Chapter One
Awaken the Night
Had anyone glanced up at just that moment, they would have seen the quick, darting forms of two flying shadows soaring from one rooftop to the next.
Clary dropped onto the lower roof and fell seamlessly into a perfect roll, springing up to her feet again before Simon had even landed. She heard him hit the tiles behind her but didn't stop to watch; she sprung ahead with a two-handed vault over a chimney stack, her legs scissoring wide and then snapping together as she landed at a run. The wind tugged at her ponytail, and she could feel Simon catch up to her, his long legs eating up the distance until they were side-by-side again, the way they were meant to be, as synchronised as heartbeats.
The roof ended and they flew again, taking off hard with practised leaps. Clary tucked her legs in under her as Simon front-flipped forward, showing off; he turned head-over-heels twice and landed on his feet on the other side, only just touching down before dissolving into a perfect Parkour roll to absorb the impact, right shoulder to left hip and snapping upright again. Clary's palms touched down first, slapping against the concrete; she pushed off from it and front-flipped, twisting mid-air and landing lightly on the soles of her sneakers, cat-like, elastic.
Ahead of her, Simon kicked off the ground and up into the air, corkscrewing his body parallel with the ground as he passed over a low wall, arms by his sides. With a laugh, Clary precision-jumped, springing with both legs together and landing on top of the wall. She used the momentum to keep going, immediately leaping again down onto the level and running after her boyfriend. He was a few yards in the lead now, pulling a wall pass; he ran vertically up the next wall, snatching at the top of it to haul himself over and out of her sight, smooth as Spiderman.
I don't think so!
Her sneakers slapped against the ground as she pushed off, launching herself upwards after him as if she were winged. Her fingers found the ledge and she turned it into a forward roll, unfolding cat-like to her feet. Simon was already halfway across the level by then, gearing up to drop back down.
He never saw her coming.
She tackled him, hard; his breath whooshed from his chest as they hit the concrete together, tumbling over and under each other in a blurring whirl of thrilling gravity. She heard him laugh right before she caught his shoulders and shoved them down, pinning him flat against the ground.
Simon melted; the moment she pushed he turned boneless, unresisting, and it sent bright heat searing down Clary's spine, feeling him give himself up to her without hesitation. A purr caught in her throat, and she watched his pupils grow swollen as she stroked her hands down his arms, skimming her nails lightly over his tawny skin until he shivered.
"Clary…"
"Mm?" She closed her hands around his wrists, firmly, and smirked at the soft, helpless sound he made.
"Please kiss me," he pleaded, and she purred outright, leaning forward to bring her mouth over his.
"Begging already," she breathed, smug. "Are you all wound up, Simon?" She kissed the corner of his lips, lightly, softly. Revelling in the needy whimper that spilled out of his throat. "Thinking about tonight?"
He groaned softly, tipping his head back helplessly. She didn't need him to answer—straddling his hips, she could feel his growing hardness—but she wanted to hear him say it. Wanted to know he was thinking about it, unable to get it out of his mind.
She rolled her hips against his, gently grinding his arousal against her ache. Briefly letting go of his wrists, she pulled the hairband from her ponytail, shaking her black hair so that it tumbled down around her shoulders.
"Yes!" Simon gasped, "Yes, of course I am—I haven't thought about anything else for days—"
"What a coincidence," Clary murmured. "Neither have I." Abruptly she caught and pushed his hands above his head, holding them there; the effort arched her body over his, curving her spine, and she nuzzled his jaw, dragging her teeth over the bone. Her hair fell around them like a curtain, mingling with his own dark chocolate tresses, and Simon groaned as it brushed his cheek.
"Oh God," he whispered, biting his lip.
She purred and nipped his neck, trailing her lips down to his pulse. The scent of him—it drove her unutterably insane, a perfume that demanded she seek its source, kiss and bite and taste it, mark it. She'd long since found the exact spot on his throat that emanated the maddening, delicious aroma, the curve where his neck met his shoulder, and it was a rare day when that particular inch of skin wasn't mottled blue and violet from her teeth. It called to her, again and again, with that scent that grew stronger the faster Simon's heart pounded; like woodsmoke and fresh-cut grass and baking cookies, vanilla and coconut and autumn leaves, and nothing like any of them. Nothing got her hotter faster than breathing it in.
No one else smelled like Simon. Every other guy she'd ever met smelled like plastic and sweat and whatever they'd had for lunch—but beneath that there was nothing; they had no scent of their own, as if they weren't real. Her dad and Luke and Simon were the only ones who smelled real—and of them, only Simon drew her in like this.
She licked his scent-spot, and felt him swallow hard. "Have you been imagining it, Simon?" She rolled her hips harder over him, grinding his arousal right where she wanted it—and he whined, pushing up into her desperately because he could feel it, couldn't he, the slick heat of her spread open right over his cock, only their thin sweats keeping skin from skin— "What it'll feel like when I sink down onto you, take you into me?"
"Yes," he whispered.
She leaned up and kissed him hard in reward. His lips opened under hers, welcoming her in eagerly, his tongue pleading for hers. She slid into him, stroking his mouth until he was trembling under her, every muscle taut with the need to touch her.
That he couldn't—because she held him down, because he let her—set her blood on fire.
