“They’re very, very . . . different.” In some ways, Simon thought, they were opposites. Maia was calm and grounded; Isabelle lived at a high pitch of excitement. Maia was a steady light in the darkness; Isabelle a burning star, spinning through the void. “I mean, they’re both great. Beautiful, and smart . . .”
“And they don’t know about each other?” Kyle leaned against the counter. “Like, at all?”
Simon found himself explaining—how when he’d come back from Idris (though he didn’t mention the place by name), they’d both started calling him, wanting to hang out. And because he liked them both, he went. And somehow things started to turn casually romantic with each of them, but there never seemed to be a chance to explain to either of them that he was seeing someone else, too. And somehow it had snowballed, and here he was, not wanting to hurt either of them, and not knowing how to go on, either.
“Well, if you ask me,” Kyle said, turning to dump his remaining coffee out in the sink, “you ought to pick one of them and quit dogging around. I’m just saying.”
Since his back was to Simon, Simon couldn’t see his face, and for a moment he wondered if Kyle was actually angry. His voice sounded uncharacteristically stiff. But when Kyle turned around, his expression was as open and friendly as ever. Simon decided he must have imagined it.
“I know,” he said. “You’re right.” He glanced back toward the bedroom. “Look, are you sure it’s okay, me staying here? I can clear out whenever . . .”
“It’s fine. You stay as long as you need.” Kyle opened a kitchen drawer and scrabbled around until he found what he was looking for—a set of spare keys on a rubber-band ring. “There’s a set for you. You’re totally welcome here, okay? I gotta go to work, but you can hang around if you want. Play Halo, or whatever. Will you be here when I get back?”
Simon shrugged. “Probably not. I have a dress fitting to get to at three.”
“Cool,” said Kyle, slinging a messenger bag over his shoulder and heading toward the door. “Get them to make you something in red. It’s totally your color.”
“So,” Clary said, stepping out of the dressing room. “What do you think?”
She did an experimental twirl. Simon, balanced on one of Karyn’s Bridal Shop’s uncomfortable white chairs, shifted position, winced, and said, “You look nice.”
She looked better than nice. Clary was her mother’s only bridesmaid, so she’d been allowed to pick out whatever dress she wanted. She’d selected a very simple coppery silk with narrow straps that flattered her small frame. Her only jewelry was the Morgenstern ring, worn on a chain around her neck; the very plain silver chain brought out the shape of her collarbones and the curve of her throat.
Not that many months ago, seeing Clary dressed up for a wedding would have conjured up in Simon a mix of feelings: dark despair (she would never love him) and high excitement (or maybe she would, if he could get up the nerve to tell her how he felt). Now it just made him feel a little wistful.
“Nice?” echoed Clary. “Is that it? Sheesh.” She turned to Maia. “What do you think?”
Maia had given up on the uncomfortable chairs and was sitting on the floor, her back against a wall that was decorated with tiaras and long gauzy veils. She had Simon’s DS balanced on one of her knees and seemed to be at least partly absorbed in playing Grand Theft Auto. “Don’t ask me,” she said. “I hate dresses. I’d wear jeans to the wedding if I could.”
This was true. Simon rarely saw Maia out of jeans and T-shirts. In that way she was the opposite of Isabelle, who wore dresses and heels at even the most inappropriate times. (Though since he’d once seen her dispatch a Vermis demon with the stiletto heel of a boot, he was less inclined to worry about it.)
The shop bell tinkled, and Jocelyn came in, followed by Luke. Both were holding steaming cups of coffee, and Jocelyn was looking up at Luke, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining. Simon remembered what Clary had said about them being disgustingly in love. He didn’t find it disgusting himself, though that was probably because they weren’t his parents. They both seemed so happy, and he thought it was actually rather nice.
Jocelyn’s eyes widened when she saw Clary. “Honey, you look gorgeous!”
“Yeah, you have to say that. You’re my mother,” Clary said, but she grinned anyway. “Hey, is that coffee black by any chance?”
