Cassandra Clare: City of Fallen Angels

Both subjugates stared at him. “Is there a problem, Daylighter?” asked Mr. Archer finally.

Simon felt obscurely scolded. “No. No problem.”

The interior of the restaurant was dark, with a marble-topped bar running along one wall. No servers or waitstaff approached them as they made their way through the room to a door in the back, and through the door into the garden.

Many New York restaurants had garden terraces; few were open this late into the year. This one was in a courtyard between several buildings. The walls had been painted with trompe l’oeil murals showing Italian gardens full of flowers. The trees, their leaves turned gold and russet with the fall, were strung with chains of white lights, and heat lamps scattered between the tables gave off a reddish glow. A small fountain plashed musically in the center of the yard.

Only one table was occupied, and not by Raphael. A slim woman in a wide-brimmed hat sat at a table close to the wall. As Simon watched in puzzlement, she raised a hand and waved at him. He turned and looked behind him; there was, of course, no one there. Walker and Archer had started moving again; bemused, Simon followed them as they crossed the courtyard and stopped a few feet from where the woman sat.

Walker bowed deeply. “Master,” he said.

The woman smiled. “Walker,” she said. “And Archer. Very good. Thank you for bringing Simon to me.”

“Wait a second.” Simon looked from the woman to the two subjugates and back again. “You’re not Raphael.”

“Dear me, no.” The woman removed her hat. An enormous quantity of silvery blond hair, brilliant in the Christmas lights, spilled down over her shoulders. Her face was smooth and white and oval, very beautiful, dominated by enormous pale green eyes. She wore long black gloves, a black silk blouse and pencil skirt, and a black scarf tied around her throat. It was impossible to tell her age—or at least what age she might have been when she’d been Turned into a vampire. “I am Camille Belcourt. Enchanted to meet you.”

She held out a black-gloved hand.

“I was told I was meeting Raphael Santiago here,” said Simon, not reaching to take it. “Do you work for him?”

Camille Belcourt laughed like a rippling fountain. “Most certainly not! Though once upon a time he worked for me.”

And Simon remembered. I thought the head vampire was someone else, he had said to Raphael once, in Idris, it felt like forever ago.

Camille has not yet returned to us, Raphael had replied. I lead in her stead.

“You’re the head vampire,” Simon said. “Of the Manhattan clan.” He turned back to the subjugates. “You tricked me. You told me I was meeting Raphael.”

“I said you were meeting our master,” said Mr. Walker. His eyes were vast and empty, so empty that Simon wondered if they had even meant to mislead him, or if they were simply programmed like robots to say whatever their master had told them to say, and were unaware of deviations from the script. “And here she is.”

“Indeed.” Camille flashed a brilliant smile toward her subjugates. “Please leave us, Walker, Archer. I need to speak to Simon alone.” There was something about the way she said it—both his name, and the word “alone”—that was like a secret caress.

The subjugates bowed and withdrew. As Mr. Archer turned to walk away, Simon caught sight of a mark on the side of his throat, a deep bruise, so dark it looked like paint, with two darker spots inside it. The darker spots were punctures, ringed with dry, ragged flesh. Simon felt a quiet shudder pass through him.

“Please,” said Camille, and patted the seat beside her. “Sit. Would you like some wine?”

Simon sat, perching uncomfortably on the edge of the hard metal chair. “I don’t really drink.”

“Of course,” she said, all sympathy. “You’re barely a fledgling, aren’t you? Don’t worry too much. Over time you will train yourself to be able to consume wine and other beverages. Some of the oldest of our kind can consume human food with few ill effects.”

Few ill effects? Simon didn’t like the sound of that. “Is this going to take a long time?” he inquired, gazing pointedly down at his cell phone, which told him the time was after ten thirty. “I have to get home.”

Camille took a sip of her wine. “You do? And why is that?”

Because my mom is waiting up for me. Okay, there was no reason this woman needed to know that. “You interrupted my date,” he said. “I was just wondering what was so important.”

“You still live with your mother, don’t you?” she said, setting her glass down. “Rather odd, isn’t it, a powerful vampire like yourself refusing to leave home, to join with a clan?”

“So you interrupted my date to make fun of me for still living with my parents. Couldn’t you have done that on a night I didn’t have a date? That’s most nights, in case you’re curious.”

“I’m not mocking you, Simon.” She ran her tongue over her lower lip as if tasting the wine she had just drunk. “I want to know why you haven’t become part of Raphael’s clan.”

Which is the same as your clan, isn’t it? “I got the strong feeling he didn’t want me to be part of it,” Simon said. “He pretty much said he’d leave me alone if I left him alone. So I’ve left him alone.”

“Have you.” Her green eyes glowed.

“I never wanted to be a vampire,” Simon said, half-wondering why he was telling these things to this strange woman. “I wanted a normal life. When I found out I was a Daylighter, I thought I could have one. Or at least some approximation of one. I can go to school, I can live at home, I can see my mom and sister—”

“As long as you don’t ever eat in front of them,” said Camille. “As long as you hide your need for blood. You have never fed on someone purely human, have you? Just bagged blood. Stale. Animal.” She wrinkled her nose.

Simon thought of Jace, and pushed the thought hastily away. Jace was not precisely human. “No, I haven’t.”

“You will. And when you do, you will not forget it.” She leaned forward, and her pale hair brushed across his hand. “You cannot hide your true self forever.”

“What teenager doesn’t lie to their parents?” Simon said. “Anyway, I don’t see why you care. In fact, I’m still not sure why I’m here.”

Camille leaned forward. When she did, the neckline of her black silk blouse gaped open. If Simon had still been human, he would have blushed. “Will you let me see it?”

Simon could actually feel his eyes pop out. “See what?”

She smiled. “The Mark, silly boy. The Mark of the Wanderer.”

Simon opened his mouth, then closed it again. How does she know? Very few people knew of the Mark that Clary had put on him in Idris. Raphael had indicated it was a matter for deadly secrecy, and Simon had treated it as such.

But Camille’s eyes were very green and steady, and for some reason he wanted to do what she wanted him to do. It was something about the way she looked at him, something in the music of her voice. He reached up and pushed his hair aside, baring his forehead for her inspection.

Her eyes widened, her lips parting. Lightly she touched her fingers to her throat, as if checking the nonexistent pulse there. “Oh,” she said. “How lucky you are, Simon. How fortunate.”

“It’s a curse,” he said. “Not a blessing. You know that, right?”

Her eyes sparked. “‘And Cain said unto the Lord, My punishment is greater than I can bear.’ Is it more than you can bear, Simon?”

Simon sat back, letting his hair fall back into place. “I can bear it.”

“But you don’t want to.” She ran a gloved finger around the rim of her wineglass, her eyes still fixed on him. “What if I could offer you a way to turn what you regard as a curse into an advantage?”