“It’s been an hour. At least an hour. I swear,” Maia said. She was lying on the couch in Jordan and Simon’s apartment, her bare feet in Jordan’s lap.
“Shouldn’t have ordered Thai,” said Simon absently. He was sitting on the floor, fiddling with the Xbox controller. It hadn’t been working for several days. There was a Duraflame log in the fireplace. Like everything else in the apartment the fireplace was poorly maintained, and half the time the room would fill with smoke when they used it. Jordan was always complaining of the cold, the cracks in the windows and walls, and the landlord’s disinterest in fixing anything. “They never come on time.”
Jordan grinned good-naturedly. “What do you care? You don’t eat.”
“I can drink now,” Simon pointed out. It was true. He’d trained his stomach to accept most liquids—milk, coffee, tea—though solid food still made him retch. He doubted the drinks did anything much for him in the way of nutrition; only blood seemed to do that, but it made him feel more human to be able to consume something in public that wouldn’t send everyone screaming. With a sigh he dropped the controller. “I think this thing is broken. Permanently. Which is great, because I have no money to replace it.”
Jordan looked at him curiously. Simon had brought all his savings from home when he’d moved in, but that hadn’t been much. Fortunately, he also had few expenses. The apartment was on loan from the Praetor Lupus, who also provided Simon’s blood. “I’ve got money,” Jordan said. “We’ll be fine.”
“That’s your money, not mine. You’re not going to be watching me forever,” Simon said, staring into the blue flames of the fireplace. “And then what? I’d be applying for college soon if—everything hadn’t happened. Music school. I could learn, get a job. No one’s going to employ me now. I look sixteen; I always will.”
“Hm,” Maia said. “I guess vampires don’t really have jobs, do they? I mean, some werewolves do—Bat’s a DJ, and Luke owns that bookstore. But vampires are all in clans. There aren’t really vampire scientists.”
“Or vampire musicians,” said Simon. “Let’s face it. My career is now professional vampire.”
“I’m actually kind of surprised the vampires haven’t been rampaging through the streets, eating tourists, what with Maureen leading them,” said Maia. “She’s pretty bloodthirsty.”
Simon made a face. “I assume some of the clan are trying to control her. Raphael, probably. Lily—she’s one of the smartest of the vampire clan. Knows everything. She and Raphael were always thick as thieves. But I don’t exactly have vampire friends. Considering what a target I am, sometimes I’m surprised I have any friends.”
He heard the bitterness in his own voice and glanced across the room at the pictures Jordan had tacked up on the wall—pictures of himself with his friends, at the beach, with Maia. Simon had thought of putting up his own photos. Though he hadn’t taken any from his house, Clary had some. He could have borrowed them, made the apartment more his own. But though he liked living with Jordan and felt comfortable there, it wasn’t home. It didn’t feel permanent, as if he could make a life there.
“I don’t even have a bed,” he said out loud.
Maia turned her head toward him. “Simon, what is this about? Is it because Isabelle left?”
Simon shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, yes, I miss Izzy, but—Clary says the two of us need to DTR.”
“Oh, define the relationship,” Maia said at Jordan’s puzzled look. “You know, when you decide if you’re actually girlfriend and boyfriend. Which you should do, by the way.”
“Why does everyone know this acronym but me?” Simon wondered aloud. “Does Isabelle want to be my girlfriend?”
“Can’t tell you,” said Maia. “Girl code. Ask her.”
“She’s in Idris.”
“Ask her when she gets back.” Simon was silent, and Maia added, more gently, “She’ll come back, and Clary, too. It’s just a meeting.”
“I don’t know. The Institutes aren’t safe.”
“Neither are you,” said Jordan. “That’s why you have me.”
Maia looked at Jordan. There was something odd in the look, something Simon couldn’t quite identify. There had been something off between Maia and Jordan for some time now, a distance from Maia, a question in her eyes when she looked at her boyfriend. Simon had been waiting for Jordan to say something to him, but Jordan hadn’t. Simon wondered if Jordan had noticed Maia’s distance—it was obvious—or if he was stubbornly in denial.
“Would you still be a Daylighter?” Maia asked, turning her attention to Simon. “If you could change it?”
