Cassandra Clare: City of Fallen Angels

There was a rush of cold air as the door of the restaurant opened, letting in another customer. Isabelle shivered and reached for her black silk scarf. “It’s not realistic.”

“What would you prefer? ‘What did the Count eat today, children? One helpless villager, two helpless villagers, three helpless villagers . . .’”

“Shh.” Isabelle finished knotting her scarf around her throat and leaned forward, putting her hand on Simon’s wrist. Her big dark eyes were alive suddenly, the way they only ever came alive when she was either hunting demons or thinking about hunting demons. “Look over there.”

Simon followed her gaze. There were two men standing over by the glass-fronted case that held bakery items: thickly frosted cakes, plates of rugelach, and cream-filled Danishes. Neither of the men looked as if they were interested in food, though. Both were short and painfully gaunt, so much so that their cheekbones jutted from their colorless faces like knives. Both had thin gray hair and pale gray eyes, and wore belted slate-colored coats that reached the floor.

“Now,” Isabelle said, “what do you suppose they are?”

Simon squinted at them. They both stared back at him, their lashless eyes like empty holes. “They kind of look like evil lawn gnomes.”

“They’re human subjugates,” Isabelle hissed. “They belong to a vampire.”

“‘Belong’ as in . . . ?”

She made an impatient noise. “By the Angel, you don’t know anything about your kind, do you? Do you even really know how vampires are made?”

“Well, when a mommy vampire and a daddy vampire love each other very much . . .”

Isabelle made a face at him. “Fine, you know that vampires don’t need to have sex to reproduce, but I bet you don’t really know how it works.”

“I do too,” said Simon. “I’m a vampire because I drank some of Raphael’s blood before I died. Drinking blood plus death equals vampire.”

“Not exactly,” said Isabelle. “You’re a vampire because you drank some of Raphael’s blood, and then you were bitten by other vampires, and then you died. You need to be bitten at some point during the process.”

“Why?”

“Vampire saliva has . . . properties. Transformative properties.”

“Yech,” said Simon.

“Don’t ‘yech’ me. You’re the one with the magical spit. Vampires keep humans around and feed on them when they’re short on blood—like walking snack machines.” Izzy spoke with distaste. “You’d think they’d be weak from blood loss all the time, but vampire saliva actually has healing properties. It increases their red blood cell count, makes them stronger and healthier, and makes them live longer. That’s why it’s not against the Law for a vampire to feed on a human. It doesn’t really hurt them. Of course every once in a while the vampire will decide it wants more than a snack, it wants a subjugate—and then it will start feeding its bitten human small amounts of vampire blood, just to keep it docile, to keep it connected to its master. Subjugates worship their masters, and love serving them. All they want is to be near them. Like you were when you went back to the Dumont. You were drawn back to the vampire whose blood you had consumed.”

“Raphael,” Simon said, his voice bleak. “I don’t feel a burning urge to be with him these days, let me tell you.”

“No, it goes away when you become a full vampire. It’s only the subjugates who worship their sires and can’t disobey them. Don’t you see? When you went back to the Dumont, Raphael’s clan drained you, and you died, and then you became a vampire. But if they hadn’t drained you, if they’d given you more vampire blood instead, you would eventually have become a subjugate.”

“That’s all very interesting,” Simon said. “But it doesn’t explain why they’re staring at us.”

Isabelle glanced back at them. “They’re staring at you. Maybe their master died and they’re looking for another vampire to own them. You could have pets.” She grinned.

“Or,” Simon said, “maybe they’re here for the hash browns.”

“Human subjugates don’t eat food. They live on a mix of vampire blood and animal blood. It keeps them in a state of suspended animation. They’re not immortal, but they age very slowly.”

“Sadly,” Simon said, eyeing them, “they don’t seem to keep their looks.”

Isabelle sat up straight. “And they’re on their way over here. I guess we’ll find out what they want.”

The human subjugates moved as if they were on wheels. They didn’t appear to be taking steps so much as gliding forward soundlessly. It took them only seconds to cross the restaurant; by the time they neared Simon’s table, Isabelle had whipped the sharp stiletto-like dagger out of the top of her boot. It lay across the table, gleaming in the diner’s fluorescent lights. It was a dark, heavy silver, with crosses burned into both sides of the hilt. Most vampire-repelling weapons seemed to sport crosses, on the assumption, Simon thought, that most vampires were Christian. Who knew that following a minority religion could be so advantageous?

“That’s close enough,” Isabelle said, as the two subjugates paused beside the table, her fingers inches from the dagger. “State your business, you two.”

“Shadowhunter.” The creature on the left spoke in a hissing whisper. “We did not know of you in this situation.”

Isabelle raised a delicate eyebrow. “And what situation would that be?”

The second subjugate pointed a long gray finger at Simon. The nail on the end of it was yellowed and sharp. “We have dealings with the Daylighter.”

“No, you don’t,” Simon said. “I have no idea who you are. Never seen you before.”

“I am Mr. Walker,” said the first creature. “Beside me is Mr. Archer. We serve the most powerful vampire in New York City. The head of the greatest Manhattan clan.”

“Raphael Santiago,” said Isabelle. “In that case you must know that Simon isn’t a part of any clan. He’s a free agent.”

Mr. Walker smiled a thin smile. “My master was hoping that was a situation that could be altered.”

Simon met Isabelle’s eyes across the table. She shrugged. “Didn’t Raphael tell you he wanted you to stay away from the clan?”

“Maybe he’s changed his mind,” Simon suggested. “You know how he is. Moody. Fickle.”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t really seen him since that time I threatened to kill him with a candelabra. He took it well, though. Didn’t flinch.”

“Fantastic,” Simon said. The two subjugates were staring at him. Their eyes were a pale whitish gray color, like dirty snow. “If Raphael wants me in the clan, it’s because he wants something from me. You might as well tell me what it is.”

“We are not privy to our master’s plans,” said Mr. Archer in a haughty tone.

“No dice, then,” said Simon. “I won’t go.”

“If you do not wish to come with us, we are authorized to use force to bring you.”

The dagger seemed to leap into Isabelle’s hand; or at least, she barely seemed to move, and yet she was holding it. She twirled it lightly. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Mr. Archer bared his teeth at her. “Since when have the Angel’s children become the bodyguards for rogue Downworlders? I would have thought you above this sort of business, Isabelle Lightwood.”

“I’m not his bodyguard,” said Isabelle. “I’m his girlfriend. Which gives me the right to kick your ass if you bother him. That’s how it works.”

Girlfriend? Simon was startled enough to look at her in surprise, but she was staring down the two subjugates, her dark eyes flashing. On the one hand he didn’t think Isabelle had ever referred to herself as his girlfriend before. On the other hand it was symptomatic of how strange his life had become that that was the thing that had startled him most tonight, rather than the fact that he had just been summoned to a meeting by the most powerful vampire in New York.