City of Shadows

by Siavahda

"Or is he?" Jace asked. "Have you had dealings with demons, little boy? Walked with warlocks, talked with the Night Children? Have you–" "Did you run out of alliteration?" Simon interrupted. "Night Children – what is that, vampires, probably, could you not think of any verbs beginning with v? Verbalize, vent, venerate, vacuum – that's a good one, *have you vacuumed with vampires*-"

10. Chapter 10

"What do you mean, we have a gig?"

"I mean, we have a gig," Eric said, far too calmly for someone who had arranged for Millennium Lint to perform while their lead singer and all their instruments had been MIA. "The guy at Pandemonium put in a good word for us. We're playing – "

" – Tomorrow night at Vatican, yes, I heard you the first time." Simon ran a hand through his hair. "I just didn't believe it!"

"Believe it," Kirk muttered.

"We tried to talk him out of it," Matt added darkly. "But..."

"But it's Eric." Simon glared at him, and Eric shrugged carelessly.

"Look, what's the problem? You're here, we've got our instruments back... Everything's fine!"

"The problem," Simon said, forcing himself to speak levelly, "is that my mom is missing. I'm not sure I'm up to performing."

"Maybe it would be good for you," Eric offered. The hint of apology in his tone mollified Simon a little bit – but only a little. "You know...get your mind off things."

Simon stared until Eric winced. "Okay, bad choice of words. Sorry. But, seriously. What else are you gonna do; mope around writing emo shit?"

"No, that's your job." Simon sighed. But what was he supposed to do? He wondered unhappily. Go back to the Institute? And tell them what – that Valentine was alive, as they'd been starting to suspect, but Simon had no idea where he was? That his mom's oldest friend was a Shadowhunter too, but more than ready to sell Simon and Jocelyn down the river?

Maybe they could interrogate Luke. Find out what he knows. Simon chewed his lip, his stomach in knots.

"Okay," he said reluctantly – and swiped his hands in front of him when they cheered. "Quit acting like house elves I just gave socks to! And show me the set list." He glared at Eric again. "You'd better have sorted it out already, Mr I-am-so-prepared."

"But of course." Eric produced a sheet of paper like a magic trick, and Simon was not nearly as surprised as he should have been.

Twenty minutes later he and Eric were arguing fiercely while Clary lectured Matt and Kirk on the importance of the Female Gaze, which from having heard it before Simon knew meant playing up the sex appeal so any girls in their audience could have something fun to watch. He would have liked to veto Clary's suggestion of shirtlessness, but he was a little busy.

"Get this through your head," he forced through gritted teeth. "I can't start with Earthquake, Eric! It's a screamer song, it kills my voice!"

"Because it's a killer song!" Eric said triumphantly, as if Simon had just surrendered the argument. "It's the perfect opening!"

"Yeah, and then I'll be sub-par on every other song of the night! The answer's no!"

For a moment, Eric's grin faltered, but then it came back even more strongly than before. "Look, the problem is the warm-up, right? 'Caus you can't get your voice ready for the screamer stuff and the normal songs?"

"Not easily." Simon narrowed his eyes. "Not without longer than I usually get to warm-up, anyway."

Eric spread his hands. "So why don't we just do the screamer stuff? It's not like we're playing Death Metal or some shit, it's not super-screamer. It's all perfect club stuff. Look, what if instead of..."

The two of them bent over the set-list draft again, wielding their ballpoint pens like swords in their verbal duel. But they both knew that Eric was going to win: Simon was insanely proud of Earthquake, and they all knew that he'd been longing for a chance to perform it properly. They swapped out Step Up for Courtesy Call, Shapeshifter for The Dark, and then debated some of the slower songs.

"They specifically said they wanted a few romantic songs in the mix," Eric insisted, but Simon was dubious.

"It's a club, don't they want people dancing? Fast music, fast dancing, people get thirsty and buy drinks?"

"Slow dancing is still dancing, I guess?"

"It gives them a break," Kirk suggested when they asked the others what they thought. "The clubbers. They get their breath back, and then stay longer."

"Instead of getting tired and going home," Matt agreed.

Simon sighed. "All right then. But if this explodes in our faces, I'm blaming you," and he jabbed his finger in Eric's chest.

Eric sniffed. "Acceptable," he said grandly.

Leaving Kirk and Matt to occupy Clary, Simon wrote down Crush at the end of the set list.

Eric raised his eyebrows. "You sure?" he asked quietly, the playful idiocy abruptly wiped from his voice.

Simon took a deep breath. "Yeah," he answered, just as softly. "She's...yeah." His stomach was in knots just thinking about it, nervousness coiling cold and sick like a finger touching the back of his throat. He fiddled with the pen, staring down at the paper. "My mom...her being gone, it's just...put everything into perspective." Jocelyn gone, probably taken by a genocidal madman. Watching the Forsaken nearly kill Jace. "What if something happens to me tomorrow, and I never said anything?"

"Then you're screwed, because we're performing tomorrow night," Eric reminded him. "So try not to get run over by a car before then, okay?"

Simon laughed. "I'll do my best."

)0(

It weighed on him, though. Not just his decision to finally sing Crush – although that made him freeze up like a deer in headlights whenever he thought about it. But more pressing was the feeling that he was forgetting his mom. Letting her down by allowing himself to be distracted.

Maybe I was overreacting, he thought that night, when the lights were off and Clary was asleep on the other side of the room. Maybe Hodge really doesn't have anything to do with Valentine anymore. Who else could help him but Shadowhunters? And where else could he find Shadowhunters but the Institute?

I could talk to Dorothea again. But she hadn't really been willing to help, too afraid of the Clave. Ultimately the seeress hadn't told him anything important, like where his mother might actually be found, and Simon doubted that a second conversation would be any more helpful.

There's Luke. But Luke was, if not quite friendly with Valentine's people, not about to go up against them, either. What if he handed Simon over to Valentine in exchange for Jocelyn? Right now Luke seemed far less trustworthy than Hodge.

Under the blankets in his camp bed, he scrolled through the contacts on his phone, feeling his heart clench a little more at each useless name. There weren't even that many of them: it wasn't as though Simon had a lot of friends outside of Clary and Lint. There were a few fast-food places whose numbers he'd saved, because TOMO sushi is going to be able to face down the Shadowhunter Hitler –

He paused, staring at a new entry in his contact book that he knew he hadn't made himself.

'The Best Night of Your Life.'

ExCUSE me?

After a moment's consideration, he had to suppress a grin, because he had a pretty good idea of who would pick up the phone if he called. As quietly as possible, he slipped out of bed, past Clary and out of her room, and down the stairs to the kitchen.

Sure enough, the voice that drawled, "Booty calls are between six pm and two am, you know," was instantly familiar.

"I wasn't aware that you had business hours," Simon grinned. "Would you like me to make an appointment?"