"Maybe you shouldn't be looking forward to it," she murmured against his mouth. Deliberately squirming over his hips—he moaned, the sound almost one of pain—she adjusted her grip on his wrists so she was holding him down one-handed. "I haven't decided yet if I'm going to let you touch me." She slid her freed hand down his chest, thumbing his nipple through his thin workout shirt. "Imagine that for me, pet: your hands tied behind your back while I ride you. Having to watch me, feel me, but unable to touch me as I use you…"
He moaned, straining against her hold—but not hard enough to break free; only enough to feel the pressure of her holding him down. "You'd kill me," he gasped, breathing so fast, so hard, that maddening scent spilling from his throat. "Oh God, I couldn't take it—I'd go insane—"
Clary paused, pretending to consider. "You're right," she decided. And smirked, nipping Simon's lower lip gently. "I should blindfold you too."
Simon whimpered, a sweetness that jolted straight down between Clary's legs and smouldered there, molten and wet.
"You can picture it, can't you?" she breathed, brushing her lips over his ear. Her fingertips stroked a line over his hipbones—and slid under the waistband of her sweats.
He jerked, panting, shivering, his pupils blown. "Are you—?"
"Mmhm."
His head fell back. "Fuck."
"Picture it, Simon," she murmured, and he whimpered again as she stroked herself, the fabric of their trousers so thin her knuckles pressed and rolled against his cock with every minute movement. "If you couldn't touch me, couldn't see me—if all you could do was feel me take you, bit by bit until I had all of you in me…" She was so wet; she shifted a little, pressing the bulk of his arousal against the throbbing ache, torturing herself as well as him. She ground against it, panting herself now, her fingers moving faster over her clit as she pictured it. She could almost feel what it would be like—the desperate, needy sounds Simon would make, not so different from the ones he was making now, but with the added pleasure of finally fucking him, finally filling that hungry warm ache— "Feeling me start to ride you, so slowly—using you, and you'd feel so good in me, Simon, make me feel so good—"
She kissed his cheek. "You want to make me feel good, don't you?" she breathed, rocking against him.
"Yes," he gasped, "God, yes, Clary, Clary—" He was almost, almost sobbing, breathless and incredible and hers, hers to the bone. "Anything, anything you want—"
"Good boy," she moaned, panting, nuzzling his jaw, "such a good boy, Simon—so good, all mine—"
She fell against his mouth as she came, kissing him hard and messy, tasting his frantic need as she rocked, shuddering with the diamond-lightning flash of her orgasm. She let go of his wrists and his arms came up around her, holding her, stroking her through it and he was kissing her, kissing and kissing her, her good boy, her Simon.
"I love you," she sighed as the aftershocks rippled through her. She snuggled into his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin. "Gods, I love you so fucking much."
"I love you too," he whispered. She felt him kiss her hair. He was still breathing hard, his cock a delicious hardness against her lower belly. "More than anything."
Lazily, Clary nuzzled his scent-spot. Licked it. He shuddered. "Do you want to come?" she murmured.
He trembled against her. "Yes," he whispered.
She shifted against him, raising herself up. With a single fingertip, she tipped his face up to hers. "Then beg me for it," she breathed against his lips.
He did.
)0(
When they had both recovered, they made their way back to the Fray residence over the rooftops, taking it easier than they had on the outward journey. There was no need to push muscles still a little soft and rubbery from the afterglow.
Joscelin was standing in Clary's room when she swung down through the window, staring at his watch. "What time do you call this?"
Clary landed in a crouch and rolled out of the way, making room for Simon to swing in after her. "It's not nine yet," she protested.
Simon straightened up beside her. "Hi Mr Fray," he said shyly.
Joscelin rolled his eyes—Simon's refusal to use Joscelin's first name was a long-running argument. "Good morning, Simon." He returned his attention to Clary. "That route is supposed to take you thirty minutes. You've been gone over an hour. If you're slacking—"
Clary raised one eyebrow. "Dad, no."
He stopped mid-rant. "Excuse me?"
"We weren't slacking." She grinned. "We just stopped for…bagels."
"Bagels?"
Clary nodded mock-solemnly. "Yes. Bagels."
Joscelin glanced from his daughter's innocence to Simon's blush. "I'm sure," he said dryly. "I hope you used protection for your bagels, at least."
Simon's flush worsened.
"Yep," Clary said cheerfully. "We had napkins and everything."
Simon looked as if he were in danger of choking.
Joscelin sighed and waved his hand, dismissing them. "Fine, fine. But tomorrow, stick to your time, okay? I don't want you getting soft."
Clary touched two fingers to her temple and saluted him. "Sir, yes sir!"
Her father rolled his eyes again and headed for the door. "Both of you get cleaned up and ready for Trig," he said over his shoulder.
"Trig on my birthday?" Clary demanded. "That's just cruel and unusual punishment!"
"And separate showers!" Joscelin called. "You can use mine, Lewis!"
Clary grinned and pecked her boyfriend on the lips. "You heard the man, dear," she said. "Get to it."
She didn't have to look to know that he watched her leave. The play on the rooftop had taken the edge off, but they were both hungry for tonight.
)0(
"Morning, kiddo," Luke said when Clary emerged from her bedroom. "You want coffee?"
"When in my life have I ever turned down caffeine?" she asked the ceiling, dropping down into her usual chair. Simon already had his books open, frowning adorably as his pencil moved over the page, muttering to himself under his breath.
"You're seventeen now; who knows what strange thing you'll try next?" Luke set her mug down beside her. "Happy birthday, sweetheart."
"Thanks." She kissed his scruffy cheek, inhaling his familiar scent. "Shouldn't you be at the store by now, though?"
Luke glanced over at Joscelin, grinning. "I would have been, but somebody kept me up late last night."
Joscelin ducked his head, blushing almost as badly as Simon would have done. It never stopped being hilarious that her father, who was stoic on every other topic, grew so flustered about sex.
