City of Heavenly Fire
Page 51
“She did,” Simon said. “But the only reason I was outside where she could get at me was because I was attacked by one of the Endarkened. I didn’t want to tell Luke and your mother,” he added. “I thought they’d freak out.”
“Because if Sebastian sent a Dark Shadowhunter after you, it was because of me,” said Clary tightly. “Did he want to kidnap you or kill you?”
“I didn’t really get a chance to ask him.” Simon shoved his hands into his pockets. “Jordan told me to run, so I ran—right into some of Maureen’s clan. She was having the apartment watched, evidently. I suppose that’s what I get for running off and leaving him. If I hadn’t, if I hadn’t been taken, he never would have gone out to the Praetor, and he never would have been killed.”
“Stop it.” Simon looked over in surprise. Clary sounded genuinely angry. “Stop blaming yourself. Jordan didn’t get himself assigned to you at random. He wanted the job so he could be near Maia. He knew the risks in guarding you. He took them on voluntarily. It was his choice. He was looking for redemption. Because of what happened between him and Maia. Because of what he did. That was what the Praetor was, for him. It saved him. Guarding you, people like you, saved him. He’d turned into a monster. He’d hurt Maia. He’d turned her into a monster too. What he did wasn’t forgivable. If he hadn’t had the Praetor, if he hadn’t had you to take care of, it would have eaten him up until he killed himself.”
“Clary—” Simon was shocked at the darkness in her words.
She shivered, as if she were shaking off the touch of spiderwebs. They had turned onto a long street by a canal, lined with grand old houses. It reminded Simon of pictures of rich neighborhoods in Amsterdam. “That’s the Lightwoods’ house, there. The high Council members have houses on this street. The Consul, the Inquisitor, the Downworlder representatives. We just have to figure out which one is Raphael’s—”
“There,” Simon said, and indicated a narrow canal house with a black door. A star had been painted on the door in silver. “A star for the Night’s Children. Because we don’t see the light of the sun.” He smiled at her, or tried to. Hunger was burning up his veins; they felt like hot wires under his skin.
He turned away and mounted the steps. The door knocker was in the shape of a rune, and heavy. The sound it made as it dropped reverberated inside the house.
Simon heard Clary come up the stairs behind him just as the door opened. Raphael stood inside, carefully out of the light that spilled in through the open door. In the shadows Simon could make out only the general shape of him: his curly hair, the white flash of his teeth when he greeted them. “Daylighter. Valentine’s daughter.”
Clary made an exasperated noise. “Don’t you ever call anyone by their name?”
“Only my friends,” said Raphael.
“You have friends?” Simon said.
Raphael glared. “I assume you are here for blood?”
“Yes,” Clary said. Simon said nothing. At the sound of the word “blood” he’d started to feel slightly faint. He could feel his stomach contracting. He was beginning to starve.
Raphael cast a glance at Simon. “You look hungry. Perhaps you should have taken my suggestion in the square last night.”
Clary’s eyebrows went up, but Simon just scowled. “If you want me to talk to the Inquisitor for you, you’re going to have to give me blood. Otherwise I’ll pass out on his feet, or eat him.”
“I suspect that would go over poorly with his daughter. Though she already seemed none too pleased with you last night.” Raphael disappeared back into the shadows of the house. Clary glanced at Simon.
“I take it you saw Isabelle yesterday?”
“You take it right.”
“And it didn’t go well?”
Simon was spared answering by Raphael’s reappearance. He was carrying a stoppered glass bottle full of red liquid. Simon took it eagerly.
The scent of the blood came through the glass, billowy and sweet. Simon yanked the stopper out and swallowed, his fang teeth snapping out, despite the fact that he didn’t need them. Vampires weren’t meant to drink out of bottles. His teeth scraped against his skin as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
Raphael’s brown eyes glittered. “I was sorry to hear about your werewolf friend.”
Simon stiffened. Clary put a hand on his arm. “You don’t mean that,” Simon said. “You hated me having a Praetorian Guard.”
Raphael hummed thoughtfully. “No guard, no Mark of Cain. All your protections stripped away. It must be strange, Daylighter, to know that you can truly die.”