"Oh, it's you." Far from sounding disappointed, Jace's voice was suddenly amused. "What are you doing calling me at this hour, mundane?"

Simon shivered. Mundane. He wanted to hate the contemptuous implications of the word, but that right there was the real reason he didn't want to hear it: the slow, lazy way Jace said it. Worse now, with his voice husky from sleep. "You did put your number in my phone," he pointed out.

"So I did," Jace said agreeably. "But it's – " A moment while Jace presumably checked the time. " – four in the morning. So – and I never thought these words would pass my lips – please tell me you're on the run from Valentine. That's the only thing I can think of worth waking up this early for."

"The only thing?" Simon asked lightly. "I'm disappointed in your imagination. You really need to read more."

Jace laughed, low and sultry. Simon wondered if he was doing it on purpose, or if Jace's default setting was – well. Best night of your life.

Straight, he reminded himself.

"I called because I was curious," he found himself saying. "There was a mystery. It was keeping me up."

"Oh?"

"Mm." Simon ran his fingers over the kitchen counter, grinning. "There was a strange new number in my phone, and I couldn't work out whose it was."

"What?" Jace asked, scandalised. "Was it not helpfully named, in such a way as to make it obvious who the number must belong to?"

Simon bit back a laugh. "Not really," he said mock-dismissively. "Until you picked up, I had no idea. I thought it might be Sebastian, actually."

There was a pause. "And who," Jace drawled, "is Sebastian?"

"A brief acquaintance from a con last Summer." Simon paused, waiting for Jace to reply. When he didn't, Simon grinned. "You know, a guy could almost think you were jealous," he said lightly.

"I beg your pardon, I was trying to work out what kind of con you and your friend could have run together." Simon could almost hear his smirk. "You have a cute little face, I'm sure you find it very easy to convince naive grandmothers to part with their money in dodgy investment plans."

Simon raised his eyebrows. "What are you – " Then he got it, and groaned. "Oh, Jace. Jaaaace."

In the quiet, with his phone pressed to his ear, Simon could have sworn he heard Jace's breathing hitch, ever so slightly. "Yes?" he answered. Even with so short a word, it sounded like – almost as if – Jace was – breathless, his voice gone low and husky again, and Simon shivered, biting his lip.

"You know, it's unfair to tease," he said raggedly. "You know what you look like. What you sound like. I have to think you're doing it on purpose, and that's just not cool. Teasing the guy who likes dick. That's practically..." He couldn't think of an appropriate word. All he could see was Jace in bed, with that body straight out of Simon's fantasies and that quick, mocking mouth.

On the other end of the phone, Jace chuckled. "Sorry," he murmured, not sounding sorry at all. Simon's fingers tightened on his phone, his mouth dry. "Was there something you wanted, really?"

"Y – " You, Simon almost said. God damn it all, I want you. He swallowed hard. "Yyyyyes. Yes." He sucked in a breath to steady himself. "I'm performing tomorrow night, at this place called The Vatican. I was wondering if you'd want to come?"

"A date?" Jace sounded delighted, in the way of someone hearing a fantastic joke. "I knew it. You want to kiss me, don't you?"

"I want to do a lot more than kiss you." It didn't just slip out; he purred it, the way he did a similar line in one of his songs, as if his mouth were against a mike and not a phone. He froze, unable to believe he had spoken aloud, but before he could stammer out an apology he heard Jace's breath catch, and with more than surprise; liquid heat slammed down Simon's spine at the sound and he thought, fuck it.

"Does that get you off?" he asked huskily. "Do you like that, having the bi mundane panting after you? Do you like it, is it fun, wrapping me around your finger and watching me squirm?" He laughed softly, quietly, thrilled at Jace's little hiss, the sound of a sharply indrawn breath. "You do, don't you? You're terrible. But you know, I think I like it too." He closed his eyes, shutting out the kitchen so he could imagine Jace's face, shocked and raw with unfamiliar hunger.

"Because every time you tease me," he murmured, "I imagine returning the favour. Not with words, like you do." Jace was definitely breathing harder. So was Simon, for that matter. "But with my mouth, my mouth and my hands. Putting them all over you. Stringing you out until you're shaking, until you can't even breathe." He purred. "That's how I tease, Jace. By bringing my partner to the edge over and over until they can't remember their own name." He smirked. "How does that sound to you, Shadowhunter?"

"Like I should ask what it is you do," Jace said breathlessly down the line.

"Hm?" Simon ran a hand through his hair, breathing out shakily. He felt flushed and predatory.

"Your performance." Simon had forgotten all about it. "This isn't some kind of sex club you're taking me to, is it?"

Simon laughed. "No, you idiot. Just the normal kind. I'm a singer, not some kind of sex worker."

"Pity," Jace murmured. "But I'll have you know, I don't put out for anything less than a five star dinner."

The velvety darkness flared inside him, and Simon closed his eyes. "Liar," he purred.

For a moment, the other end of the phone was silent, and Simon wondered if he'd gone too far, crossed too many lines in the space of too few minutes.

And then Jace breathed out shakily and Simon had to clutch at the counter to stay on his feet as the sound nearly sent him to his knees. Fuck, he thought, dazed and amazed. No one – no one had ever hit him so hard before.

"Not," he managed, "that I am taking you to dinner. Or on a date." Best to get back to safe ground, he thought, before Jace really did freak out. Simon was amazed that he hadn't already; could only assume that Jace's quick tongue (don't go there, Fray, he told himself) and sarcastic wit was keeping his head above the water. "Because that would be inappropriate."

Jace laughed. It sounded a little strained. "Right. Of course. So why do you want me there?"

"I was hoping we could talk. About Valentine," Simon added quickly, before Jace could make some quip about how they were talking now. "And – and my mom." The memory – the reminder – was like cold water waking him up. What the hell was he doing, flirting while his mom was missing? And with a freaking straight guy, no less.

Although he was beginning to have his doubts about that.

He gripped his phone tightly. "I need to find her," he said quietly, and his voice was far hoarser than it had been purring sex down the phone. This mattered a hell of a lot more.

"You know something." Jace was instantly serious, all hint of sultry heat wiped away as if the last few minutes had never happened. "Tell me."

Simon had no idea how Jace had guessed – how he knew – but he didn't hesitate to tell the Shadowhunter what Clary had discovered. It felt like lancing a wound, laying out all his fears and evidence for Jace, for someone who knew what they were doing. Someone who had promised that they would find Jocelyn.

The only one who had.

"We'll be there," Jace said when Simon trailed off. The blond's voice was cool and hard, like ice or crystal – like the material the seraph blades were made from, Simon thought. Immutable.

"We?"

"Alec and Isabelle will escort me into your den of iniquity," Jace drawled, that damn smirk back and audible. "For my own safety, of course. No one expects you to be able to keep your hands off me."