“Yep. Consider it a sorry-we’re-late gift,” Luke said, handing her the cup. “We got held up. Some catering issue or other.” He nodded toward Simon and Maia. “Hey, guys.”
Maia inclined her head. Luke was the head of the local wolf pack, of which Maia was a member. Though he’d broken her of the habit of calling him “Master” or “Sir,” she remained respectful in his presence. “I brought you a message from the pack,” she said, setting down her game console. “They have questions about the party at the Ironworks—”
As Maia and Luke fell into conversation about the party the wolf pack was throwing in honor of their alpha wolf’s marriage, the owner of the bridal shop, a tall woman who had been reading magazines behind the counter while the teenagers chatted, realized that the people who were actually going to pay for the dresses had just arrived, and hurried forward to greet them. “I just got your dress back in, and it looks marvelous,” she gushed, taking Clary’s mother by the arm and steering her toward the back of the store. “Come and try it on.” As Luke started after them, she pointed a threatening finger at him. “You stay here.”
Luke, watching his fiancée disappear through a set of white swinging doors painted with wedding bells, looked puzzled.
“Mundanes think you’re not supposed to see the bride in her wedding dress before the ceremony,” Clary reminded him. “It’s bad luck. She probably thinks it’s weird you came to the fitting.”
“But Jocelyn wanted my opinion—” Luke broke off and shook his head. “Ah, well. Mundane customs are so peculiar.” He threw himself down in a chair, and winced as one of the carved rosettes poked into his back. “Ouch.”
“What about Shadowhunter weddings?” Maia inquired, curious. “Do they have their own customs?”
“They do,” Luke said slowly, “but this isn’t going to be a classic Shadowhunter ceremony. Those specifically don’t address any situation in which one of the participants is not a Shadowhunter.”
“Really?” Maia looked shocked. “I didn’t know that.”
“Part of a Shadowhunter marriage ceremony involves tracing permanent runes on the bodies of the participants,” said Luke. His voice was calm, but his eyes looked sad. “Runes of love and commitment. But of course, non-Shadowhunters can’t bear the Angel’s runes, so Jocelyn and I will be exchanging rings instead.”
“That sucks,” Maia pronounced.
At that, Luke smiled. “Not really. Marrying Jocelyn is all I ever wanted, and I’m not that bothered about the particulars. Besides, things are changing. The new Council members have made a lot of headway toward convincing the Clave to tolerate this sort of—”
“Clary!” It was Jocelyn, calling from the back of the store. “Can you come here for a second?”
“Coming!” Clary called, bolting down the last of her coffee. “Uh-oh. Sounds like a dress emergency.”
“Well, good luck with that.” Maia got to her feet, and dropped the DS back in Simon’s lap before bending to kiss him on the cheek. “I’ve got to go. I’m meeting some friends at the Hunter’s Moon.”
She smelled pleasantly of vanilla. Under that, as always, Simon could smell the salt scent of blood, mixed with a sharp, lemony tang that was peculiar to werewolves. Every Downworlder’s blood smelled different—faeries smelled like dead flowers, warlocks like burnt matches, and other vampires like metal.
Clary had once asked him what Shadowhunters smelled like.
“Sunlight,” he’d said.
“See you later, baby.” Maia straightened up, ruffled Simon’s hair once, and departed. As the door closed behind her, Clary fixed him with a piercing glare.
&
nbsp; “You must work your love life out by next Saturday,” she said. “I mean it, Simon. If you don’t tell them, I will.”
Luke looked bewildered. “Tell who what?”
Clary shook her head at Simon. “You’re on thin ice, Lewis.” With which pronouncement she flounced away, holding up her silk skirts as she went. Simon was amused to note that underneath them she was wearing green sneakers.
“Clearly,” said Luke, “something is going on that I don’t know about.”
Simon looked over at him. “Sometimes I think that’s the motto of my life.”
Luke raised his eyebrows. “Has something happened?”
Simon hesitated. He certainly couldn’t tell Luke about his love life—Luke and Maia were in the same pack, and werewolf packs were more loyal than street gangs. It would put Luke in a very awkward position. It was true, though, that Luke was also a resource. As the leader of the Manhattan wolf pack, he had access to all sorts of information, and was well versed in Downworlder politics. “Have you heard of a vampire named Camille?”
