Simon cleared his throat. He felt oddly light-headed. "But why? I thought you hated me now."
It had been the wrong thing to say. Isabelle shook her head, her dark hair flying, and moved a little away from him on the settee. "Oh, Simon. Don't be dense."
"Iz." He reached out and touched her wrist, hesitantly. She didn't move away, just watched him. "Camille said something to me in the Sanctuary. She said that Shadowhunters didn't care about Downworlders, just used them. She said the Nephilim would never do for me what I did for them. But you did. You came for me. You came for me."
"Of course I did," she said, in a muffled little voice. "When I thought something had happened to you-"
He leaned toward her. Their faces were inches from each other. He could see the reflected sparks of the chandelier in her black eyes. Her lips were parted, and Simon could feel the warmth of her breath. For the first time since he had become a vampire, he could feel heat, like an electrical charge passing between them. "Isabelle," he said. Not Iz, not Izzy. Isabelle. "Can I-"
The elevator pinged; the doors opened, and Alec, Maia, and Jordan spilled out. Alec looked suspiciously at Simon and Isabelle as they sprang apart, but before he could say anything, the double doors of the lobby flew wide, and Shadowhunters poured into the room. Simon recognized Kadir and Maryse, who immediately flew across the room to Isabelle and caught her by the shoulders, demanding to know what had happened.
Simon got to his feet and edged away, feeling uncomfortable-and was nearly knocked down by Magnus, racing across the room to get to Alec. He didn't seem to see Simon at all. After all, in a hundred, two hundred, years, it'll be just you and me. We'll be all that's left, Magnus had said to him in the Sanctuary. Feeling unutterably lonely among the milling crowd of Shadowhunters, Simon pressed himself back against the wall in the vain hope that he wouldn't be noticed.
Alec looked up just as Magnus reached him, caught him, and pulled him close. His fingers traced over Alec's face as if checking for bruises or damage; under his breath, he was muttering, "How could you-go off like this and not even tell me-I could have helped you-"
"Stop it." Alec pulled away, feeling mutinous.
Magnus checked himself, his voice sobering. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have left the party. I should have stayed with you. Camille's gone anyway. No one's got the slightest idea where she went, and since you can't track vampires..." He shrugged.
Alec pushed away the image of Camille in his mind, chained to the pipe, looking at him with those fierce green eyes. "Never mind," he said. "She doesn't matter. I know you were just trying to help. I'm not angry with you for leaving the party, anyway."
"But you were angry," said Magnus. "I knew you were. That's why I was so worried. Running off and putting yourself in danger just because you're angry with me-"
"I'm a Shadowhunter," Alec said. "Magnus, this is what I do. It's not about you. Next time fall in love with an insurance adjuster or-"
"Alexander," said Magnus. "There isn't going to be a next time." He leaned his forehead against Alec's, gold-green eyes staring into blue.
Alec's heartbeat sped up. "Why not?" he said. "You live forever. Not everyone does."
"I know I said that," said Magnus. "But, Alexander-"
"Stop calling me that," said Alec. "Alexander is what my parents call me. And I suppose it's very advanced of you to have accepted my mortality so fatalistically-everything dies, blah, blah-but how do you think that makes me feel? Ordinary couples can hope-hope to grow old together, hope to live long lives and die at the same time, but we can't hope for that. I don't even know what it is you want."
Alec wasn't sure what he'd expected in response-anger or defensiveness or even humor-but Magnus's voice only dropped, cracking slightly when he said, "Alex-Alec. If I gave you the impression I had accepted the idea of your death I can only apologize. I tried to, I thought I had-and yet still I pictured having you for fifty, sixty more years. I thought I might be ready then to let you go. But it's you, and I realize now that I won't be any more ready to lose you then than I am right now." He put his hands gently to either side of Alec's face. "Which is not at all."
"So what do we do?" Alec whispered.
Magnus shrugged, and smiled suddenly; with his messy black hair and the gleam in his gold-green eyes, he looked like a mischievous teenager. "What everyone does," he replied. "Like you said. Hope."