At the mention of Alec, Simon's throat went tight, and he reached up to touch his neck. There had been no bruising, no ache left after the healing rune, but he remembered so clearly that there might as well have been. "You should leave Alec at home," he said. "I doubt he'll want to help out anyway."

"I know he took Simiel from you," Jace said after a pause. "He had no right to do that. But – "

Simon thought about saying it, tried to shape the words on his tongue. He nearly killed me. He put his fist half-through my throat and crushed my windpipe, and I nearly died. But it was too unreal. The words tasted like a line from a bad script, and Simon felt like a bad actor, unable to find the way to deliver the words properly, so that they didn't sound pathetic, humiliating, cringe worthy.

It was bizarre that he tried to kill me could feel cringe worthy, but it did.

"Do you trust him?" he asked instead.

"With my life," Jace said instantly, and Simon wanted to laugh, wanted to ask and what about with mine? "He's my parabatai. I trust him beyond death itself."

"Mundie," Simon reminded him. "I have no idea what that means." Except that Jace sounded like he meant it. Simon wondered what it was like, to have that kind of unshakable faith in something, to sound so certain and sure when speaking of another person – or of anything.

"Parabatai," said Jace. "It means a pair of warriors who fight together – who are closer than brothers." He paused as if searching for the right words. "Alec is more than just my best friend."

For a second Simon didn't get it – and then his eyes widened and he cursed silently, slapped his forehead with the base of his hand. Jesus Christ on a T-Rex, no wonder he'd been getting weird vibes off Jace!

"I'm going to have to apologise to Alec," he groaned, and for just a moment that overwhelmed the crushing disappointment. "Aren't I? Damn it, everything makes so much more sense now."

"What? Why?" Surprise, and then wariness. "What did you do?"

Simon frowned at the phone, then held it back to his ear. "Maybe Shadowhunters go about things differently, but among mundanes it's generally considered impolite to flirt with someone else's boyfriend," he said wryly, ignoring how his insides clenched at the words. Of course he's taken, you idiot – how could he not be?

"Who has a boyfriend?" Jace asked, bemused.

Simon sighed. "I'm not going to tell your precious Clave," he assured him. Closer than brothers – more than just my best friend – what was that, except a circumspect way of saying what Simon should have guessed from the start? "Don't worry."

"You're making even less sense than usual," Jace told him.

It was suddenly horribly, terribly sad that Jace couldn't say it, couldn't be honest even with someone from outside his closed-off, homophobic little world. That even in private conversation with someone he knew couldn't possibly judge him, Jace still felt the need to hide in the closet.

And he wonders why I have no desire to become a Shadowhunter. Even Alec's hatred was easier to understand and forgive, now, knowing this. What had been going on behind the scenes – had Alec felt threatened, jealous of Jace's attention? He called me an incubus, Simon remembered. At the time it hadn't really registered as anything beyond an insult, but – incubi were sex demons, he knew that much. An insult a Shadowhunter might use if you were screwing with their relationship, he figured.

He still shouldn't have nearly killed me, though.

"I should get back to bed," Simon said quietly. "It's really late." He rubbed his fingers over his eyes under his glasses. "Will you be able to find the place, tomorrow?"

"I think you mean today," Jace said blithely. Simon glanced at the clock and grinned despite himself. "To answer your question: yes, I know where Vatican is, and yes, I know it's not a sex club. Alas. It's one of the places where Downworlders mix with mundanes. I've been there before on patrol."

Simon sighed. "Of course it is," he muttered. "Great. Well, I'll see you guys there, I guess. Night."

"Good night, Simon."

)0(

When he woke up again, there wasn't any time to think about the night's conversation. He and Clary had to get over to Eric's for practise first thing, stopping only to grab a Starbucks coffee for everyone. After the last few days, and with another performance coming closer by the minute, Simon felt the splurge was justified.

Not that anyone was grateful; they were too frantic. Like Pandemonium, Vatican had all-ages nights; unlike Pandemonium, if your face and clothes weren't up to standard, Vatican's bouncers didn't let you in. It was as prestigious as an all-ages club could get, and a gateway drug – so to speak – to much more attention.

They had to freaking rock tonight.

)0(

"We have to freaking rock tonight," Simon declared, back-stage minutes before they were due on. "Rock like Ben Grimm."

"Like Terra," Clary offered, and Simon nodded because Teen Titans would always be the best thing about Cartoon Network, and screw the haters.

"Like Terra," he echoed. "Exactly. We have to be awesome. We will be awesome." He glared around the group. "I will hear no arguments."

"How much coffee did he have?" Matt asked Clary in a stage-whisper.

Clary held up three fingers. Matt winced. Simon ignored them both.

He was trying especially hard to ignore Clary, which was difficult because she was being stupidly beautiful again. She was going to be singing with them – just a little, a few lines in the opening song – and she had spent far longer than usual getting dressed because of it, in an effort "not to disappoint". She was a vision in blue velvet and steel-capped boots, and the glint of amber from her silver thumb-ring kept flashing in the corner of Simon's vision.

How she thought she could disappoint anyone, Simon had no idea.

"You don't need to worry," Eric said reassuringly. "We're good. We've practised, you're warmed up, Clary" here he dipped his head, like a knight to a lady, "has deigned to ensure we are all properly dressed – "

"Don't remind me," Kirk muttered.

" – in short, we're ready. So relax." Eric grinned. "You weren't even this nervous before Pandemonium, and we rocked that. We'll do it again."

I didn't sing Crush at Pandemonium, Simon thought, and tried to shove down the wave of icy panic the thought elicited. To distract himself he went and peered out at the stage, leaving the others to psyche themselves up.

The sight that greeted him was a little intimidating. Vatican was larger than Pandemonium – much larger. The ground floor was a huge square, with a stage at one end for bands, and a bar at a right angle to it. There were lights and smoke machines, two DJ platforms on perpendicular walls, and everything was black with gold accents. Hundreds of candles flickered in little niches in the walls behind plastic windows, and glittering chandeliers – Simon guessed they were glass instead of real crystal – flashed with neon fire every time they caught the strobe lights. Two more floors of wide balconies could be reached by spiralling metal staircases set against each wall, and they, like the ground floor, were heaving.

So many people. And Tony Stark on a stick, the acoustics! The club's manager had pointed out the dozens of powerful speakers that would project their music into every corner of the building, but still! It was a little terrifying, the thought of filling all this space with his voice.

He hoped the fear wasn't making him sweat. Clary had forced one of Eric's shirts on him – a white, skin-tight thing with sleeves that ended just below his elbows. A sweeping design of wings, woven out of red and blue lines like veins and arteries, rose up his chest and spread over his arms, and honestly he would have been more comfortable with his Tony Stark shirt with the LED arc-reactor.

'You're a rockstar now, Simon, you have to look the part.'

'Tony Stark is totally a rockstar. And without any need to flash his nipples!'

'Don't be dramatic, I can't see your – oh.'

'...'

'Just kidding, I really can't see them. Stop fussing!'