"Don't complain—if he were gone your dad would have to make breakfast," Simon said without looking up. He ducked Joscelin's playful swipe without needing to see it.
"Ungrateful wretches," Joscelin declared, heading for the coffee machine. "I wash my hands of all of you."
Laughing, Luke darted over and caught Joscelin by the waist, spinning them back-to-chest. "Not all of us, I hope," he teased in a low murmur, dropping a kiss on his lover's neck.
Joscelin muttered something Clary couldn't hear, his dark skin helping to hide his blush. Clary grinned, dropping her eyes to give them a modicum of privacy.
She couldn't remember a time her father's petrichor-cedarwood-bamboo scent hadn't carried traces of Luke's old books-steel-coffee smell, and vice versa. For as long as she had memory Luke had been her second father, there on her first day of school (and her last), there to take her to the zoo and the library and put band-aids on her scrapes. She had thought that everyone's second parent went away at bedtime after reading the night's story, and came back the next day to cook breakfast.
She hadn't understood that Luke wasn't actually related to her until Joscelin explained, but even a seven year old couldn't miss what her dad and Luke meant to each other. She'd known that long before Joscelin extended his boyfriend a permanent invitation to stay the night.
'I'm seven, not stupid!' she'd announced at the time, to Joscelin's bemusement and Luke's laughter.
She still wasn't stupid, could still see that they fit perfectly together. Her dad had a swimmer's build, his muscles toned without mass, lithe and slender, with terra-cotta skin and the most incredible hair, black as night and fine as silk, that he kept forgetting to cut. Luke was more muscular, taller, his skin a few shades lighter and his dark hair cut shorter than Joscelin's, his jaw stubbled where Joscelin was always smooth-shaven, and on the bad days—the days when Clary's father had white knuckles and white lips and dark eyes, his shoulders hard and tense as wood—Luke was the only one who could make him laugh again.
But today wasn't one of the bad days. Today there were pancakes, and her dads kissing over coffee, and annoying Trigonometry. There was Simon's bare foot pressed against hers, and the shadow of her teeth just visible over the neck of his shirt, and the warm, fizzing anticipation of the coming night. How was she supposed to focus on her exercises when all she could think about was what Simon would look like, sound like, feel like when they finally went all the way?
Luke left to tend to his book store, promising to be back for the birthday celebrations. Joscelin sat down at the table with Clary and Simon, helping them when they needed or asked for it, wandering into the spare room that had become the studio when they didn't.
Time crawled until noon, when the doorbell rang.
"I'll get it!" Clary sang, springing up from her chair all too eagerly—only for Joscelin to point her back down in her seat.
"Finish your exercise," he ordered, walking towards the door himself. But he smiled as he touched the doorknob. "Get all the answers, and it can be the last for today."
"Do we have to get answers, or the right answers?" Simon asked.
"Don't be smart, Lewis," Joscelin tossed over his shoulder.
"But I thought that was the point?"
Bent over her book, Clary knew who had arrived by the scent that came breezing into the apartment with the sound of the opening door. Simon's mom was confusing, caught in the middle of the Venn diagram that existed in Clary's head, dividing 'the world' from 'family'; her scent was mostly blank, the same disturbing nothingness that was the default odour of the greater populace, but there was a flicker of more in it. Beneath the synthetic, not-real smell there was a whisper of jasmine tea and citrus, so faint that Clary couldn't always pick up on it at all. It grew stronger when Mrs Lewis was emotional, but that was a bad thing, because the clearer the scent became, the more it rubbed Clary the wrong way, grating across her senses like heated sandpaper until she wanted to break something. And that sucked, because Simon's mom was awesome.
Now, for example, she came bearing cake.
"And my famous kosher bagels," Mrs Lewis declared, sweeping in to set the various baked goods on the kitchen counter—whereupon she gave Joscelin and Simon a bemused glance. "Why is she laughing?"
Neither Clary's dad nor her boyfriend wanted to explain why she'd dissolved into giggles at the sight of the bagels, so Clary got herself under control in time to thank Mrs Lewis for her efforts and birthday wishes.
The cake was excellent, which surprised precisely no one. Luke returned in time for the moist, chocolatey goodness, and if Clary licked her fingers a bit more than necessary, the look on Simon's face as he watched her lips was more than worth it.
Then it was time for presents: Mrs Lewis presented her with a giftcard to Hot Topic and a translated copy of the Karma Sutra (Joscelin's cheeks flushed dark again), and the wrapping paper on Luke's gift gave way to reveal a beautiful leather-bound journal, its creamy pages alternately blank and lined for music.
The box from Simon was small enough to fit in her cupped hands.
"It's made from a New York quarter," he said when she saw the ring. "See? And it's from the year you were born." He showed her: New York 1998 was emblazoned on the bronze metal, clear as day.
Clary could feel her smile stretching across her face, impossible to hold in. "Put it on me?" She held out her hand to him, draping it across his fingers like a Queen awaiting her consort's kiss.
She smelled the spice of simmering desire rise from his body as he obediently slid the ring onto her middle finger, careful not to catch her skin.
She withdrew her hand and splayed her fingers, admiring it. Loving it, the small perfection of it, eccentric and sweet and wonderful. "Simon, it's gorgeous. Thank you!" Heedless of their audience, she flung her arms around him, squeezing tight. "I love it!"
He hugged her back. "You're so welcome."
"All right, lovebirds, it's my turn." Joscelin pushed the final present towards Clary. "This is for you."