“I don’t know.” Simon had asked himself the same question, then pushed it away—there was no point obsessing over things you couldn’t change. Being a Daylighter meant that you had gold in your veins. Other vampires wanted it, for if they drank your blood, they too could walk in the sun. But just as many wanted you destroyed, for it was the belief of most vampires that Daylighters were an abomination to be rooted out. He remembered Raphael’s words to him on the roof of a Manhattan hotel. You had better pray, Daylighter, that you do not lose that Mark before the war comes. For if you do, there will be a line of enemies waiting their turn to kill you. And I will be at the head of it.
And yet. “I would miss the sun,” he said. “It keeps me human, I think.”
The light from the fire sparked off Jordan’s eyes as he looked at Simon. “Being human’s overrated,” he said with a smile.
Maia swung her feet off his legs abruptly. Jordan looked over at her, worried, just as the doorbell rang.
Simon was on his feet in a flash. “Takeout,” he announced. “I’ll go get it. Besides,” he added over his shoulder as he headed down the hall to the front door. “No one’s tried to kill me in two weeks. Maybe they got bored and gave up.”
He heard the murmur of voices behind him but didn’t listen; they were talking to each other. He reached for the knob and swung the door open, already fumbling for his wallet.
And there was a throb against his chest. He glanced down to see Isabelle’s pendant flash bright scarlet, and threw himself backward, just missing a hand thrust out to grab him. He yelled out loud—there was a looming figure dressed in red gear in the doorway, a Shadowhunter man with ugly splashes of runes on both cheeks, a hawk-like nose, and a broad, pale forehead. He snarled at Simon and advanced.
“Simon, get down!” Jordan shouted, and Simon threw himself flat and rolled to the side just as a crossbow bolt exploded along the hallway. The Dark Shadowhunter spun sideways with almost unbelievable speed; the bolt embedded itself in the door. Simon heard Jordan curse in frustration, and then Maia in wolf form sprang past him, leaping at the Endarkened.
There was a satisfying howl of pain as her teeth sank into his throat. Blood sprayed out, filling the air with a salty red mist; Simon inhaled it, tasting the bitter tang of demon-tainted blood as he rose to his feet. He stepped forward just as the Endarkened seized hold of Maia and threw her down the hall, a thrashing, howling ball of teeth and claws.
Jordan shouted. Simon was making a noise low in his own throat, a sort of vampire hiss, and he could feel his fang teeth snap out. The Endarkened stepped forward, pouring blood but still steady. Simon felt a pang of fear low in his gut. He had seen them fight at the Burren, Sebastian’s soldiers, and he knew that they were stronger, faster, and harder to kill than Shadowhunters. He hadn’t really thought about how much harder to kill they were than vampires.
“Get out of the way!” Jordan grabbed Simon by the shoulders and half-threw him after Maia, who had scrambled to her feet. There was blood on her ruff, and her wolf eyes were dark with rage. “Get out, Simon. Let us deal with this. Get out!”
Simon stood his ground. “I’m not going—he’s here for me—”
“I know that!” Jordan shouted. “I’m your Praetor Lupus guard! Now let me do my job!”
Jordan swung around, bringing up his crossbow again. This time the bolt sank into the Dark Shadowhunter’s shoulder. He staggered back and let loose a string of curses in a language Simon didn’t know. German, he thought. The Berlin Institute had been hit—
Maia sprang past Simon, and she and Jordan closed in on the Dark Shadowhunter. Jordan glanced back once at Simon, his hazel eyes fierce and wild. Simon nodded and darted back into the living room. He slammed open the window—it gave with a fierce shriek of swollen wood and an explosion of old paint chips—and climbed out onto the fire escape, where Jordan’s wolfsbane plants, withered by winter air, crowded the metal ledge.
Every part of him screamed that he shouldn’t be leaving, but he had promised Isabelle, promised he would let Jordan do his work as bodyguard, promised he wouldn’t make himself a target. He clasped one hand around Izzy’s pendant, warm under his fingers as if it had lain recently against her throat, and headed down the metal steps. They were clanging and slippery with snow; he almost fell several times before he reached the last rung and dropped to the shadowy pavement below.
And was immediately surrounded by vampires. Simon had time to recognize only two of them as part of the Hotel Dumort clan—delicate dark-haired Lily and blond Zeke, both grinning like fiends—before something was thrown over his head. Fabric pulled tight around his throat, and he choked, not because he needed air but because of the pain of having his throat compressed.
“Maureen sends her regards,” said Zeke into his ear.
Simon opened his mouth to scream, but darkness claimed him before he could make a sound.