Sometimes he thought about murdering Clary. Just occasionally. Although she had also stolen one of Matt's black leather jackets for him, which was much more appropriate for a rockstar and hid his possibly-visible nipples, so he might let her live.

He wondered if Jace was already somewhere in the crowd.

He jumped when someone touched his elbow, but it was only Clary, pulling her headset microphone down over her hair. "Jumpy," she commented, adjusting the mouthpiece.

"Demons are real, I think I have a right to be jumpy." Simon pulled away from the edge of the stage, back into the wings. "You look beautiful, by the way."

Clary glanced down at her outfit with a small smile. "Thanks." Her blue velvet dress had been a gift from Jocelyn, bought on one of their mother-surrogate-daughter outings. Simon had never seen her wear it before – Clary was more of a shirt-and-jeans kind of person – but it suited her, made her look like a girl songs were written about. Wide straps led into silky fabric that hugged her upper body comfortably, without being overtly sexual, and then dissolved into a loose sapphire-coloured skirt that ended just below her knees. Net tights full of holes vanished into thick, round-toed boots covered in buckles, and long armwarmers – swirls of light brown leather over yellow silk – sleeved her arms from wrist almost to shoulder. She looked more like the band's lead singer than Simon did, in his opinion.

"Really," he insisted, his heart in his throat. "You – you're beautiful. You're going to knock them dead."

She looked at him then, really looked, and he wondered what she saw. An idiot in a too-tight shirt? Her best friend? Or someone that wasn't quite human?

"Thanks," she said quietly, and then Kirk called for them to get their asses in gear and it was time to hit the stage.

)0(

The moment he had his mike in hand Simon's fears were swept away. He forgot about his ridiculous clothes, and the crowd, and Jace: Matt and Eric brought in the intro and Simon howled "Get DOWN!" like he was on fire, like the words were tongues of flame flying from his mouth.

He forgot himself.

"I saw shawty dancin' on the floor," he purred, and there, he saw Clary in the crowd, a sapphire jewel in the dark. "I'm kind of nervous to approach her though..." He snapped close to Eric, gave the next words to him confidingly. "She's so stylish, like a supermodel – Should I meet her?"

"Yes I think you oughta!"

It surged through him, the laughing rush of it, and they loved it – through the flash and spark of the lights he saw delighted, grinning faces and that just made it perfect, made it easy to lean forward and gift them his song, his voice, the thrill pounding through his veins.

"The needle dropped,
My track was hot,
We began to rock,
Our eyes~ were locked –

I love your song –
Yeah, girl, sing along –
She said DJs make my heart ache,
I said Baby watch the place shake like an earthquake!"

They smashed into the chorus, all four of them, and it was glorious, wild and screaming like a free-fall and pulling the crowd in with them, down with them. To hell with coaxing the audience into the feel of a song; Simon demanded their hearts, felt himself backed up by Eric's drums and Matt's wailing guitar, by Kirk's near-magical keyboard and Clary's presence in the crowd. He wanted to laugh because demons were real but in that moment, in that moment Hell's gates couldn't have stood against them, against the force he had at his back and roaring like light out of his throat.

"Drop, that, eight-oh-eight

The walls be, gin, to, shake

It's too much for, the, club, to, take –

It's-shakin'-like-an-earthquake!

"Dev, as, ta, tion from the sounds, I'm, mak, in',

And there's no, escape, ing from the bass – "

"It's-shakin'-like-an-earthquake!" The other three hissed on their own.

Simon smirked and purred into the mike –

"Ten point oh on the rich-ter scale,

Shake-it-like-an-earthquake –

Move your tail!"

They did. Holy Angelina Jolie, did they ever. Lint had this place pounding like a heartbeat, and Simon wanted to laugh, wanted to crow with triumph because they had done this, HE did this, wrote the words and the music to infect the feet of the people who dared listen to them. It infected him, a virus that made him move and a fever that made him howl, fierce and wild and so damned alive.

"It's rumbling, crumbling –

All the way down~
It's tumbling, fumbling,

You love-that-sound~"

He looked for her, found Clary's eyes and she was grinning, half-laughing as she called into her mike, as her voice boomeranged through the club –

"CAN YOU TURN UP THE BASS?"

"Sorry girl I can't hear in this place!"

"I HAVE A REQUEST THAT I'D LIKE TO MAKE!"

Simon smirked. "Well, what you wanna hear girl? Shake-like-an-earthquake?!"

Matt's guitar wailed and they crashed through the chorus like a comet, trailing fire and showering sparks over the upturned faces; Vatican's lights flashed like falling stars, blue-red-gold-pink-white, and Simon slashed his arm down and the others went quiet, almost dead – "Yo! It's not loud enough! Pump up the track!" – just Eric on the drums playing soft and silken for Clary singing alone, right there in the audience.

"Boom, boom, you broke it down you broke it down –

Now build it up, build it up, build it up!"

The crowd went quiet as they realised that the band was focussed on something in their midst, that one of them was singing. They looked for her, but Clary didn't quail even as people started to realise. Simon was so proud, grinned so wide it hurt.
"Boom, boom, you broke it down you broke it down –

So shake it up, shake it up, shake it up!

"Boom, boom, you broke it down you broke it down,

Now break it up, break it up, break it up –

WOOOOOOOO!"

Lint jack-knifed into the chorus again, quick and clean like the cut of a blade – and Simon howled again, his voice braiding with the instruments into a flash of aural lightning, electric and screaming –

"Shake it on dooooown – shake it on dooooown – shake it on dooooown – "

And he fell to one knee with the force of the sound tearing out of him, clutching at the microphone in his hand like a lifeline, the only thing keeping him from going up in flames –

"MOVE YOURSELF WHEN YOU HEAR THAT SOUND!"

The music cut off sharply, the last notes hanging in the air as Simon dared to look up, breathing hard. His heart stuttered as he took in the silence, the graveyard-quiet; Vatican's lights still played over the walls and people, but he couldn't hear a thing. Everyone was just staring.

Oh shit, he thought, panicking, we fucked up – they hated it –

The crowd roared, a crashing wave of sound that nearly knocked Simon over, and he couldn't believe it, forgot to look confident and sexy like a rockstar in favour of just gaping at them all – Jesus Christ in high heels – all of them cheering Lint, screaming approval, and he had never, ever expected this.

It was freaking amazing. Exhilaration swept over him like a shot of coke, a fierce, golden joy that stretched his mouth into a stunned, triumphant grin. He laughed with it, shooting off a two-fingered salute from his temple as he shoved himself up to his feet and spread his arms to take in the whole stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" he shouted, sweeping a bow with the mike in hand. "Millennium Lint!"

They laughed. They cheered. Simon saw Clary whooping in the crowd, and no – not even Hell could stand against this feeling in his chest.

He grinned, and slammed them into the next song.