"Is anybody else getting presents today?" Clary joked, loosening her arms from around Simon. "What is it?"
"Open it up, and you'll see."
The dark blue wrapping paper tore easily. Underneath it was a flat box of very dark wood, a little bigger than her hand with fingers outspread. It smelled amazing, spicy and rich, and Clay breathed it in before she noticed the elaborate carvings: every inch of the box was engraved with strange symbols like nothing she'd ever seen before. For a moment they felt familiar, but that was impossible; she would have remembered an alphabet this elegantly weird, with its elegant curlicues and hard, sharp angles…
She traced her fingertip over one, a diamond with two little horns curving from the top of it. The simple little design was so hypnotic, tugging at her; drawing it over and over again with her finger, it felt as though she were falling into it, as if the rest of the world were dissolving into silk and shadows—and in the space left behind, she thought she could hear someone singing…
"Clary?" Luke asked. "Aren't you going to open it?"
The music vanished. The world came back, and Clary blinked, startled. "Right. Sorry, it's just such a pretty box."
She lifted the lid—and gasped.
She'd thought the box was intricate, but it had nothing on the necklace inside. Resting on a bed of white velvet was a round pendant of silvery crystal, formed of two circles. The main, inner circle had an emblem of an upside-down star with what looked like a 3 and a 6 on either side of it, with a triangle above and a kind of trident below. The outer circle, like a rim around the first, flowed with swirling, curving symbols. Only the small crescent moon at the top made any sense to her.
The design wasn't engraved, but cut out of the gem as if it had been drawn with a stencil, each symbol touching the next to form a delicate lacework of crystal. It made for a more elegant effect than if it had been a solid amulet simply carved with all the little pictograms; the result was ephemeral and feminine and strong. Shining like solid starlight, it might have been the talisman of a witch or a goddess.
"Woah," Simon said, leaning over to have a look. "What is it?"
Carefully, Clary lifted it free of the box, touching it only with her fingertips and only at the edges, as if it was a developing photograph that might smudge. A thin gold chain spilled out between her fingers. "Dad…"
"It belonged to your mother," Joscelin said, and Clary's head snapped up hard, because in seventeen years they had never talked about her mother, not once. Clary had never seen a picture of her mom, didn't even know the name of the woman who had birthed her. When she was old enough to see the shadow that passed over Joscelin every time Clary asked about her, she had stopped asking.
Sure enough, her dad's face was drawn tight; his smile had a raw, hesitant edge. "I guess it would be better to say it belonged to her family," he continued, not quite meeting his daughter's eyes. "It's about time you had it."
"It's beautiful," Clary said quietly. It was. Without question, it was the most stunning piece of jewellery she had ever seen, regal and magical. The sight of it tugged at something in her, the same primal, powerful something that drove her to dominate Simon or push herself with her Parkour; she wanted it around her neck, wanted to feel it resting against her collarbone. But she hesitated.
Whoever her mother had been, the very mention of her made Joscelin lock down and hide away in his studio, and Clary had never thought that pain was grief. Her mother had hurt her dad somehow, hurt him badly enough that the mere mention of her could give him a panic attack. In fairytales, plenty of kings were left wounded when their queens died, but Clary's mother had done something worse than die. She knew it like she knew her own name.
Clary wasn't sure she wanted to wear something that had belonged to someone who hurt her dad like that.
"Did my mom ever wear it?" she asked finally, battling between her need to protect Joscelin and her aching hunger for the necklace.
But her dad shook his head. "She had another one made in gold. She thought this one was too plain."
Too plain? Clary stared, not sure how anyone could come to that conclusion. Sure, the pendant wasn't very colourful—but the crystal was soft and milky, like mist under moonlight, glimmering like a star as it spun slowly on its chain. The lines of it were simple, but graceful, smooth, lovely.
And her mother had never worn it.
That made the decision simple. She slipped the chain over her head and let the pendant settle below her throat, a cool, light weight. "In that case, thank you." She touched it gently, resisting the urge to purr with pleasure at the beautiful gift. "I love it, dad."
Her dad looked up from the grain of the table. They were so much the same, Clary thought suddenly: the same inky black hair, the same golden-brown eyes—like sand and bronze and fire—the same rich, dark skin, like ancient pottery. The same blazing temper; the same sense of humour. But seeing the vulnerable look in Joscelin's face, for the first time Clary realised that her dad had something she didn't; armour, and behind it, a softness that could be wounded.
Clary had no armour, because she had no softness to protect. She was made of something harder than what Joscelin was, something that cruel words and betrayals could not scratch.
The thought unsettled her as much as it pleased her, and after a moment she understood why: remembered a scene, when she was six or seven or eight, when she and her father were in a store together. A man was screaming abuse at Joscelin—over what, Clary couldn't remember; it could have been over a spilled shopping basket, or maybe the guy hadn't liked the look of 'those damned foreigners'—and Joscelin had stood there and taken it. Stood frozen, and silent, braced as if for a blow—until Clary, six years old (or seven, or eight) had stepped forward and snarled 'don't yell at my daddy!'
It had shocked Joscelin out of his trance, and he had whisked them away. But that was it; that was the difference between them. Push at Clary, and she would snap back, bristling, unable to imagine backing down. Her dad would always protect her, would fight for her—she had never once doubted that—but he wouldn't fight for himself.
Had he always been like that, or had Clary's mother left that scar?
She felt a surge of protectiveness for him, her amazing dad, and reached out to touch his cheek, the way she would have if it were Simon who was hurting. He started, but didn't pull away.
"Really," Clary said softly. "I love it. Thank you."