Alec and Magnus had begun kissing in the corner of the room, and Simon wasn't quite sure where to look. He didn't want them to think he was staring at them during what was clearly a private moment, but wherever else he looked, he met the glaring eyes of Shadowhunters. Despite the fact that he'd fought with them in the bank against Camille, none of them looked at him with particular friendliness. It was one thing for Isabelle to accept him and to care about him, but Shadowhunters en masse were another thing entirely. He could tell what they were thinking. "Vampire, Downworlder, enemy" was written all over their faces. It came as a relief when the doors burst open again and Jocelyn came flying in, still wearing her blue dress from the party. Luke was only a few steps behind her.
"Simon!" she cried as soon as she caught sight of him. She ran over to him, and to his surprise she hugged him fiercely before letting him go. "Simon, where's Clary? Is she-"
Simon opened his mouth, but no sound came out. How could he explain to Jocelyn, of all people, what had happened that night? Jocelyn, who would be horrified to know that so much of Lilith's evil, the children she had murdered, the blood she had spilled, had all been in the service of making more creatures like Jocelyn's own dead son, whose body even now lay entombed on the rooftop where Clary was with Jace?
I can't tell her any of this, he thought. I can't. He looked past her at Luke, whose blue eyes rested on him expectantly. Behind Clary's family he could see the Shadowhunters crowding around Isabelle as she presumably recounted the events of the evening.
"I-," he began helplessly, and then the elevator doors opened again, and Clary stepped out. Her shoes were gone, her lovely satin dress in bloody rags, bruises already fading on her bare arms and legs. But she was smiling-radiant even, happier than Simon had seen her look in weeks.
"Mom!" she exclaimed, and then Jocelyn had flown at her and was hugging her. Clary smiled at Simon over her mother's shoulder. Simon glanced around the room. Alec and Magnus were still wrapped up in each other, and Maia and Jordan had vanished. Isabelle was still surrounded by Shadowhunters, and Simon could hear gasps of horror and amazement rise from the group surrounding her as she recounted her story. He suspected some part of her was enjoying it. Isabelle did love being the center of attention, no matter what the cause.
He felt a hand come down on his shoulder. It was Luke. "Are you all right, Simon?"
Simon looked up at him. Luke looked as he always did: solid, professorial, utterly reliable. Not even the least bit put out that his engagement party had been disrupted by a sudden dramatic emergency.
Simon's father had died so long ago that he barely remembered him. Rebecca recalled bits about him-that he had a beard, and would help her build elaborate towers out of blocks-but Simon didn't. It was one of the things he'd thought he always had in common with Clary, that had bonded them: both with dead fathers, both brought up by strong single women.
Well, at least one of those things had turned out to be true, Simon thought. Though his mother had dated, he'd never had a consistent fatherly presence in his life, other than Luke. He supposed that in a way, he and Clary had shared Luke. And the wolf pack looked up to Luke for guidance, as well. For a bachelor who'd never had children, Simon thought, Luke had an awful lot of kids to look after.
"I don't know," Simon said, giving Luke the honest answer he'd like to think he'd have given his own father. "I don't think so."
Luke turned Simon to face him. "You're covered in blood," he said. "And I'm guessing it's not yours, because..." He gestured toward the Mark on Simon's forehead. "But hey." His voice was gentle. "Even covered in blood and with the Mark of Cain on you, you're still Simon. Can you tell me what happened?"
"It's not my blood, you're right," Simon said hoarsely. "But it's also kind of a long story." He tilted his head back to look up at Luke; he'd always wondered if maybe he'd have another growth spurt some day, grow a few more inches than the five-ten he was now, be able to look Luke-not to mention Jace-straight in the eye. But that would never happen now. "Luke," he said. "Do you think it's possible to do something so bad, even if you didn't mean to do it, that you can never come back from it? That no one can forgive you?"
Luke looked at him for a long, silent moment. Then he said, "Think of someone you love, Simon. Really love. Is there anything they could ever do that would mean you would stop loving them?"
Images flashed through Simon's mind, like the pages of a flip-book: Clary, turning to smile at him over her shoulder; his sister, tickling him when he was just a little kid; his mother, asleep on the sofa with the coverlet pulled up to her shoulders; Izzy-
He shut the thoughts off hastily. Clary hadn't done anything so terrible that he needed to dredge up forgiveness for her; none of the people he was picturing had. He thought of Clary, forgiving her mother for having stolen her memories. He thought of Jace, what he had done on the roof, how he had looked afterward. He had done what he had done without volition of his own, but Simon doubted Jace would be able to forgive himself, regardless. And then he thought of Jordan-not forgiving himself for what he had done to Maia, but forging ahead anyway, joining the Praetor Lupus, making a life out of helping others.