)0(

When they called break, and Simon stumbled down off the stage soaked in sweat, Clary ran to him and he didn't even think: he picked her up and spun her so that her skirts whirled and her hair trailed like fire.

"Simon!" She shrieked, but not a bad shriek – she was laughing, laughing with him, "Put me down!"

He obliged, grinning, and almost leaned in to kiss her. But he remembered, at the last moment, that despite the ecstatic rush burning through his veins they weren't actually together, and you didn't kiss people without permission. Not unless you were some kind of dick. So he didn't. "You were awesome!" he said instead, letting go of her hips. "With Earthquake, seriously, I don't know what we'd have done without you."

She shook her head, hiding her grin. "You'd have just gotten Eric's cousin," she said dismissively, but he could see that she was pleased.

"Are you kidding?" he asked, pressing his hand to his chest in mock-horror. "Tanya can't sing! I wouldn't let her anywhere near my lyrics!"

She laughed. "You're such a music snob," she said fondly. "You going to come backstage?"

Where there were drinks and snacks waiting, Simon remembered, with a sudden pang of hunger. "In a minute," he promised, turning to look out over the crowd. "Jace said he was going to be here. I want to try and find him before the next half."

Clary's eyebrows shot up. "The Shadowhunter Jace? He's here?"

"With his homicidal boyfriend," Simon said absently, scanning the mass of dancing bodies. "If they actually showed up."

"Gay demon hunters," Clary mused. "Sounds like Supernatural."

"Sam and Dean," he agreed. He imagined Clary turning Jace into a picture, all sweeping lines and razor-sharp angles. But he wondered if even Clary could reduce Jace to something still, something colourless. He couldn't even see Jocelyn capturing Jace's essence in something inanimate.

"Well, I'm going to check in on the others," Clary announced. "Make sure that Eric doesn't suddenly decide you guys need pyrotechnics or something. Don't spend too long looking, you need something to drink before you go back on."

He must have said something affirmative, because when he looked again she was already disappearing, a blue monarch butterfly in the half-light. And she was right, he really shouldn't linger too long, he needed fluids and sugar for take two, so Simon glanced out over the club with every intention of following on Clary's heels –

And paused. His eyes caught on a familiar outline, the shape of a body he thought he recognised; lights flashed blue-white-red over a young man's face looking his way and it wasn't – no way could it be –

"Looking for me?"

Simon blinked, and the dark-haired figure was gone. "Sorry?"

He turned, and felt a twist of something nervous and hot at the sight of Jace standing so completely at ease on the edge of the crowd, Alec and Isabelle to either side of him, hands in his pockets as if there was nothing unusual about his being in a mundane club. Before he could stop himself Simon's gaze flicked down and back up, taking in the black button-up shirt and the blue jeans, the glint of silver at Jace's belt and wrists – and when he raised his eyes it was just a beat before Jace finished making the same sweep.

Jace smirked, and Simon's gut tightened.

"Us," Isabelle corrected, swatting Jace lightly upside the back of his head, which, as well as being amusing, broke Jace's expression into one of annoyance and let Simon breathe again. "Simon invited us too – didn't you, Simon?" She was wearing the same ruby necklace she'd been wearing at Pandemonium; it shone like a bloody star against her throat, blazing against a slinky black halter-top. It took Simon a second to realise that her gold belt was actually her whip, coiled snugly around her hips.

"I still don't know why we accepted," Alec muttered, low enough that Simon was surprised it was audible over the music. The jolt he felt at the sight of Alec was not nearly as pleasant as the one Jace elicited; he felt the memory of that crushing pain in his throat, the scream he hadn't been able to scream caught in his burning lungs. But Alec didn't look dangerous now. He looked strangely vulnerable in a pair of worn jeans and a dark blue t-shirt, like he didn't know what to do with himself if he wasn't hunting demons, and his eyes looked at everything but Simon. He looked – guilty. Ashamed.

And angry, when he caught Simon looking. "What are you staring at?" he snapped.

Simon held up his hands placatingly. "Nothing, sorry." He felt a ribbon of heat and guilt curl around his throat, remembering the night before – Jace's voice breathless and hoarse in his ear, almost panting as Simon, Simon told him...

I really do have to apologise.

"Do you guys want to come backstage?" he offered. "It's kind of loud out here – and I need to get ready for the next half."

"Yes!" Isabelle grinned, sweeping forward and hooking Simon's arm with hers. "I've never seen a mundane band before! I want to see everything!"

"U-um, okay?" Simon managed, a little overwhelmed by having a very beautiful girl suddenly grab him. He wondered if it was a Shadowhunter thing, being so good-looking – Isabelle with her long dark hair and Amazonian body, Alec's classically perfect face, and Jace, well –

Is TAKEN.

Simon took a breath, and pretended he was still on the stage. It was just another kind of performance. "Allow me," he said grandly, and Isabelle played along with a laugh, allowing Simon to sweep her up the steps to the stage, the two boys presumably tagging along after them.

"What's it like?" Isabelle asked as they crossed the stage, putting her lips close to Simon's ear to be heard over the music. "Singing like that?"

"It's amazing," Simon said enthusiastically, forgetting to be flustered, and he was still trying to accurately put into words the rush of seeing people love your music when they reached the sound-proofed space behind the stage.

"We were about to send out a search party – " Eric began – and then did a double-take. "And who is this lovely lady?"

Releasing Isabelle's arm, Simon swept a bow, gesturing towards his band. "Isabelle Lightwood, may I introduce you to Eric Reynolds, our drummer; Matt Wheeler, electric guitar; and Kirk Bates, the man with the magic fingers."

Isabelle pinched the skirts of an imaginary dress and curtsied. "Charmed," she declared.

"Forgetting someone, are we?" Jace asked from behind him.

"My apologies," Simon grinned. "Alec Lightwood, Jace Wayland, meet Millennium Lint."

Alec looked distinctly uncharmed, but Jace was taking everything in as though he might be expected to do battle in the space, and needed to memorise the layout for tactical purposes.

"But who are they?" Matt asked, lounging on a stool and taking a bite out of a doughnut from the snack table.

Simon hesitated. He hadn't thought this far ahead. "Just friends," he said vaguely.

"We're hanging out with Simon later," Isabelle interjected smoothly, "and we thought we'd come see the show." She beamed at Matt. "You're very good, by the way."

A chorus of mingled thanks and mockery – mostly Kirk ragging on Matt's 'flailing hands' – rang out, and Simon left them to it, moving to the snack table to grab one of the bottles of water. Warm water was best for a singer's throat, preferably with something like lemon or honey in it; cold water was absolutely forbidden if he was going to be singing, especially if there would be 'screamer' songs. Room temperature was fine, and helloooooo inane babble.

At least it was all internal this time.

He raised the bottle to his lips and almost wished it was something stronger.