Simon stared at him. “Why do you try so hard?” he said, and took another swallow from the bottle. It tasted bitter this time, a little acidic. “To make me hate you? Or is it just that you hate me?”
There was a long silence. Simon realized that Raphael was barefoot, standing just at the edge of the sunlight where it lay in a stripe along the hardwood floor. Another step forward, and the light would char his skin.
Simon swallowed, tasting the blood in his mouth, feeling slightly unsteady. “You don’t hate me,” he realized, looking at the white scar at the base of Raphael’s throat, where sometimes a crucifix rested. “You’re jealous.”
Without another word Raphael shut the door between them.
Clary exhaled. “Wow. That went well.”
Simon didn’t say anything, just turned and walked away, down the steps. He paused at the bottom to finish his bottle of blood, and then, to her surprise, tossed it. It flew partway down the street and hit a lamppost, shattering, leaving a smear of blood on the iron.
“Simon?” Clary hurried down the steps. “Are you all right?”
He made a vague gesture. “I don’t know. Jordan, Maia, Raphael, it’s all—it’s too much. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
“You mean, about talking to the Inquisitor for him?” Clary moved to catch up with Simon as he began walking aimlessly down the street. The wind had come up, ruffling his brown hair.
“About anything.” He wobbled a little as he walked away from her. Clary squinted suspiciously. If she hadn’t known better, she would have guessed he was drunk. “I don’t belong here,” he said. He had stopped in front of the Inquisitor’s residence. He cocked his head back, staring up at the windows. “What do you think they’re doing in there?”
“Having dinner?” Clary guessed. The witchlight lamps were starting to come on, illuminating the street. “Living their lives? Come on, Simon. They probably knew people who died in the battle last night. If you want to see Isabelle, tomorrow is the Council meeting and—”
“She knows,” he said. “That her parents are probably breaking up. That her father had an affair.”
“He what?” Clary said, staring at Simon. “When?”
“Long time ago.” Simon’s voice was definitely slurred. “Before Max. He was going to leave but—he found out about Max, so he stayed. Maryse told Isabelle, years ago. Not fair, to put all that on a little girl. Izzy’s strong, but still. You shouldn’t do that. Not to your child. You should—carry your own burdens.”
“Because if Sebastian sent a Dark Shadowhunter after you, it was because of me,” said Clary tightly. “Did he want to kidnap you or kill you?”
“I didn’t really get a chance to ask him.” Simon shoved his hands into his pockets. “Jordan told me to run, so I ran—right into some of Maureen’s clan. She was having the apartment watched, evidently. I suppose that’s what I get for running off and leaving him. If I hadn’t, if I hadn’t been taken, he never would have gone out to the Praetor, and he never would have been killed.”
“Stop it.” Simon looked over in surprise. Clary sounded genuinely angry. “Stop blaming yourself. Jordan didn’t get himself assigned to you at random. He wanted the job so he could be near Maia. He knew the risks in guarding you. He took them on voluntarily. It was his choice. He was looking for redemption. Because of what happened between him and Maia. Because of what he did. That was what the Praetor was, for him. It saved him. Guarding you, people like you, saved him. He’d turned into a monster. He’d hurt Maia. He’d turned her into a monster too. What he did wasn’t forgivable. If he hadn’t had the Praetor, if he hadn’t had you to take care of, it would have eaten him up until he killed himself.”
“Clary—” Simon was shocked at the darkness in her words.
She shivered, as if she were shaking off the touch of spiderwebs. They had turned onto a long street by a canal, lined with grand old houses. It reminded Simon of pictures of rich neighborhoods in Amsterdam. “That’s the Lightwoods’ house, there. The high Council members have houses on this street. The Consul, the Inquisitor, the Downworlder representatives. We just have to figure out which one is Raphael’s—”
“There,” Simon said, and indicated a narrow canal house with a black door. A star had been painted on the door in silver. “A star for the Night’s Children. Because we don’t see the light of the sun.” He smiled at her, or tried to. Hunger was burning up his veins; they felt like hot wires under his skin.
He turned away and mounted the steps. The door knocker was in the shape of a rune, and heavy. The sound it made as it dropped reverberated inside the house.