Luke made a low whistling sound. “I know who she is. I’m surprised you do.”
“Well, she’s the head of the New York vampire clan. I do know something about them,” Simon said, a little stiffly.
“I didn’t realize you did. I thought you wanted to live like a human as much as you could.” There was no judgment in Luke’s voice, only curiosity. “Now, by the time I took over the downtown pack from the previous pack leader, she had put Raphael in charge. I don’t think anyone knew where she’d gone exactly. But she is something of a legend. An extraordinarily old vampire, from everything I understand. Famously cruel and cunning. She could give the Fair Folk a run for their money.”
“Have you ever seen her?”
Luke shook his head. “Don’t think I have, no. Why the curiosity?”
“Raphael mentioned her,” Simon said vaguely.
Luke’s forehead creased. “You’ve seen Raphael lately?”
Before Simon could answer, the shop bell sounded again, and to Simon’s surprise, Jace came in. Clary hadn’t mentioned he was coming.
In point of fact, he realized, Clary hadn’t mentioned Jace much lately at all.
Jace looked from Luke to Simon. He looked as if he were mildly surprised to see Simon and Luke there, although it was hard to tell. Though Simon imagined that Jace ran the gamut of facial expressions when he was alone with Clary, his default one around other people was a fierce sort of blankness. “He looks,” Simon had once said to Isabelle, “like he’s thinking about something deep and meaningful, but if you ask him what it is, he’ll punch you in the face.”
“So don’t ask him,” Isabelle had said, as if she thought Simon was being ridiculous. “No one says you two need to be friends.”
“Is Clary here?” Jace asked, shutting the door behind him. He looked tired. There were shadows under his eyes, and he didn’t seem to have bothered to put on a jacket, despite the fact that the autumn wind was brisk. Though cold no longer affected Simon much, looking at Jace in just jeans and a thermal shirt made him feel chilly.
“She’s helping Jocelyn,” explained Luke. “But you’re welcome to wait here with us.”
Jace looked around uneasily at the walls hung with veils, fans, tiaras, and seed-pearl-encrusted trains. “Everything is . . . so white.”
“Of course it’s white,” said Simon. “It’s a wedding.”
“White for Shadowhunters is the color of funerals,” Luke explained. “But for mundanes, Jace, it’s the color of weddings. Brides wear white to symbolize their purity.”
“I thought Jocelyn said her dress wasn’t white,” Simon said.
“Well,” said Jace, “I suppose that ship has sailed.”
Luke choked on his coffee. Before he could say—or do—anything, Clary walked back into the room. Her hair was up now, in sparkling pins, with a few curls hanging loose. “I don’t know,” she was saying as she came closer to them. “Karyn got her hands on me and did my hair, but I’m not sure about the sparkles—”
She broke off as she saw Jace. It was clear from her expression that she hadn’t been expecting him either. Her lips parted in surprise, but she said nothing. Jace, in his turn, was staring at her, and for once in his life Simon could read Jace’s expression like a book. It was as if everything else in the world had fallen away for Jace but himself and Clary, and he was looking at her with an unconcealed yearning and desire that made Simon feel awkward, as if he had somehow walked in on a private moment.
Jace cleared his throat. “You look beautiful.”
“Jace.” Clary looked more puzzled than anything else. “Is everything all right? I thought you said you couldn’t come because of the Conclave meeting.”
“That’s right,” Luke said. “I heard about the Shadowhunter body in the park. Is there any news?”
Jace shook his head, still looking at Clary. “No. He’s not one of the New York Conclave members, but beyond that he hasn’t been identified. Neither of the bodies have. The Silent Brothers are looking at them now.”
“That’s good. The Brothers will figure out who they are,” said Luke.
Jace said nothing. He was still looking at Clary, and it was the oddest sort of look, Simon thought—the sort of look you might give someone you loved but could never, ever have. He imagined Jace had felt like that about Clary once before, but now?