The sore, bruised look faded from her father's eyes. "You're very welcome, Clary."
Clary took her hand back, and the festivities continued; she went to put her new journal and Mrs Lewis' gifts away, and they adjourned to the living room to watch whatever the birthday girl wanted.
As the opening credits of the new Black Widow movie rolled across the screen, they settled in, Joscelin and Luke in the loveseat, Mrs Lewis on one of the beanbags. Simon and Clary took the couch, his head in her lap and her fingers in his hair, petting him softly.
The light of the TV caught on her ring, and her pendant.
)0(
"Are you sure you don't want us at your debut?" Luke asked later that evening.
Clary snorted. "Maybe when we make it to a club you've actually heard of." She checked her hair in the hallway mirror. "Taking you somewhere like this place tonight would be just embarrassing."
Joscelin sat up in his chair. "That's not what you're wearing out, is it?"
"As it happens, yes." Clary turned her head back and forth, making her hair swish over her shoulders. The crystal necklace blazed at her throat, a full moon against her gold skin. Over her favourite black corset, a zombie unicorn reared on the back of her leather jacket, white and pink and green, and her Doc Martens were bound tight with rainbow laces. "Don't I look fabulous?"
"I'm a bit worried too many others will agree with you." Joscelin eyed her warily, taking in the ragged skinny jeans, the mis-matched earrings—a silver dagger at one earlobe, a grenade at the other, and never mind the twin emerald daith piercings. "Go put something else on, please."
"Really, dad? Really?" With a roll of her eyes, Clary spun on her heel and stalked back towards her room. She knew better than to argue with that tone of voice.
She just climbed down the drainpipe instead. Much easier.
CLARRISA ADELE FRAY, GET BACK HERE her father texted four minutes later.
I MEAN IT, followed two minutes after that.
IF SOMEONE LAYS A HAND ON YOU BREAK THEIR FINGERS her phone chimed resignedly as she left the subway.
Luke was more succinct. HAVE FUN!
Clary grinned, and put her phone away inside her jacket as she spotted the club.
Pandemonium had a reputation for taking chances on new and upcoming bands, groups that were only half a step away from their parents' garages. Getting a spot on their roster didn't really mean anything, especially not on a Thursday night like tonight. A Friday set, now, or a Saturday one, that would have been something, but this wasn't as big a deal as her dad and Luke wanted to think it was.
She still felt excitement like champagne pool in her fingers as she slipped in the back way, through the door meant for maintenance and catering and ever-hopeful musicians.
Inside, she had to stop for a second. The subway had been bad, but there were more people in the club than there had been in her carriage, and the scent of over a hundred strangers packed into a tight space hit her in a wave as she breathed in: a rush of sweat and perfume and carbonated drinks, skin and deodorant and mineral-based make-up, leather and cotton and denim and sex, all mixed up in a cocktail of pubescent humanity that made her blanch. Not for the first time, she wondered if she could do this.
But then there were the boys on the stage, and any thought of turning around and leaving vanished.
Erik, Kirk, Matt and Simon were setting up, Erik helping Simon calibrate his turntables for their set. It had taken Simon and Clary almost two years of doing chores for the entire neighbourhood to afford all his DJ equipment—turntables and synthesizers were expensive—but it had been worth it; Simon was a wizard with his discs. Between her voice, his fingers, Erik's drums, Kirk's guitar and Matt's keyboard, Clary knew full well that they were going to bring the house down—if she could just deal with the stink of packed-in humanity long enough.
"Mistress Fray!" Kirk called when he spotted her, grinning as she climbed up the steps to the stage. He had rebraided his cornrows for the occasion, so that they traced graceful wave-shapes over his dark skull. "You are looking fine tonight!"
Clary allowed herself a satisfied smile. "Why thank you, darling," she purred.
Kirk mimed a swoon, swaying backwards. "She called me darling!"
Matt swatted him for her.
Grinning, Clary stepped up behind Simon. "You got here okay?" she asked, resting her hand on the back of his neck. She stroked the side of his throat with her thumb absently.
He relaxed into her touch. "Yeah, Kirk gave me and the babies a lift," he called back over the music, patting the turntables fondly. He turned his head—and did a double-take as he saw her outfit up close and personal. "Woah."
Clary smirked, and bent to kiss her seated boyfriend. "And that's why I love you," she purred into his ear. "You always know how to make a girl feel special."
"It's not hard when they're as special as you," he said without missing a beat, owning the dorkiness without shame. Concern touched his gaze. "Are you okay?"
He meant about the smells. She nodded. "I can handle it!"
"Awesome!" he said loudly.
The lights sparked and sparkled, and Clary closed her eyes, imagining that she could feel the touch of the pink and blue on her skin, soft as silk and bright as jewels. They'd used to joke about her incredible sense of smell, but really, it was kind of a pain; Clary's dad had to buy expensive unscented laundry detergent and shampoo just so she could function, and even though he never complained, Clary felt bad about it. But the alternative was a permanent hay fever of watering eyes and emotional turbulence that made the worst case of PMS look like a grumpy kitten. Not that she would know: today was her seventeenth birthday, but she'd yet to experience the joys of the menses. Yet another way in which she was a freak.
The thought made her smirk. Who wanted to be normal, anyway?
She opened her eyes. "Let's give them a night to remember," she said, and Simon spun his fingers over the turntables with a laugh.