Simon heard Clary come up the stairs behind him just as the door opened. Raphael stood inside, carefully out of the light that spilled in through the open door. In the shadows Simon could make out only the general shape of him: his curly hair, the white flash of his teeth when he greeted them. “Daylighter. Valentine’s daughter.”
Clary made an exasperated noise. “Don’t you ever call anyone by their name?”
“Only my friends,” said Raphael.
“You have friends?” Simon said.
Raphael glared. “I assume you are here for blood?”
“Yes,” Clary said. Simon said nothing. At the sound of the word “blood” he’d started to feel slightly faint. He could feel his stomach contracting. He was beginning to starve.
Raphael cast a glance at Simon. “You look hungry. Perhaps you should have taken my suggestion in the square last night.”
Clary’s eyebrows went up, but Simon just scowled. “If you want me to talk to the Inquisitor for you, you’re going to have to give me blood. Otherwise I’ll pass out on his feet, or eat him.”
“I suspect that would go over poorly with his daughter. Though she already seemed none too pleased with you last night.” Raphael disappeared back into the shadows of the house. Clary glanced at Simon.
“I take it you saw Isabelle yesterday?”
“You take it right.”
“And it didn’t go well?”
Simon was spared answering by Raphael’s reappearance. He was carrying a stoppered glass bottle full of red liquid. Simon took it eagerly.
The scent of the blood came through the glass, billowy and sweet. Simon yanked the stopper out and swallowed, his fang teeth snapping out, despite the fact that he didn’t need them. Vampires weren’t meant to drink out of bottles. His teeth scraped against his skin as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
Raphael’s brown eyes glittered. “I was sorry to hear about your werewolf friend.”
Simon stiffened. Clary put a hand on his arm. “You don’t mean that,” Simon said. “You hated me having a Praetorian Guard.”
Raphael hummed thoughtfully. “No guard, no Mark of Cain. All your protections stripped away. It must be strange, Daylighter, to know that you can truly die.”
Simon stared at him. “Why do you try so hard?” he said, and took another swallow from the bottle. It tasted bitter this time, a little acidic. “To make me hate you? Or is it just that you hate me?”
There was a long silence. Simon realized that Raphael was barefoot, standing just at the edge of the sunlight where it lay in a stripe along the hardwood floor. Another step forward, and the light would char his skin.
Simon swallowed, tasting the blood in his mouth, feeling slightly unsteady. “You don’t hate me,” he realized, looking at the white scar at the base of Raphael’s throat, where sometimes a crucifix rested. “You’re jealous.”
Without another word Raphael shut the door between them.
Clary exhaled. “Wow. That went well.”
Simon didn’t say anything, just turned and walked away, down the steps. He paused at the bottom to finish his bottle of blood, and then, to her surprise, tossed it. It flew partway down the street and hit a lamppost, shattering, leaving a smear of blood on the iron.
“Simon?” Clary hurried down the steps. “Are you all right?”
He made a vague gesture. “I don’t know. Jordan, Maia, Raphael, it’s all—it’s too much. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
“You mean, about talking to the Inquisitor for him?” Clary moved to catch up with Simon as he began walking aimlessly down the street. The wind had come up, ruffling his brown hair.
“About anything.” He wobbled a little as he walked away from her. Clary squinted suspiciously. If she hadn’t known better, she would have guessed he was drunk. “I don’t belong here,” he said. He had stopped in front of the Inquisitor’s residence. He cocked his head back, staring up at the windows. “What do you think they’re doing in there?”
“Having dinner?” Clary guessed. The witchlight lamps were starting to come on, illuminating the street. “Living their lives? Come on, Simon. They probably knew people who died in the battle last night. If you want to see Isabelle, tomorrow is the Council meeting and—”
“She knows,” he said. “That her parents are probably breaking up. That her father had an affair.”
“He what?” Clary said, staring at Simon. “When?”
“Long time ago.” Simon’s voice was definitely slurred. “Before Max. He was going to leave but—he found out about Max, so he stayed. Maryse told Isabelle, years ago. Not fair, to put all that on a little girl. Izzy’s strong, but still. You shouldn’t do that. Not to your child. You should—carry your own burdens.”