Clary slipped into the room, putting her phone away – her mom must have called – and Simon took the opportunity to call her over. "Clary, these are Isabelle, Alec, and Jace," he said, pointing to each of them in turn, watching her eyes narrow intently, with that sharp focus he recognised as her desire for her sketchpad. "You three, this amazing woman is Clarissa Lewis, without whom we would still be a badly-dressed basement band."

Clary smiled – a little warily, Simon thought – and stepped forward to offer her hand. "Hey! Simon's told me a lot about you."

Alec frowned at her like she was a magic trick he was trying to unravel; Isabelle waved from where she sat over by Eric. But it was Jace Clary had gone up to, Jace whom she had narrowed in on, and Simon wondered if that was because Jace was the most striking or if it was because of the way Simon had talked about him.

Jace smiled. It was beautiful the way a knife is beautiful. "Really? He didn't mention you at all." He made no move to accept her hand; instead, without moving anything but his eyes, he managed to dismiss her entirely. "Simon, if you would?"

Simon watched Clary's face fall, not into surprised hurt but into anger. That was his girl. "Well, I would, but as a feminist I believe that women do not need guys to punch rude guys in the face for them," he told Jace mock-apologetically. "I firmly believe they can do it themselves."

Jace stared at him blankly; Clary snorted a laugh. "I'm not going to punch him."

"Are you sure? Because it has long been a dream of mine to see you knock someone out." Simon put the bottle back on the table and shrugged out of his jacket. With the club packed full of bodies, it was too hot out there on the stage for extra layers. "It's not you I want to talk to right now, anyway," he told Jace, without looking at him. He didn't want to think about Valentine now, and that was what Jace meant, wasn't it? "Alec?"

Alec blinked. He had very pretty blue eyes, Simon realised, when they weren't shining with hate. Now they were surprised, and a little wary. "What?"

"Can I talk to you for a sec?" Simon glanced at Clary, who had moved over to talk to Isabelle without a backwards glance at any of the guys, holding her head high. He suppressed a grin, preferring the amusement and pride to the sick knot of nerves in the pit of his stomach.

"I...suppose?" Alec looked at Jace uncertainly; the blond's expression was a stony mask. "All right."

More calmly than he felt, Simon led Alec into a corner, feeling like a death row inmate walking to his execution. Which would be ridiculously overdramatic, if Alec hadn't nearly killed him two days ago.

He steeled himself.

"What is this about?" Alec asked lowly. "I said I was sorry about – about the other day."

There were hints of the stricken guilt Simon remembered from the aftermath around Alec's eyes – but there was something harder, too, something brittle and sore that made Simon wonder just how sorry he really was. "Actually, no," Simon said quietly. "That's not – I wanted to apologise. I think there were a lot of mixed signals going around, and I only had a little bit of the picture – what I'm trying to say is, I'm sorry for maybe-sorta getting in between you and Jace. I honestly had no idea about you two."

Alec's face snapped from one shock to the next like a ball in a pinball machine. "What in Raziel's name are you talking about?" he demanded, dropping his voice to a hiss.

Yeah, Simon hated the Clave already. "I know about you two," he said softly, trying not to let any sympathy or pity into his voice. He had a feeling that would make Alec take another swing at him. "But it's fine," he added hurriedly. "I swear, I'm not going to tell anyone. I'd never out someone – not even you," he said jokingly. Which was a weird feeling, joking about the time a guy almost killed you. Simon was having all kinds of new experiences lately.

He felt the smile fade, and turned serious again. "I'm not going to make any kind of move on him, okay? I know he's yours. So – can we not hate each other anymore?"

Alec reeled back, a wild panic flaring around his eyes and Simon, shit, he had not meant to scare him, even Alec didn't deserve that, but just then one of the club manager's people poked their head around the door and yelled "Five minutes, guys!" and Simon didn't have time.

"I'm not going to tell!" he whispered helplessly, and paused just long enough to see Alec's fear ease a little – a tiny bit – before Simon jogged back to his band to whip them ready.

Clary turned and smiled at him, and Simon remembered that in half an hour he'd be singing Crush, and this was all too much to deal with in a single night.

)0(

The Shadowhunters went back to the dancefloor when Lint headed back to the stage. Simon's grip on his bass was sweaty. He strummed a chord, his heart pounding.

"You ready for this?" Kirk asked, walking past on his way to his place.

"Not even close," Simon answered, pasting a manically cheery smile on his face. Kirk snorted and kept walking.

The music settled him, though, the way it always did. Sometimes he used only his voice, and sometimes his fingers ran his guitar pick over the strings alongside the lyrics, the sound of his bass braiding through and over and beneath the words like weaving on a loom. Both soothed him, eased the fluttering fear so he could slip free of his skin and forget about shame, embarrassment, self-consciousness. He laughed into the mike, purred and growled, playful and heated, stalked the stage like a hunting ground, and the club's enthusiasm had not doused over the break. Lint had them dancing like maenads until Simon had to resist the urge to channel Hocus Pocus's Winifred and cackle "Dance! Dance till you dieeeeee!"

Because that would be weird. And not in a cool rockstar way, either.

But then the clock struck twelve, and reality smacked him in the face because now – now was the moment.

He glanced at his bandmates in the pause between songs, saw smiles and thumb-ups and encouragement. He looked for Clary and found her, and it was a lump of steel in his gut, her presence – or maybe just the fear, the fear of what he was about to, what he'd spent ten years not doing. He'd promised not to out Alec but this was outing himself, and far more terrifying than announcing that actually, he liked guys too. He'd rather admit that to Clary than sing this next song.

He tightened his grip on the mike. He was still going to sing it, though. Because he'd meant what he'd told Eric. Because Jocelyn was missing, and the world had turned out to be even more freaking terrifying than it already was, and Clary mattered.

He thought, weirdly, of Jace. Of how Shadowhunters got up every morning and risked their lives to kill demons and monsters. Maybe it was insane, but it was also incredible, and brave, and Simon might not want to be a demon hunter, but he wouldn't turn down being incredible and brave.

Responding to some unconscious signal – maybe the relaxing of Simon's shoulders – Kirk began to play.

Simon took a breath, and sang.

"I hung up the phone tonight,
Something happened for the first time,
Deep inside.
It was a rush.
What a rush.
'Cause the possibility
That you would ever feel the same way
About me...
It's just too much.
Just too much."

He looked for Clary and found her. Her hair and dress shone. The club had hushed, the crowd responding to the slower, gentler music, to his voice gone soft and heartfelt.