)0(
Clary didn't bother with an introduction, with talking the crowd over. When the manager gave them the nod she dropped her hand as if ordering an execution, and around her her boys snarled into life like a wolf pack, electronica magic cracking like a whip around the snapping bass. Fuck asking for the audience's attention; they demanded it, throwing their song into the pit like a grenade—
"If you're happy and you know it
Clap your hands like this,
'Caus the rest of us are wondering what on earth we missed!
If you're happy and you know it
Stomp your feet real loud!
The rest of could use some cheering up right now—!"
All of Clary's concerns dissolved, sugar in water and water in wine and the music they wrought rising up around her like a tsunami, a crashing wave of sound spinning like silk through her fingers, silk and light and fire. Eric played his drums like he was fighting a war and Simon danced threads of neon lightning around them all, weaving them together with beat-beat-beats skipping and sliding and Kirk was right there with Clary, ripping at his strings like the ropes of fate and the mike was in her hand, cool metal-plastic turning hot under her fingers as she poured her soul in and watched it spill out, overflow, rip through the club like an earthquake—
"Oh please,
Shoot us up with something shiny and quick!
We like our thrills dirt cheap,
And our irony thick!"
She had them, one and all, could smell the thick tide of excitement as the band lassoed their audience's attention and dragged it to them, made it theirs. Her hair whipped around her like flames as she shrieked into the mike, ripping it from its stand and whirling across the stage, slamming her boots against the wooden slats in time with the beat. Simon was bent over his decks, spinning the discs like plates and the lights were flashing on his laptop screen, and the others were running this with her, in time, in force, a tempo to snatch at hearts and pound through Clary's veins.
"Ohhh, this is all we know!
Ohhh, tragic and miserable!
We're not cynics, we just don't believe a word you say!
We're not critics, we just hate it all anyway!"
Thrilling as a drug, adrenalin racing through every word and she was almost laughing, grinning, flashing her teeth at all the pretty boys and girls dancing to the spell of her voice.
"Sometimes I think we push your buttons… just for fun!" she sang, purring, smirking into the crowd;
"Sometimes I think our kind of crazy has already been done…
We're a copy of a copy, everything we swore we'd not be,
Yeah the truth hurts, but it hasn't stung enough to stop me!"
Swelling, crashing, a tidal wave of sound and Clary felt powerful, felt like a goddess, ruling the room and it was so effortless, so incredibly easy! The lyrics just poured out of her, as easily as they had in practice, as smoothly as when she'd first written them; raw and mocking and darkly playful, making fun and making a point and it was like dancing, like flying, like leaping across the space between rooftops and knowing that your body would catch you. Because it would, because she was just that fucking good and she had the backup to prove it, the boys behind her like a legion, following their gods-damn commander to the end of the line and then building her a new gods-damn bridge, sonic fire and wild tempo and she bent into the mike and howled—
"If you're happy and you know it then there might be something wrong with you!
What's the point in holding on when all of us don't want you to?
It'd make us feel better, knowing you'd be stuck forever!
Sick minds stick together,
We can stay sick forever!"
And her boys—they tore into the chorus they knew so well and Clary snarled and sang, a dangerously fey grin flashing white teeth under the lights and her hair a forest fire, a valkyrie turned from war to song, ripping it out like a war-cry—
And before the closing chords, Clary already knew: the battle was won.
)0(
They played four more songs before their set was done, and Matt swore each was a bigger hit than the last. By the time they closed with Pop Culture there were people doing their best to sing along with each chorus, jumping with their arms in the air to the lightning-bolt beats sizzling through the club.
"Neon Myths, kith and kin!" Clary called as they wrapped up, grinning. She blew a kiss into the crowd with a purr. "Remember the name! You'll be seeing us again."
"Hell yeah they will!" Kirk crowed once they were outside. He slung his arm around Eric's shoulders, delight sharp and sweet on his rich umber skin. "We knocked them fucking dead!"
Matt and Simon heaved, and the turntables slid into the back of Kirk's van at last. The rest of the gear was already stowed away, and Kirk promised faithfully to bring it all back to his basement, their usual practice space.
"Are you surprised?" Clary asked, playfully raising her eyebrows.
"Not in the slightest," Kirk declared. "How could it be otherwise, with such a dark delight as yourself to lead us to glory?"
Clary laughed. "You're bad for my ego, Kirk." She smirked. "Never stop."
Simon moved up against her side, and Clary hooked her fingers through the loops of his jeans, tugging him closer. He leaned his cheek against her hair with a quiet sigh. "We did good."
A rush of warmth for him flooded her chest. "You did great," she told him, leaning up on tip-toe to kiss his cheek. "I'm so proud of you."
He hummed softly, her pleasure reverberating through him, flavouring his scent with a note like chocolate, sweet and blissful. Clary felt her stomach clench tight with the urge to bite into him.
"Let's stay for a bit," she said impulsively. She put her free hand on his abdomen, lightly brushing her fingertips over the thin material of his shirt. She could feel the muscles underneath, tight and trim, honed by years of Parkour and Krav Maga. He'd gotten into both because of her, so she would have someone to practice with. He was nearly as good at them as she was, now. "I want to dance with you."
He tensed under her hand, and she didn't have to ask why. He was a geek, and he knew it; being home-schooled hadn't helped. Performing was one thing—he was shielded by her, then, by the strength of her voice and the presence of the other guys. But dancing, out in a crowd where everyone could see…
"You guys coming?" Eric called, closing the van's back door.
Clary searched Simon's eyes. "No," she answered without looking away. "We're going to stay for a while."
Slowly, Simon nodded, relaxing into her desire, and the thrill of it was a physical thing, heated velvet and fireworks bursting against a dark sky; that he trusted her enough to give himself up to her will, even in something so seemingly small as this. He would leave his comfort zone for her, at her word, because he knew she would take him so far and no further, no further than he could go.
