Maia was waiting for them in
MacCarren Park, on one of the narrow paths dusted with the skeletons of fallen
leaves. She wore a gray leather jacket and a soft pink hat, pulled down over
her ears, from which her wildly curling hair escaped in a golden-brown halo.
She waved tentatively as they neared her; the first words out of her mouth
were:
“Did you hear about Luke?”
They all nodded—Simon had told
Isabelle and Jordan what he knew on the L-train ride over—and she fell into
step beside Jordan as they went through the park, a moving foursome. Jordan had
his hands in his pockets and was talking quietly to Maia, werewolf to werewolf.
Simon glanced at Isabelle, walking silently beside him.
Weak November sunlight had come out
from behind the clouds and picked out reddish highlights in her hair. She
smelled like his own apple shampoo and Shadowhunter. “So,” he said. “Do you
want me to ask why you were passed out in my bed last night when I came home,
or not?”
“I didn’t pass out in your bed,” she
said, as they swung left on Manhattan Avenue. The G train stop was there, and a
guy was leaning against the railing, picking out a tuneless song on a guitar.
Across the street was a Thrifty store where you could still get ice cream cones
for 50 cents. “I passed out in your living room and Jordan put me in your
bedroom.”
“He did?”
“Well, if it wasn’t Jordan, someone
broke into your house and put me in your bed. Personally I prefer the Jordan
theory. Less creepy.”
“It’s not that, it—what were you
doing, drunk, with Jordan? He doesn’t drink much.”
“I’d imagine not. He has awful taste
in tequila.”
“Iz.” Simon put his hand on her
wrist. “I only want to know why you came over.”
She turned her head away from him,
her shining black hair slipping across her back. There was a small Mark on the
lower left side of her throat, just above her collarbone. It looked vulnerable,
somehow. Simon wanted to brush it with his fingertips, but kept his hands in
his pockets. “Everything sucks,” she said. “I saw Helen and Aline last night.
We had dinner. They’re just so happy, and I keep thinking—” She bit her lip. “My
parents are getting divorced, I think,” she said. “Alec is happy but I never
see him. Jace is [redacted]. Max is dead. Clary—”
“I get it,” he said, gently. “You
needed someone to talk to and you couldn’t think of anyone else.”
“No!” Isabelle said, frustration
clear in her voice. “I wanted to talk to you. I always—I mean, I like to talk
to you. Even if things weren’t like this, I would . . . “ She looked at him,
sidelong. “I mean, we did date.”
“But it wasn’t—it was never serious,”
Simon said awkwardly. “I didn’t think you wanted . . .”
“Did you? Want it to be serious?”
Isabelle asked. There was a certain stiffness in her voice—pride, Simon
guessed. Isabelle wasn’t the sort of girl who made the first move with guys.
She wasn’t the sort of girl who had to.
“Did you?”
Isabelle made an exasperated noise. “Look,
I didn’t come by last night because you’re number six on some list and everyone
else is unavailable. I came because—I like you. You make me feel better. Maybe
it’s something about your face.”
“My face makes you feel better?” So
she was saying he was reassuring, sweet, dependable, all of those things;
things he knew Clary thought he was; things that hadn’t helped her look at him
instead of Jace, not for five minutes. And Isabelle liked her guys dangerous,
not . . . reassuring. Reassuring was for stuffed animals. How could you be a
vampire and not be sexually threatening? He wasn’t sure, but somehow, he’d
managed it.
He was saved more torturous
conversation by their arrival at Magnus’ apartment, the lobby of which, as
usual, smelled like a combination of cat pee and old pizza. Simon made his way
up the stairs after Isabelle—remembering the first time he’d been here, crushed
out on Izzy and secretly hoping to make Clary jealous, not that that had
worked. Magnus’ apartment had been full of rainbow smoke and Downworlders; now,
as they filed in, it was quiet and full of late morning sunlight.
Magnus, Jocelyn and Alec were seated
around a long rectangular table. Magnus was clutching a cup of coffee, wearing
a dark green jumpsuit with yellow racing stripes, his dark hair an unruly mass
of bed-head. Alec looked like . . . Alec. He raised his eyebrows at his sister
as she came into the room, but didn’t seem inclined to kill either her, or
Simon.
But Jocelyn looked at Simon with
eyes as piercing as nails. “Where’s Clary?” she said, tightly.