"I bit someone," he said. The words came out of his mouth, and he wished he could swallow them back. He braced himself for Luke's look of horror, but it didn't come.
"Did they live?" Luke said. "This person that you bit. Did they survive?"
"I-" How to explain about Maureen? Lilith had ordered her away, but Simon was sure they hadn't seen the last of her. "I didn't kill her."
Luke nodded once. "You know how werewolves become pack leaders," he said. "They have to kill the old pack leader. I've done that twice. I have the scars to prove it." He drew the collar of his shirt aside slightly, and Simon saw the edge of a thick white scar that looked ragged, as if his chest had been clawed. "The second time it was a calculated move. Cold-blooded killing. I wanted to become the leader, and that was how I did it." He shrugged. "You're a vampire. It's in your nature to want to drink blood. You've held out a long time without doing it. I know you can walk in the sun, Simon, and so you pride yourself on being a normal human boy, but you're still what you are. Just like I am. The more you try to crush your true nature, the more it will control you. Be what you are. No one who really loves you will stop."
Simon said hoarsely, "My mom-"
"Clary told me what happened with your mother, and that you've been crashing with Jordan Kyle," said Luke. "Look, your mother will come around, Simon. Like Amatis did, with me. You're still her son. I'll talk to her, if you want me to."
Simon shook his head silently. His mother had always liked Luke. Dealing with the fact that Luke was a werewolf would probably make things worse, not better.
Luke nodded as if he understood. "If you don't want to go back to Jordan's, you're more than welcome to stay on my sofa tonight. I'm sure Clary would be glad to have you around, and we can talk about what to do about your mother tomorrow."
Simon squared his shoulders. He looked at Isabelle across the room, the gleam of her whip, the shine of the pendant at her throat, the flutter of her hands as she talked. Isabelle, who wasn't afraid of anything. He thought of his mother, the way she had backed away from him, the fear in her eyes. He'd been hiding from the memory, running from it, ever since. But it was time to stop running. "No," he said. "Thanks, but I think I don't need a place to crash tonight. I think ... that I'm going to go home."
Jace stood alone on the roof, looking out over the city, the East River a silvery-black snake twining between Brooklyn and Manhattan. His hands, his lips, still felt warm from Clary's touch, but the wind off the river was icy, and the warmth was fading fast. Without a jacket the air cut through the thin material of his shirt like the blade of a knife.
He took a deep breath, sucking the cold air into his lungs, and let it out slowly. His whole body felt tense. He was waiting for the sound of the elevator, the doors opening, the Shadowhunters flooding out into the garden. They would be sympathetic at first, he thought, worried about him. Then, as they understood what had happened-then would come the shrinking away, the meaningful looks exchanged when they thought he wasn't watching. He had been possessed-not just by a demon, but by a Greater Demon-had acted against the Clave, had threatened and hurt another Shadowhunter.
He thought about how Jocelyn would look at him when she heard what he'd done to Clary. Luke might understand, forgive. But Jocelyn. He had never been able to bring himself to speak to her honestly, to say the words he thought might reassure her. I love your daughter, more than I ever thought it was possible to love anything. I would never hurt her.
She would just look at him, he thought, with those green eyes that were so like Clary's. She would want more than that. She would want to hear him say what he wasn't sure was true.
I am nothing like Valentine.
Aren't you? The words seemed carried on the cold air, a whisper meant only for his ears. You never knew your mother. You never knew your father. You gave your heart to Valentine when you were a child, as children do, and made yourself a part of him. You cannot cut that away from yourself now with one clean slice of a blade.
His left hand was cold. He looked down and saw, to his shock, that somehow he had picked up the dagger-his real father's etched silver dagger-and was holding it in his hand. The blade, though eaten away by Lilith's blood, was whole again, and shining like a promise. A cold that had nothing to do with the weather began to spread through his chest. How many times had he woken up like this, gasping and sweating, the dagger in his hand? And Clary, always Clary, dead at his feet.