Cassandra Clare - City of Fallen Angels

“No!” Clary cried, but Simon didn’t look at her. He was watching Lilith, who smiled a cool, gloating smile as she raised her left hand and passed it across the surface of the coffin.

The lid of it vanished, peeling back in a way that reminded Simon bizarrely of peeling back the lid of a tin of sardines. As the top layer of glass pulled away, it melted and ran, dripping down the sides of the granite pedestal, crystallizing into tiny shards of glass as the drops struck the ground.

The coffin was open now, like a fish tank; Sebastian’s body drifted inside, and Simon thought he could once again see the flash of the rune on his chest as Lilith reached into the tank. As Simon watched, she took Sebastian’s dangling arms and crossed them over his chest with an oddly tender gesture, tucking the bandaged one under the one that was whole. She brushed a lock of his wet hair away from his still, white forehead, and stepped back, shaking milky water from her hands.

“To your work, Daylighter,” she said.

Simon moved toward the coffin. Sebastian’s face was slack, his eyelids still. No pulse beat in his throat. Simon remembered how much he had wanted to drink Maureen’s blood. How he had craved the feeling of his teeth sinking into her skin and freeing the salty blood beneath. But this—this was feeding off a corpse. The very thought made his stomach turn.

Though he wasn’t looking at her, he was aware of Clary watching him. He could feel her breath as he bent over Sebastian. He could sense Jace, too, watching him out of blank eyes. Reaching into the coffin, he closed his hands around Sebastian’s cold, slippery shoulders. Biting back the urge to be sick, he bent and sank his teeth into Sebastian’s throat. Black demon blood poured into his mouth, as bitter as poison.

Isabelle moved silently among the stone pedestals. Alec was with her, Sandalphon in his hand, sending light winging through the room. Maia was in one corner of the room, bent over and retching, her hand braced against the wall; Jordan hovered over her, looking as if he wanted to reach out and stroke her back, but was afraid of being rebuffed.

Isabelle didn’t blame Maia for throwing up. If she hadn’t had years of training, she would have thrown up herself. She had never seen anything like what she was looking at now. There were dozens, maybe fifty, of the stone pedestals in the room. Atop each one was a low crib-like basket. Inside each basket was a baby. And every one of the babies was dead.

She had held out hope at first, as she walked up and down the rows, that she might find one alive. But these children had been dead for some time. Their skin was gray, their small faces bruised and discolored. They were wrapped in thin blankets, and though it was cold in the room, Isabelle didn’t think it was cold enough for them to have frozen to death. She wasn’t sure how they had died; she couldn’t bear to investigate too closely. This was clearly a matter for the Clave.

Alec, behind her, had tears running down his face; he was cursing under his breath by the time they reached the last of the pedestals. Maia had straightened up and was leaning against the window; Jordan had given her some kind of cloth, maybe a handkerchief, to hold to her face. The cold white lights of the city burned behind her, cutting through the dark glass like diamond drills.

“Iz,” Alec said. “Who could have done something like this? Why would someone—even a demon—”

He broke off. Isabelle knew what he was thinking about. Max, when he had been born. She had been seven, Alec nine. They had bent over their little brother in the cradle, amused and enchanted by this fascinating new creature. They’d played with his little fingers, laughed at the weird faces he made when they tickled him.

Her heart twisted. Max. As she had moved down the lines of little cribs, now turned into little coffins, a sense of overwhelming dread had begun to press down on her. She couldn’t ignore the fact that the pendant around her neck was glowing with a harsh, steady glow. The sort of glow she might have expected if she were facing down a Greater Demon.

She thought of what Clary had seen in the morgue in Beth Israel. He looked just like a normal baby. Except for his hands. They were twisted into claws. . . .

With great care she reached into one of the cribs. Careful not to touch the baby, she twitched aside the thin blanket that wrapped its body.

She felt the breath puff out of her in a gasp. Ordinary chubby baby arms, round baby wrists. The hands looked soft and new. But the fingers—the fingers were twisted into claws, as black as burned bone, tipped with sharp little talons. She took an involuntary step back.

“What?” Maia moved toward them. She still looked sickened, but her voice was steady. Jordan followed her, hands in his pockets. “What did you find?” she asked.

“By the Angel.” Alec, beside Isabelle, was looking down into the crib. “Is this—like the baby Clary was telling you about? The one at Beth Israel?”

Slowly Isabelle nodded. “I guess it wasn’t just the one baby,” she said. “Someone’s been trying to make a lot more of them. More . . . Sebastians.”

“Why would anyone want more of him?” Alec’s voice was full of naked hatred.

“He was fast and strong,” Isabelle said. It almost hurt physically to say anything complimentary about the boy who had killed her brother and tried to kill her. “I guess they’re trying to breed a race of super-warriors.”

“It didn’t work.” Maia’s eyes were dark with sadness.

A noise so soft it was almost inaudible teased at the edge of Isabelle’s hearing. Her head jerked up, her hand going to her belt, where her whip was coiled. Something in the thick shadows at the edge of the room, near the door, moved, just the faintest flicker, but Isabelle had already broken away from the others and was running for the door. She burst out into the hallway near the elevators. There was something there—a shadow that had broken free of the greater darkness and was moving, edging along the wall. Isabelle picked up speed and threw herself forward, knocking the shadow to the floor.

It wasn’t a ghost. As they went down together in a heap, Isabelle surprised a very human-sounding grunt of surprise out of the shadowy figure. They hit the ground together and rolled. The figure was definitely human—slight and shorter than Isabelle, wearing a gray warm-up suit and sneakers. Sharp elbows came up, jabbing into Isabelle’s collarbone. A knee dug into her solar plexus. She gasped and rolled aside, feeling for her whip. By the time she got it free, the figure was on its feet. Isabelle rolled onto her stomach, flicking the whip forward; the end of it coiled around the stranger’s ankle and pulled tight. Isabelle jerked the whip back, yanking the figure off its feet.

She scrambled to her feet, reaching with her free hand for her stele, which was tucked down the front of her dress. With a quick slash she finished the nyx Mark on her left arm. Her vision adjusted quickly, the whole room seeming to fill with light as the night vision rune took effect. She could see her attacker more clearly now—a thin figure in a gray warm-up suit and gray sneakers, scrambling backward until its back hit the wall. The hood of the suit had fallen back, exposing the face. The head was shaved cleanly bald, but the face was definitely female, with sharp cheekbones and big dark eyes.

“Stop it,” Isabelle said, and pulled hard on the whip. The woman cried out in pain. “Stop trying to crawl away.”

The woman bared her teeth. “Worm,” she said. “Unbeliever. I will tell you nothing.”

Isabelle jammed her stele back into her dress. “If I pull hard enough on this whip, it’ll cut through your leg.” She gave the whip another flick, tightening it, and moved forward, until she was standing in front of the woman, looking down at her. “Those babies,” she said. “What happened to them?”