Because he was hers.
Clary smiled, and drew him down, and kissed him. "I love you," she whispered, nuzzling his lips, and when he said it back she felt it echo in her bones, embroidered in her DNA.
Mine.
)0(
'I want to see them look at you,' she told Simon, when the rest of Neon Myths were gone. 'I want them to see you and want you and realise that they can't have you. I want everyone in there to know that you're mine, and be sick with jealousy.'
And they were. Clary could taste it in the back of her throat, the satisfying chilli-bite of frustrated lust and envy as strangers' eyes licked Simon up and down, took in the marks on his throat and her hands on him and realised he was taken. Because he was flustered and clumsy with it, not quite able to relax into the music that plucked and tugged at Clary's pulse, demanding she move—but he was still gorgeous. His black hair was dark as a panther's pelt, long enough to fall in his eyes and invite tangling fingers; his eyes were like milk chocolate, flecked with glints of hazel-gold half-hidden behind square glasses. He looked like another shy, innocent geek—until your eyes caught on that sweet mouth, with the hint of a wicked curl at the corners; until the definition beneath his rich brown skin became visible when he moved. Until you saw how he looked at Clary.
He was delicious, and perfect, and hers. And tonight she would finally have all of him.
The knowledge of it burned between them, searing so hot and bright it was all but visible. Clary was hyperaware of her own body, pressed so close to his; the soft caresses of her clothes shifting against her skin, the weight of Simon's hands on her hips, the sweat dampening her hair. The combined scents of over a hundred strangers hammered at her, but she didn't care, because Simon stared at her as if at a goddess and this teasing, this torturing of them both felt so good, so wicked and exquisite—
And then everything went red.
Rage war threat threat thief danger!
Clary snapped around faster than she had ever moved, blindly seeking the source of—of—of that, that smell, like an olfactory call to war; every hair on her body stood to attention and her blood came afire, hissing, lips pulled back from her teeth ready to bite, to tear, to shred to wet bloody pieces the threat to her place, her male, her power—
Somewhere, distantly, she could hear Simon saying her name, his hand on her arm trying to gain her attention, but Clary could see no one but the source of that enraging scent, a young woman on the other side of the club floor. She was a desert storm in a white dress, a lightning bolt with hair like a slash of ink and ochre skin, and Clary's attention snapped to her like a silver whip, unable to see-sense-hear anyone else, anything else.
It was mutual, this visceral fury; their eyes locked across the crowd, and the unreasoning, impossible rage blazing under Clary's skin jumped up to an 11, charring her veins ash-black. She snarled, even though there was no way the girl in the white dress could possibly hear her, and without thinking she dragged Simon behind her, ignoring his protests, his questions, knowing only that Simon was hers and had to be protected.
Mutual. It was mutual, this inexplicable bloodthirstiness, because the other girl's face twisted in response, a wild charcoal rage that Clary understood in her marrow: my place, my prey, my pack!
It almost threw Clary out of her anger, that realisation: she was the one who had trespassed, not this stranger. Somehow, Clary had crossed some boundary, some line she hadn't known to notice. For all her rage, she was the one at fault here.
Somehow. How did she know that?
As quickly as the thought had come, Clary saw the other girl's expression smooth out, mastering the bloodlust. In its place came shock, like ice on skin, and she was still staring at Clary.
Clary tensed, her mind racing: did she stay and fight, or fly from here, and Simon with her?
Before she could decide, two more faces appeared beside the girl in white. Clary glimpsed black leather and red jewels, but she couldn't make herself look at them, couldn't force her eyes away from the girl who was somehow a threat—
Except—
Except that one, the girl the threat the rage, turned away. And. Left.
Just like that.
She vanished into the depths of the club without looking back, and Clary hesitated, not sure what it meant, not sure where the other girl was going.
"We need to go," she decided, catching Simon's hand. "Come on."
"What's wrong? Are you okay?" He didn't fight her—he never fought her, not unless it was a game, and it soothed some of the nervous-fear-anger in her; he was safe, he was still hers, nothing could be wrong if that were still true. The girl in the white dress hadn't hurt him, stolen him—
"Later," she promised, trying to calm herself down. "I'll explain later, let's just go—"
They were almost at the door when someone stepped out of the crowd in front of them, deliberately blocking their way, and Clary barely had time to register amber eyes and skin like firelight on gold before it hit her like a battering ram and an orgasm all wrapped up in one:
Mine.
The world shifted, fell away. She was standing at the centre of the universe and there was only the three of them, Simon's hand in hers and this deadly-beautiful golden boy before her and she stood between them both while the stars revolved around them, jewels the size of planets dancing through space, dancing around this triad at their heart, and she knew it like gravity, like her own name—
Mine. You're mine.
With a jolt, time started again. She was in Pandemonium once more, her feet on the earth and Simon's fingers laced tight with hers, anchoring her to reality—but reality had changed, was not the same as when she'd left it.
The stranger's gold eyes were wide and dark and she knew he felt it too, this gilded blade of a boy sheathed in black from head to toe: the sense of something locked immutably into place, a thread-rope-chain forged instantly and forever from his heart to her hand and if she pulled on it, if she wrapped it 'round her wrist and gave the softest tug he would fall like an angel at her feet, fall like a star. She could smell it on him, fir trees and sparklers and melted chocolate and he was trembling, vibrating with the echo of her heartbeat. It was written all over his face—pure need, overwhelming and terrible and glorious, and for her, all for her, his pupils swollen to dark eclipses and when he swallowed she knew his mouth was dry, knew his voice was gone but he was a breath away from whimpering anyway. She didn't need to look down to know he was blindingly, desperately hard; the smell of his arousal caught in her throat, thick and opiate-sweet and electrifying, and she was so wet, aching, viciously hungry to have him in her, to use him until he screamed for mercy—
Mine.
