City of Lost Souls

square outline of her ruby necklace beneath the material of her sweater. “Clary…”

Clary suddenly felt awkward. She straightened the hem of her sweater, not wanting to look at Isabelle.

“What’s it like?” Isabelle said abruptly.

“What’s what like?”

“Being in love,” Isabelle said. “How do you know you are? And how do you know someone else is in love with you?”

“Um…”

“Like Simon,” Isabelle said. “How could you tell he was in love with you?”

“Well,” said Clary. “He said so.”

“He said so.”

Clary shrugged.

“And before that, you had no idea?”

“No, I really didn’t,” said Clary, recalling the moment. “Izzy… if you have feelings for Simon, or if you want to know if he has feelings for you… maybe you should just tell him.”

Isabelle fiddled with some nonexistent lint on her cuff. “Tell him what?”

“How you feel about him.”

Isabelle looked mutinous. “I shouldn’t have to.”

Clary shook her head. “God. You and Alec, you’re so alike—”

Isabelle’s eyes widened. “We are not! We are totally not alike. I date around; he’s never dated before Magnus. He gets jealous; I don’t—”

“Everyone gets jealous.” Clary spoke with finality. “And you’re both so stoic. It’s love, not the Battle of Thermopylae. You don’t have to treat everything like it’s a last stand. You don’t have to keep everything inside.”

Isabelle threw her hands up. “Suddenly you’re an expert?”

“I’m not an expert,” Clary said. “But I do know Simon. If you don’t say something to him, he’s going to assume it’s because you’re not interested, and he’ll give up. He needs you, Iz, and you need him. He just also needs you to be the one to say it.”

Isabelle sighed and whirled to begin mounting the steps. Clary could hear her muttering as she went. “This is your fault, you know. If you hadn’t broken his heart—”

“Isabelle!”

“Well, you did.”

“Yeah, and I seem to remember that when he got turned into a rat, you were the one who suggested we leave him in rat form. Permanently.”

“I did not.”

“You did—” Clary broke off. They had reached the next floor, where a long corridor stretched in both directions. Before the double doors of the infirmary stood the parchment-robed figure of a Silent Brother, hands folded, face cast down in a meditative stance.

Isabelle indicated him with an exaggerated wave. “There you go,” she said. “Good luck getting past him to see Jace.” And she walked off down the corridor, her boots clicking on the wooden floor.

Clary sighed inwardly and reached for the stele in her belt. She doubted there was a glamour rune that could fool a Silent Brother, but perhaps, if she could get close enough to use a sleep rune on his skin…

Clary Fray. The voice in her head was amused, and also familiar. It had no sound, but she recognized the shape of the thoughts, the way you might recognize the way someone laughed or breathed.

“Brother Zachariah.” Resignedly she slid the stele back in place and moved closer to him, wishing Isabelle had stayed with her.

I presume you are here to see Jonathan, he said, lifting his head from the meditative stance. His face was still in shadow beneath the hood, though she could see the shape of an angular cheekbone. Despite the orders of the Brotherhood.

“Please call him Jace. It’s too confusing otherwise.”

‘Jonathan’ is a fine old Shadowhunter name, the first of names. The Herondales have always kept names in the family—

“He wasn’t named by a Herondale,” Clary pointed out. “Though he has a dagger of his father’s. It says S.W.H. on the blade.”

Stephen William Herondale.

Clary took another step toward the doors, and toward Zachariah. “You know a lot about the Herondales,” she said. “And of all the Silent Brothers, you seem the most human. Most of them never show any emotion. They’re like statues. But you seem to feel things. You remember your life.”

Being a Silent Brother is life, Clary Fray. But if you mean I remember my life before the Brotherhood, I do.

Clary took a deep breath. “Were you ever in love? Before the Brotherhood? Was there ever anyone you would have died for?”

There was a long silence. Then:

Two people, said Brother Zachariah. There are memories that time does not erase, Clarissa. Ask your friend Magnus Bane, if you do not believe me. Forever does not make loss forgettable, only bearable.

“Well, I don’t have forever,” said Clary in a small voice. “Please let me in to see Jace.”

Brother Zachariah did not move. She still could not see his face, only a suggestion of shadows and planes beneath the hood of his robe. Only his hands, clasped in front of him.

“Please,” Clary said.

Alec swung himself up onto the platform at the City Hall subway station and stalked toward the stairs. He had blocked out the image of Magnus walking away from him with one thought, and one only:

He was going to kill Camille Belcourt.

He strode up the stairs, drawing a seraph blade from his belt as he went. The light here was wavering and dim — he emerged onto the mezzanine below City Hall Park, where tinted glass skylights let in the wintery light. He tucked the witchlight into his pocket and raised the seraph blade.

“Amriel,” he whispered, and the sword blazed up, a bolt of lightning from his hand. He lifted his chin, his gaze sweeping the lobby. The high-backed sofa was there, but Camille was not on it. He’d sent her a message saying he was coming, but after the way she’d betrayed him, he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that she hadn’t remained to see him. In a fury he stalked across the room and kicked the sofa, hard; it went over with a crash of wood and a puff of dust, one of the legs snapped off.

From the corner of the room came a tinkling silver laugh.

Alec whirled, the seraph blade blazing in his hand. The shadows in the corners were thick and deep; even Amriel’s light could not penetrate them. “Camille?” he said, his voice dangerously calm. “Camille Belcourt. Come out here now.”

There was another giggle, and a figure stepped forth from the darkness. But it was not Camille.

It was a girl — probably no older than twelve or thirteen — very thin, wearing a pair of ragged jeans and a pink, short-sleeved T-shirt with a glittery unicorn on it. She wore a long pink scarf as well, its ends dabbled in blood. Blood masked the lower half of her face, and stained the hem of her shirt. She looked at Alec with wide, happy eyes.

“I know you,” she breathed, and as she spoke, he saw her needle incisors flash. Vampire. “Alec Lightwood. You’re a friend of Simon’s. I’ve seen you at the concerts.”

He stared at her. Had he seen her before? Perhaps — the flicker of a face among the shadows at a bar, one of those performances Isabelle had dragged him to. He couldn’t be sure. But that didn’t mean he didn’t know who she was.

“Maureen,” he said. “You’re Simon’s Maureen.”

She looked pleased. “I am,” she said. “I’m Simon’s Maureen.” She looked down at her hands, which were gloved in blood, as if she’d plunged them into a pool of the stuff. And not human blood, either, Alec thought. The