The Evidence of Things Unseen-Chapter 2
Isabelle Lightwood paused for only a moment outside the decrepit building in New York City before gently lifting the latch to the gate and swinging it open. To an outsider, she might have looked almost normal. Her hair was tucked carelessly into a drooping bun, the ends poking out it like the sagging blooms of tulips full of rain. Lines etched across her young and otherwise pretty face. She was exhausted. Ever since she'd made the connection, she allowed herself to see now with the eyes of a Downworlder. And it was an ugly, ugly city from their eyes.
She squinted and tried to see the building as a mundane might. A plain brown building with row after row of warehouse windows leaning heavily on its foundation stones was the perfect disguise for this building. The Institute was not the only hidden functional building of the Clave in NYC, in fact, this was just one more of many. When she squinted again, the glamour faded and she saw the building for what it was. A squat building so shiny it almost seemed like spun steel in the sunlight. Spring was coming to NYC, but Isabelle could not feel the sun on her face. She thought absently that by now she should be able to smell the wind blowing in from Central Park, and the trash ripening on the street corners. But she was beyond sensory detail. Her heart was too heavy to notice.
A square wrought-iron sign was plastered over the forbidding gates, which read simply, "Ravenswood Home for the Mentally Incompetent." To the institutions credit, they had always welcomed Downworlder and Shadowhunter alike into their services, but it was not like they had very much choice. The Clave kept a close eye on who checked into this building. When she walked numbly down the hallway to room 423, she stopped again just outside the door and placed her palm against the solemn oak. Nothing, not one single thing in all of her years of training had ever prepared her for this. Gritting her teeth, she opened the door and stepped inside.
Jocelyn was sitting with a book open on her lap looking far older than she had only a few short months ago. In the bed beside her was Simon. The mark of Cain glowed gruesomely against his pale skin, as the IV dripped yet another blood transfusion into his body. It was the only thing keeping him alive. He was not capable of even feeding himself. He had moments of lucidity. Moments he would open his eyes and scream for Clary or even his mother then fall back onto the bed, too sick, too weak to do anything but convulse. And deep inside, Isabelle knew what drew him away from them. It was Clary's fault. Clary had Marked him with the curse of Cain. She knew why Simon screamed and shook uncontrollably whenever anyone tried to touch him. She knew why he cried late at night when he thought no one was there. Because when he opened his eyes, there was nothing there but darkness. Clary had blinded him. And he had retreated so far back into his mind, Isabelle wasn't sure they would ever find him again.
"Oh Simon. Simon, dear, wake up now," a voice was tickling his nose with a feather. He sneezed and sat up. "My name is Celia. You've lost your way, you know. Otherwise, you wouldn't be asleep so soundly. Everyone loses their way sometimes," the voice said then dissolved into a fit of giggles. "Simon. You're such a pretty thing. Too bad, you aren't still human. You don't know what you are, do you, Simon?" the voice was laughing again but this time it was harsher, full of malice.
Simon looked around dazed. His brain was pounding with the urgency of something that needed to be done. He was supposed to be somewhere. "What time is it?" he murmured softly.
"Time? Silly boy, there's no time anymore. You're not quite dead, you know." Celia laughed and then rolled in the sweet-smelling grass he'd been lying in.
"What….I mean, Who….are you?" Simon said finally getting a good look at Celia. She was a pixie. He thought. Maybe, a pixie, she had finely sharpened teeth and small, square shaped eyes that were too large for her too innocent face. But when she turned her head, he recoiled from her in shock and fear. The entire left side of her face was drained of life. She was blind in one eye, and her skin was a sallow, yellowing color. He resisted the urge to gag.
"And who are you to judge me, you nasty boy," Celia hissed angrily. "You'll never be anything more than what you are. You're out of time, Simon. And you're not quite dead, didn't you know?" she said her voice softening to a sing-song voice.
Simon shook his head and looked all around him. Trees bloomed in the distance with long willowy stems that looked like the end of Isabelle's whip.
"ISABELLE," Simon shouted shooting straight up in the bed, nearly tearing the IV from his arm.
"Simon. Simon," Isabelle ran to his side and took his hand, her heart slamming into the back of her teeth. Had he recognized her? Was he coming around? She was shivering from her head to her toes, nearly quivering with excitement. Maybe this nightmare was about to be over.
"Simon, I'm right here with you," she said slowly. But Simon opened his eyes and moved all around the room, unable to see, unable to find her hovering voice in the stillness of the room. It wasn't until he glanced at her accidentally with a terrible unknowing blankness in his luminous eyes that the hope began to drain out of hers.
