on.” As Luke started after them, she pointed a threatening finger at him. “
You
stay here.”

Luke, watching his fiancée disappear through a set of white swinging doors painted with wedding bells, looked puzzled.

“Mundanes think you’re not supposed to see the bride in her wedding dress before the ceremony,” Clary reminded him. “It’s bad luck. She probably thinks it’s weird you came to the fitting.”

“But Jocelyn wanted my opinion—” Luke broke off and shook his head. “Ah, well. Mundane customs are so peculiar.” He threw himself down in a chair, and winced as one of the carved rosettes poked into his back. “Ouch.”

“What about Shadowhunter weddings?” Maia inquired, curious. “Do they have their own customs?”

“They do,” Luke said slowly, “but this isn’t going to be a classic Shadowhunter ceremony. Those specifically don’t address any situation in which one of the participants is not a Shadowhunter.”

“Really?” Maia looked shocked. “I didn’t know that.”

“Part of a Shadowhunter marriage ceremony involves tracing permanent runes on the bodies of the participants,” said Luke. His voice was calm, but his eyes looked sad. “Runes of love and commitment. But of course, non-Shadowhunters can’t bear the Angel’s runes, so Jocelyn and I will be exchanging rings instead.”

“That sucks,” Maia pronounced.

At that, Luke smiled. “Not really. Marrying Jocelyn is all I ever wanted, and I’m not that bothered about the particulars. Besides, things are changing. The new Council members have made a lot of headway toward convincing the Clave to tolerate this sort of—”

“Clary!” It was Jocelyn, calling from the back of the store. “Can you come here for a second?”

“Coming!” Clary called, bolting down the last of her coffee. “Uh-oh. Sounds like a dress emergency.”

“Well, good luck with that.” Maia got to her feet, and dropped the DS back in Simon’s lap before bending to kiss him on the cheek. “I’ve got to go. I’m meeting some friends at the Hunter’s Moon.”

She smelled pleasantly of vanilla. Under that, as always, Simon could smell the salt scent of blood, mixed with a sharp, lemony tang that was peculiar to werewolves. Every Downworlder’s blood smelled different—faeries smelled like dead flowers, warlocks like burnt matches, and other vampires like metal.

Clary had once asked him what Shadowhunters smelled like.

“Sunlight,” he’d said.

“See you later, baby.” Maia straightened up, ruffled Simon’s hair once, and departed. As the door closed behind her, Clary fixed him with a piercing glare.

“You
must
work your love life out by next Saturday,” she said. “I mean it, Simon. If you don’t tell them, I will.”

Luke looked bewildered. “Tell who what?”

Clary shook her head at Simon. “You’re on thin ice, Lewis.” With which pronouncement she flounced away, holding up her silk skirts as she went. Simon was amused to note that underneath them she was wearing green sneakers.

“Clearly,” said Luke, “something is going on that I don’t know about.”

Simon looked over at him. “Sometimes I think that’s the motto of my life.”

Luke raised his eyebrows. “Has something happened?”

Simon hesitated. He certainly couldn’t tell Luke about his love life—Luke and Maia were in the same pack, and werewolf packs were more loyal than street gangs. It would put Luke in a very awkward position. It was true, though, that Luke was also a resource. As the leader of the Manhattan wolf pack, he had access to all sorts of information, and was well versed in Downworlder politics. “Have you heard of a vampire named Camille?”

Luke made a low whistling sound. “I know who she is. I’m surprised you do.”

“Well, she’s the head of the New York vampire clan. I do know
something
about them,” Simon said, a little stiffly.

“I didn’t realize you did. I thought you wanted to live like a human as much as you could.” There was no judgment in Luke’s voice, only curiosity. “Now, by the time I took over the downtown pack from the previous pack leader, she had put Raphael in charge. I don’t think anyone knew where she’d gone exactly. But she is something of a legend. An extraordinarily old vampire, from everything I understand. Famously cruel and cunning. She could give the Fair Folk a run for their money.”

“Have you ever seen her?”

Luke shook his head. “Don’t think I have, no. Why the curiosity?”

“Raphael mentioned her,” Simon said vaguely.

Luke’s forehead creased. “You’ve seen Raphael lately?”

Before Simon could answer, the shop bell sounded again, and to Simon’s surprise, Jace came in. Clary hadn’t mentioned he was coming.

In point of fact, he realized, Clary hadn’t mentioned Jace much lately at all.

Jace looked from Luke to Simon. He looked as if he were mildly surprised to see Simon and Luke there, although it was hard to tell. Though Simon imagined that Jace ran the gamut of facial expressions when he was alone with Clary, his default one around other people was a fierce sort of blankness. “He looks,” Simon had once said to Isabelle, “like he’s thinking about something deep and meaningful, but if you ask him what it is, he’ll punch you in the face.”