A deleted scene
from City of Lost Souls with Simon, Jordan and Isabelle.
I’m
in.
Clary’s
words rang in Simon’s head, clear as a bell, the moment he opened his eyes. He
was lying in the bed in Magnus’ spare room, sheets thrown off, barefoot;
Isabelle was gone. He sat up, rubbing his temples, and thought back at her:
In
where?
Simon?
Her voice was faint, fading, as if she were walking
away from him. He sat up.
Clary?
There
was no response. He lurched to his feet, his mouth dry.
Clary!
The
word echoed inside his head like a bell rung in an empty room. Swearing, he
pulled off his clothes, threw on new jeans and a sweater, and went out into the
living room to look for his messenger bag. He felt a little sick, as if he
might throw up. Clary had called out to him, but he couldn’t reach her back;
what if he could never reach her back? What if she was dead or lost or
the goddamn rings just didn’t work?
Jordan
was lying on the futon in jeans and a green shirt, a mug of coffee balanced on
his stomach. He turned his head, dark hair spilling into his eyes, as Simon
came in. “Your phone’s been ringing all morning.”
Simon
grabbed for his messenger bag, hanging on a peg on the wall. “Who was it?”
“I
don’t know. Didn’t check. It’s your phone. You get a lot of calls, man.”
Simon
forebore from pointing out that they didn’t have a land line, so everyone who
knew him had to call his mobile. He fished the phone out and stared at the
number. An unrecognizable 718 prefix; someone in Brooklyn. He looked at Jordan.
“Did—have you seen Isabelle?”
A
small smile played around Jordan’s mouth. “She’s taking a shower.”
Simon
glanced toward the bathroom door, which was closed. Isabelle—Clary—it was all
way too much. The sort of thing that would make you want to take a deep,
steadying breath, if you breathed. Instead he flipped his phone open and
dialed; it picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”
Simon
was floored. “Magnus?”
A
chuckle. “Hey, Daylighter.”
“No
offense, but I never really visualized you calling me before.”
“It’s
hardly a social call.” There was a noise in the background; a murmur of voices.
“Simon, have you—”
“No,
I mean I didn’t really think of you as using the phone. More—appearing in a
burst of glitter.”
“Have
you seen Clary?” Magnus said, firmly. “I’ll address the glitter issue later.
But Jocelyn is here with Brother Zachariah, and—” he lowered his voice—”Clary’s
not in her room.”
Simon
gave up and took a deep breath anyway, just out of reflex. “No,” he said. “No,
she wouldn’t be.”
“But
you do know where she is?”
Simon
squeezed his eyes shut. “Yeah.”
There
was a pause. “I think you better get over here.”
“Do
you want me to bring Isabelle?”
“Isabelle’s
there?” Magnus managed to sound dryly amused, despite everything.
“She—she,
ah, spent the night.”
“Alec
will be delighted to hear that. Perhaps we can have a contest to see whether he
or Jocelyn kills you first.” Magnus chortled. “Have you told Jordan about Luke
yet?”
“No.”
Simon opened his eyes; Jordan was still lying on the futon, engrossed in a fat
science fiction novel. “Should I?”
“He
should know. He’s Praetor Lupus and this is a big deal for the Moon’s Children.
In fact, bring him along. Bring all your little friends along. You’ll need
them!”
With
which cheerful pronouncement, Magnus clicked off. Jordan sat up, setting his
book aside. “What was that about telling me—”
He
broke off, his eyes widening. The bathroom door had opened, and on a cloud of
steam out came Isabelle, her hair like a wet black river down her back. She was
wrapped in a red towel that just hit the tops of her thighs and her legs looked
miles long. Both boys stared at her.
“I
am so hungover,” she announced, flipped her hair over one shoulder, and
stalked off toward Simon’s bedroom. Simon looked over at Jordan, whose eyebrows
had risen up to his hairline.
