Cassandra Clare - City of Ashes

"Hey," she said, and leaned down to take the glass out of his hand. "Easy there." She slid the piece of Portal into the pocket of his jacket where it hung on the wall. The edges of the glass were dark with blood, Jace's palms scored with red lines. "Maybe we should get you back to Magnus's," she said as gently as she could. "Alec's been there a long time, and—"

"I doubt he minds, somehow," Jace said, but he stood up obediently enough and reached for his stele, which was propped against the wall. As he drew a healing rune on the back of his bleeding right hand, he said, "There's something I've been meaning to ask you."

"And what's that?"

"When you got me out of the cell in the Silent City, how did you do it? How did you unlock the door?"

"Oh. I just used a regular Opening rune, and—"

She was interrupted by a harsh, tolling ring, and clapped her hand to her pocket before she realized that the sound she'd heard was much louder and sharper than any sound her phone could make. She looked around in confusion.

"That's the Institute's doorbell," Jace said, grabbing his jacket. "Come on."

They were halfway to the foyer when Isabelle burst out of her own bedroom door, wearing a cotton bathrobe, a pink silk sleep mask pushed up on her forehead, and a semi-dazed expression. "It's three in the morning!" she said to them, in a tone that suggested that this was all Jace's, or possibly Clary's, fault. "Who's ringing our doorbell at three in the morning?"

"Maybe it's the Inquisitor," Clary said, feeling suddenly cold.

"She could get in on her own," said Jace. "Any Shadowhunter could. The Institute is only closed to mundanes and Downworlders."

Clary felt her heart contract. "Simon!" she said. "It must be him!"

"Oh, for goodness' sake," yawned Isabelle, "is he really waking us up at this ungodly hour just to prove his love to you or something? Couldn't he have called ? Mundane men are such twits." They had reached the foyer, which was empty; Max must have gone to bed on his own. Isabelle stalked across the room and toggled a switch on the far wall. Somewhere inside the cathedral a distant rumbling thump was audible. "There," Isabelle said. "Elevator's on its way."

"I can't believe he didn't have the dignity and presence of mind just to get drunk and pass out in some gutter," said Jace. "I must say, I'm disappointed in the little fellow."

Clary barely heard him. A rising sense of fear made her blood slow and thick. She remembered her dream: the angels, the ice, Simon with his bleeding wings. She shivered.

Isabelle looked at her sympathetically. "It is cold in here," she observed. She reached up and took down what looked like a blue velvet coat from one of the coat hooks. "Here," she said. "Put this on."

Clary slid the coat on and drew it close around her. It was too long, but it was warm. It had a hood, too, lined with satin. Clary pushed it back so she could see the elevator doors opening.

They opened on a hollow box whose mirrored sides reflected her own pale and startled face. Without a pause for thought, she stepped inside.

Isabelle looked at her in confusion. "What are you doing?"

"It's Simon down there," Clary said. "I know it is."

"But—"

Suddenly, Jace was beside Clary, holding the doors open for Isabelle. "Come on, Izzy," he said. With a theatrical sigh, she followed.

Clary tried to catch his eye as the three of them rode down in silence—Isabelle pinning up the last long coil of her hair—but Jace wouldn't look at her. He was looking at himself sidelong in the elevator mirror, whistling softly under his breath as he always did when he was nervous. She remembered the slight tremor in his touch as he had taken hold of her in the Seelie Court. She thought of the look on Simon's face—and then of him almost running to get away from her, vanishing into the shadows at the edge of the park. There was a knot of dread inside her chest and she didn't know why.

The elevator doors opened onto the nave of the cathedral, alive with the dancing light of candles. She pushed past Jace in her hurry to get out of the elevator and practically ran down the narrow aisle between the pews. She stumbled on the dragging edge of her coat and bunched it up impatiently in her hand before dashing to the wide double doors. On the inside they were barred with bronze bolts the size of Clary's arms. As she reached for the highest bolt, the bell rang through the church again. She heard Isabelle whisper something to Jace, and then Clary was hauling on the bolt, dragging it back, and she felt Jace's hand over hers, helping her pull the heavy doors open.

Night air swept in, guttering the candles in their brackets. The air smelled of city: of salt and fumes, cooling concrete and garbage, and underneath those familiar smells, the scent of copper, like the tang of a new penny.

At first Clary thought the steps were empty. Then she blinked and saw Raphael standing there, his head of black curls tousled by the night breeze, his white shirt open at the neck to show the scar in the hollow of his throat. In his arms he held a body. That was all Clary saw as she stared at him in bewilderment, a body . Someone very dead, arms and legs dangling like limp ropes, head fallen back to expose the mangled throat. She felt Jace's hand tighten around her arm like a vise, and only then did she look more closely and see the familiar corduroy jacket with its torn sleeve, the blue T-shirt underneath now stained and spotted with blood, and she screamed.

The scream made no sound. Clary felt her knees give and would have slid to the ground if Jace hadn't been holding her up. "Don't look," he said in her ear. "For God's sake, don't look." But she couldn't not look at the blood matting Simon's brown hair, his torn throat, the gashes along his dangling wrists. Black spots dotted her vision as she fought for breath.

It was Isabelle who snatched one of the empty candelabras from the side of the door and aimed it at Raphael as if it were an enormous three-pointed spear.

" What have you done to Simon ?" For that moment, her voice clear and commanding, she sounded exactly like her mother.

" El no es muerto ," Raphael said, in a flat and emotionless voice, and laid Simon down on the ground almost at Clary's feet, with a surprising gentleness. She had forgotten how strong he must be—he had a vampire's unnatural strength despite his slightness.

In the light of the candles that spilled through the doorway, Clary could see that Simon's shirt was soaked through at the front with blood.

"Did you say—," she began.

"He isn't dead," Jace said, holding her tighter. "He's not dead."

She pulled away from him with a hard jerk and went to her knees on the concrete. She felt no disgust at touching Simon's bloodied skin as she slid her hands under his head, pulling him up into her lap. She felt only the terrified childish horror she remembered from being five years old and having broken her mother's priceless Liberty lamp. Nothing , said a voice in the back of her head, will put these pieces hack together again .

"Simon," she whispered, touching his face. His glasses were gone. "Simon, it's me."

"He can't hear you," said Raphael. "He's dying."

Her head jerked up. "But you said—"

"I said he was not dead yet," said Raphael. "But in a few minutes—ten, perhaps—his heart will slow and stop. Already he is beyond seeing or hearing anything."

Her arms tightened around him involuntarily. "We have to get him to a hospital—or call Magnus."

"They can't do him any good," said Raphael. "You don't understand."

"No," said Jace, his voice as soft as silk tipped with needle-sharp points. "We don't. And perhaps you should explain yourself. Because otherwise I'm going to assume you're a rogue bloodsucker, and cut your heart out. Like I should have done last time we met."