"Why do I keep running from the truth?
All I ever think about is you.
You got me hypnotized,
So mesmerized,
And I've just got to know –"

His stomach roiled with adrenalin-nausea, and he felt like laughing, like crying, torn in two and all he could do, the only thing he could do was to keep singing, to let this crazy, insane, heart-stopping thing out of him at last –

"Do you ever think,
When you're all alone,
All that we could be?
Where this thing could go?
Am I crazy or falling in love?
Is it real or just another crush?
Do you catch a breath,
When I look at you?
Are you holding back,
Like the way I do?
'Cause I'm trying, trying to walk away.
But I know this crush ain't going away~
Going away~"

People were gently waving back and forth, now, or slow dancing with each other. The frenzied energy had gone out of the room, but no one seemed to be complaining. Simon barely noticed; he swallowed hard, his mouth gone dry, and Clary was smiling and swaying, someone in charge of the lights had turned things white and blue and soft, and – was she smiling at him? For him? For them?

"Has it ever crossed your mind
When we're hanging,
Spending time, girl, are we just friends?
Is there more?
Is there more?"

Please let there be more. Let there be more nights with Clary's arm wrapped around his waist; let there be more laughter; let her say she felt the same.

"See it's a chance we've gotta take,
'Cause I believe that we can make this
Into something that'll last,
Last –"

Christ, teenagers weren't supposed to say it, but he wanted to, he meant it and he wanted it –

" – forever," he sang, and damn being afraid, damn all of it – he'd killed a Forsaken and run over bad guys and, and he was brave; he sang it loudly, proudly, fiercely, calling it out so that the one word filled up everything, all the space and all their hearts, "Forever~"

Kirk carried them over into the chorus, and Simon gave it everything – every second of the last ten years, all the jokes and smiles and midnight feasts, all the movie marathons and the Pokémon battles; every time Clary had swept the hair out of her eyes and he'd longed to do it for her, every time she'd walked into a room being stupidly beautiful and knocked him breathless, every time she'd made him lie still and quiet to draw him. What it felt like, having all of Clary's focus, all of her intensity, lasered in on you alone; how precious and proud it made him feel, to have earned that attention from her. He sang the jump in his heart when she called him Batman and the ache when he saw her crying, and how hard it was not to hold her, every second of every day, because he never wanted to let her go.

He'd practised this song a thousand times, which was the only reason he managed to finish; he did so automatically, like muscle memory, letting the song trail gently away as the others softly brought the music to a close. Simon realised he was shaking, and made himself stop.

There was applause, but Simon barely heard it. Eric stepped up to announce the end of their performance, to say goodnight on Millennium's behalf, but Simon paid no attention. He felt hollow and weak, as if some vital support structure had been take away – as if someone had removed his skeleton. Some core part of him had been taken out and shown to the world, something raw and vulnerable, and the only important thing, suddenly, was knowing what Clary thought of it.

He abandoned Eric, Matt, Kirk; forgot his bass on its stand. There was a fiery fish-hook embedded in his ribcage, pulling him down the steps from the stage to the main floor. Pulling him hard; he stumbled on the last step, and someone caught him.

"Here, you're a Shadowhunter, ain't cha?"

"What?" Simon was already withdrawing his arm, looking for Clary's red hair.

A green finger jabbed at his arm, and Simon did a double-take, looking up into a green hawkish face with an octopus-like beak. "That there's a rune, ain't it? Or was," the strange personage allowed.

Simon glanced down. Sure enough, the silvery scar from the invisibility rune at Dorothea's was visible on his forearm. "Um. Yes?" he said weakly.

A DJ started up the music again. It was hard to tell if the creature was smiling, because Simon didn't know how a beak looked when it was smiling. But the green person looked pleased. "Right then." S/he extended a black-and-gilt card, which Simon took gingerly. "Y'all should come perform."

Simon couldn't make out the writing on the card, not with the club's strobe lights. "Um, I feel like I should point out that I'm the only Shadowhunter? I mean – the others, they're all mundanes." He had no idea what was going on, but if this person wanted a Shadowhunter, it seemed a safe bet that normal mundanes were not going to be able to handle it.

But the creature waved her/his hand – s/he only had four fingers – dismissively. "We'll spell 'em to think t'was all a dream, lovie, no fear. Won't hurt 'em none. I'll see y'all there!"

"Wait!" Simon protested. "What exactly are you – " But with a maybe-smile and a cheerful wave, the personage was gone.

Simon was still peering at the card, trying to make out the glittery text on it, when Clary's voice broke through his reverie. "What's that?"

He looked up at her and just – just forgot how to breathe. The bizarre interlude with the beaked person had distracted him, but now Clary was here, standing in front of him and smiling, and holy smokes, Batman – he'd sung it. She knew.

"I don't actually know," he said hoarsely. "Some – person just came up and gave it to me. I think they liked the band." He shoved it in his pocket. There were baby pterodactyls in his stomach, so that he didn't even try to sound casual when he asked "Did you like the song?"

She was smiling. That was a good sign, wasn't it?

"It's great," she answered, and Simon's heart leapt into his throat and fingertips, his mouth was a desert, his hair ached. "Whoever you sang it for – she's really lucky, Simon."

For a second, it simply didn't process. The words ran round and round his head as uselessly as fragments of a dead language.

"It – it was for you," he said, swallowing. Confused, more than anything else; a numb, cool kind of bafflement, because how could she not realise, not know?

He saw his own puzzlement in Clary's face. For a second that was all there was, like a flower caught in crystal – still and eternal, for just one second, and Simon's breath caught in his chest.

And then she bit her lip, and her expression morphed into something – something guilty and a little panicked, and that was it, game over, crash and burn, BOOM, baby!

"Simon," she pleaded as he stepped away, "Simon, wait a second," but he really, really didn't want to. He didn't want to hear it, didn't want to talk about it; he wasn't mad, didn't blame her, not even seconds after this crushing lead weight had been dropped on his chest, but – he didn't want to talk.

He shoved his way blindly through the crowd; the pull to Clary had turned into a push, two magnets pressed together South to South and now propelled apart. Strangers recognised him, shouted incomprehensible greetings over the music and offers of drinks. Simon smiled and shook his head and didn't even try to speak. His lungs were full of stone.

He found one of the service entrances and pushed it open, ignoring the warning that declared it linked to the fire alarm. Sure enough no sirens rang out, and he closed it behind him, carefully, conscientiously, and then he was standing in the lot behind Vatican where vans and trucks delivered snacks and alcohol and he did not know what he was doing.

He sat down on the cement steps and put his hands in his hair. He felt crushed – not depressed, burst-into-tears crushed, but literally bent and broken under some huge weight pressing on his chest, something that snapped his ribs like twigs and drove a shard of bone into his heart. Beneath that he was numb. He was not crying. It didn't occur to him that he should be. It didn't occur to him that tears would help.

It felt like hours but was, the logical, dispassionate part of him noted, probably only minutes later that he heard the door open behind him. Something leapt inside him, sparking excited warmth through the numb cold – but when he turned to look it wasn't Clary, but Jace, standing still and silent in the doorway, his face unreadable.

Disappointed, Simon looked straight ahead again, resting his forearms on his thighs because clutching his hair seemed pathetic with an audience.