“Jace?” Clary said, and took a step toward him.
He tore his gaze away from her. “That jacket you borrowed from me in the park yesterday,” he said. “Do you still have it?”
Now looking even more puzzled, Clary pointed to where the item of clothing in question, a perfectly ordinary brown suede jacket, was hanging over the back of one of the chairs. “It’s over there. I was going to bring it to you after—”
“Well,” said Jace, picking it up and thrusting his arms hastily into the sleeves, as if he were suddenly in a hurry, “now you don’t have to.”
“Jace,” Luke said in that calming tone he had, “we’re going to get an early dinner in Park Slope after this. You’re welcome to come along.”
“No,” Jace said, zipping the jacket up. “I’ve got training this afternoon. I’d better head out.”
“Training?” Clary echoed. “But we trained yesterday.”
“Some of us have to train every day, Clary.” Jace didn’t sound angry, but there was a harshness to his tone, and Clary flushed. “I’ll see you later,” he added without looking at her, and practically flung himself toward the door.
As it shut behind him, Clary reached up and angrily yanked the pins out of her hair. It cascaded in tangles down around her shoulders.
“Clary,” Luke said gently. He stood up. “What are you doing?”
“My hair.” She yanked the last pin out, hard. Her eyes were shining, and Simon could tell she was forcibly willing herself not to cry. “I don’t want to wear it like this. It looks stupid.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Luke took the pins from her and set them down on one of the small white end tables. “Look, weddings make men nervous, okay? It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Right.” Clary tried to smile. She nearly managed it, but Simon could tell she didn’t believe Luke. He could hardly blame her. After seeing the look on Jace’s face, Simon didn’t believe him either.
In the distance the Fifth Avenue Diner was lit up like a star against the blue twilight. Simon walked beside Clary down the avenue blocks, Jocelyn and Luke a few steps ahead of them. Clary had changed out of her dress and was back in jeans now, a thick white scarf wound around her neck. Every once in a while she would reach up and twirl the ring on the chain around her neck, a nervous gesture he wondered if she was even aware of.
When they’d left the bridal store, he had asked her if she knew what was wrong with Jace, but she hadn’t really answered him. She’d shrugged it off, and started asking him about what was going on with him, if he’d talked to his mother yet, and whether he minded staying
with Eric. When he told her he was crashing with Kyle, she was surprised.
“But you hardly even know him,” she said. “He could be a serial killer.”
“I did have that thought. I checked the apartment out, but if he’s got an ice cooler full of arms in it, I haven’t seen it yet. Anyway, he seems pretty sincere.”
“So what’s his apartment like?”
“Nice for Alphabet City. You should come over later.”
“Not tonight,” Clary said, a little absently. She was fiddling with the ring again. “Maybe tomorrow?”
Going to see Jace? Simon thought, but he didn’t press the point. If she didn’t want to talk about it, he wasn’t going to make her. “Here we are.” He opened the diner door for her, and a blast of warm souvlaki-smelling air hit them.
They found a booth over by one of the big flat-screen TVs that lined the walls. They crowded into it as Jocelyn and Luke chattered animatedly with each other about wedding plans. Luke’s pack, it seemed, felt insulted that they hadn’t been invited to the ceremony—even though the guest list was tiny—and were insisting on holding their own celebration in a renovated factory in Queens. Clary listened, not saying anything; the waitress came around, handing out menus so stiffly laminated they could have been used as weapons. Simon set his own on the table and stared out the window. There was a gym across the street, and he could see people through the plate glass that fronted it, running on treadmills, arms pumping, headphones clamped to their ears. All that running and getting nowhere, he thought. Story of my life.
He tried to force his thoughts away from dark places, and almost succeeded. This was one of the most familiar scenes in his life, he thought—a corner booth in a diner, himself and Clary and her family. Luke had always been family, even when he hadn’t been about to marry Clary’s mom. Simon ought to feel at home. He tried to force a smile, only to realize that Clary’s mother had just asked him something and he hadn’t heard her. Everyone at the table was staring at him expectantly.
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