Noiselessly, Jace came and sat beside him on the steps. He didn't come close enough that Simon would feel guilty about Alec, didn't try to touch Simon at all, just wordlessly reached into his pocket, pulled out a little roll of black velvet, and held it out to Simon.

Simon took it, instantly feeling that there was something solid and hard beneath the soft fabric. The velvet whispered against his fingertips as he unwrapped it, and the moment he touched the thing – a half-instant before he saw it – he recognised it.

"Simiel," he murmured, spilling it into his hand – and it snapped out as he closed his fingers around it, sharp and deadly like the pain in his chest. Except that it didn't feel terminal, with the crystal hilt smooth and cool against his palm. The little blade felt like a breath of fresh air and reason: nobody ever died of heartbreak. This was bad now, but not as bad as standing his ground against the Ravener, not as bad as his mom being missing. And...

This, too, will pass.

"Thanks," he said quietly.

"It belongs to you." Jace didn't look at him, but there was an intensity to his voice that Simon didn't know what to do with. "Alec had no right to take it."

"I thought I was supposed to give it back." Simon – did something, willed it so, and the blade snicked back into the hilt, once more just a silvery dowel. "I thought you'd only lent it to me."

In the corner of his eye, Jace shook his head. "It's yours," he said again.

Simon nodded absently. "Can I – I'd like to be alone for a while," he said lamely.

"All right." Without protest, Jace unfolded to his feet. "Don't pout too long," he added lightly. "There's always more girls. More fish in the sea, isn't that what you mundanes say?"

There's always more girls.

"Go away, Jace," Simon said tiredly. He couldn't even find it in himself to be angry.

He didn't watch as Jace left.

Some time later his phone vibrated in his pocket. Simon ignored it. But by the third ignored text he was self-aware enough to realise he was acting pathetically, stupidly like a dumb teenager, and he pulled out his mobile. All three texts were from Clary. The first two were apologies-cum-pleas to talk; the third wanted to know if he was coming back, or if Eric should take Simon's bass home with him.

Tell him 2 take it, Simon answered. +, no sorries. No1's fault.

U coming home wit us? She sent back a moment later.

Simon thought of sleeping in the same room as Clary after this. Then he wondered whether he had any other options, because teenage pique and angst was all very well, until you said 'no' to your only refuge and ended up staying awake all night in some 24 hour cafe that served breakfast at midnight with truly atrocious coffee.

Don't no. When u guys leaving?

Not 4 a while. Eric talking wit the manager + Matt found a girl. !

Despite the flicker of jealousy, Simon laughed at that exclamation mark. Then I'll let u no?

Kk. x

Simon stared at the little x for minutes before he put his phone away.

He was playing with Simiel, tossing the crystal tube from hand to hand mindlessly when the door creaked open again behind him.

"Jace says you've sulked long enough and it's time to go," Isabelle declared. Her stiletto boots clicked on the concrete as she walked over to him. "And by the way – "

She did not suddenly tense – Simon had the unexpected thought that freezing up was a bad way for a warrior to react to surprises – but he felt her playfulness change into something sharp and shocked.

"Where did you get that?" she demanded.

He glanced up at her, wary after Alec's reaction to the seraph blade the other day. But unlike her brother Isabelle looked more incredulous than angry, so he answered simply, "Jace."

Isabelle's eyes narrowed, and she dropped onto the step beside him. "I think I'd rather you'd stolen it," she said darkly. "Tell me everything."

It was not a request. It was also a distraction from pretty much everything, so Simon obeyed her, quickly running down how Jace had handed him the blade outside Simon's home. When he told her its name, she twitched.

"I'm going to take a wild guess," she said to no one in particular when he'd finished, "and say that Jace didn't tell you what it meant."

"What what meant?"

Isabelle bit her lip. For a moment Simon was reminded sharply of his mother, and of Clary. "I don't know if I should tell you." She did not say it the way another teenage girl would; she wasn't being coy, wasn't not-so-secretly eager to spill all the gossip. Her voice was wary, the voice of someone facing down an unknown threat.

Remembering Alec, Simon was very sure he did not want Isabelle to decide he was a threat. But "Alec nearly killed me over it," he said, more harshly than he'd meant (although really, how gentle was it possible to be, saying those words?) "At the Institute. When he found out I had it. If that's going to be a common reaction then I'd like to know so I can stop flashing it around."

Disturbingly, Isabelle did not seem surprised to hear of her brother's reaction. The wary twist of her mouth became tinged with something unhappy.

"Seraph blades are really important to Shadowhunters," she said quietly. "In the really old days, you weren't counted a Shadowhunter at all until you killed a demon or rogue Downworlder with a seraph blade. And once you did – do – once you've used a seraph blade to kill, it's yours. Bonded to you. Forever. No one else can touch it – unless you forge phaskō with them."

"Pha-what?"

"It means 'bond'. There's just three bonds that allow for sharing – or gifting – a seraph blade. Ready?

" 'Halikaskō for duty to Clave and Crown,

Daiosaskō for when blood is raining down,

Armaskō to win a wedding gown.'

"They're all different. Halikaskō– we don't have kings anymore, of course, but it's the bond between us and the Clave. Or, between all of us, really. It's the phaskōbetween us and our teachers, who give us our first seraph blades; it's what allows us to request new ones from any Institute in the world, whenever we need to restock." Isabelle shot him a sharp look. "Halikaskōis for unnamed, unbonded blades.

"Daiosaskō is the battle-bond. It means we can lend our seraph blades to each other while in a fight; if someone is unarmed, anyone else can toss them a seraph sword. It's for named, bonded blades, and after the fight you have to give them back, if the original wielder is still alive.

"Aaaand..."

"My heart is sinking already," Simon told the steps.

Isabelle looked grim. "And, armaskō. Which is for named, unbonded blades. And they're not returned, because an armaskō blade is a gift to a lover."

Simon blinked. "Say that again," he ordered. "I thought you said - just say it again."

"Or, you know, a loved one," Isabelle added sweetly. "I could give one to Alec."

"I'm not Jace's brother," Simon snapped. "Or his lover," he added when Isabelle's eyes widened, as if that had been an accidental confession. "I mean – Jesus, how does that even work?"

"Well, when daddy loves papa very much –"

"I meant the armas-thing," Simon snapped.

Isabelle sighed. "It's an old, old tradition," she said slowly. "Doesn't get used much anymore, even though it's so romantic." She said this somewhat sarcastically. "You name an unbonded blade, something as close to the name of your One True Love as possible – "

Simiel, Simon thought, sick dread pooling in his stomach. Simon. Simiel – Simon. Jesus Christ Superstar.

" - and then you give it to them." She paused. "And then you get married."

---

NOTES

The songs Millennium Lint sing in this chapter are;

Earthquake – Family Force 5

Crush – David Archuleta

References;

Benn Grimm is the real name of the Thing, a member of the Fantastic Four.

Terra is a character from the tv show Teen Titans. Which is awesome.