One glance into his eyes, and he was drowning in her; he was drowned. He was hers, body and soul.
She moved, beyond words, to touch him; to reach for him, to call him to her. Mine, mine, my darling-lover-mate; come to me and be my own, my treasure…
His eyes showed only a sliver of darkened bronze around his pupils now, and they stared at her outstretched fingers with a look of such fervent, painful longing that Clary could hardly breathe. He would take her hand, as Simon had her other; he would go to his knees and press his face to her hip, and there would be such relief in his face, a relief like tears, like homecoming—
Yours—
But just before his fingers could brush hers, something hard and ugly swept across his beautiful face, and he jerked away, snatching his hand back. In his other hand was a long blade of ruby glass or crystal Clary hadn't seen until now. "No!" he said sharply, loudly, anger and something like fear, like panic, staining the glory of those eyes, "I will not—I reject you, I repudiate you, I acknowledge no claim of yours—"
Simon snarled.
Snarled and crouched, bending as if he meant to spring at the blond and tear out his throat; he actually slipped his hand from Clary's, and his face—Clary had never seen him look like that before, couldn't see her best-loved boy in that face for a too-long moment; it was rage, rage and blind, animal threat, and Clary had a beat to wonder if that was how she had looked staring at the girl in white, because it looked like the same fury, the same instinctive need to do murder—
The stranger shot Simon a sharp look—one that quickly morphed into disbelief. He jerked further away from Clary, swearing, and vanished his red knife away somewhere, raising his hands so that Simon could see they were empty. "What in Sammael's name are you doing bringing a new-bonded aatam here?" he said through gritted teeth. Even angry, he looked like an Egyptian prince, his golden face framed by a lion's mane of sable hair as fine as sendal; Clary itched to run her fingers through it…
It took her a moment to realise that he was talking to her, but since she didn't understand what he'd said, she ignored him. "Simon," she said, turning her body to face her boyfriend head on, "hey. Look at me."
Simon's gaze was locked on the stranger; he didn't even glance at her, and suddenly Clary had had enough. With a snarl of her own, she stepped between Simon and the other male, forcing Simon to see her. "I said look at me, Simon Lewis!"
His attention snapped to her at last. He looked like an animal, something wild and untamed, and it shivered through her, the urge to master him like this. But she didn't want to put him on his knees here in the club; they were already making too much of a scene.
"That's right," she crooned. She wasn't sure he could hear her over the music pounding from the club's speakers, but he was watching her mouth, and the blank, mindless rage slowly drained from his face as she kept talking. "Calm down, dearling. It's all right. I'm here, aren't I? I'll take care of it." She stepped closer to him, curling her hand around the back of his neck. "You can relax. I've got you. I've got you."
He did, her darling, her perfect boy—he relaxed under her touch, the bowstring-tension melting from his spine as she rubbed at his neck. His shoulders slumped, and abruptly he was breathing hard, as if he'd just run a marathon. He blinked, and the manic-maniac gleam faded from his eyes. "Clary…?"
"Ssh," she murmured, wondering what had just happened, not caring enough to let it distract her from her Simon, "it's okay. You're all right."
"I—I feel really strange…"
"He shouldn't be here," the lion-prince said harshly from behind them. Her lion. Her body still burned, hungry and wet, and the snap of his voice—rude, defiant, totally unsubmissive—made her clench her teeth hard with the urge to pin him flat on the floor until he learned some manners. "Jesu, how new is your bond?"
At the sound of his voice, Simon snapped to alertness again, his eyes glazing over. His lips pulled back from his teeth, and he snarled.
"Shut up!" Clary snapped at the lion-boy, placing both her hands on Simon's chest. "This is your fault, you're the one doing this to him!"
"He shouldn't even be here!" the lion repeated angrily. He might have said more, but Clary had her hands full; Simon didn't push against her hold, but only just, his body held tense and taunt, vibrating with readiness. The moment she let her attention wander, he would spring, and she didn't have time to wonder what was wrong, what the strange guy was doing, because Simon wasn't in control of himself and he needed her, needed her to take care of him and keep him safe—
"Jace, Iyrin damn you, you were supposed to wait for me!"
A figure pushed its way out of the crowd, glaring at the lion-prince (at Jace; the name dropped into Clary's chest like a gold coin into a pool). Clary, used to identifying people by smell, couldn't get a read on the newcomer—she couldn't even tell if Jace's friend was male or female; ze smelled like both and neither, zir scent shifting even as Clary breathed it in. Zir dark hair was pulled back into a scruffy ponytail, and ze was pretty, almost beautifully androgynous; the lines of zir face were enough like that of the girl in the white dress that Clary immediately knew they had to be related. But there was no rage-scent hanging around this person, nothing like it; if anything zir scent was…kind of relaxing, actually.
Relaxing or not, the interruption came at just the wrong moment; Clary started, and in that second Simon lunged past her. Clary snatched at his shirt but missed and it was so easy for most people to underestimate Simon, to see the shy smile and neat glasses and not look for more, but he had nearly as many Krav Maga trophies as Clary did and he could hurt someone—
Could hurt her Jace—
Except that Jace ducked away from the elbow Simon swung at his throat, bending backwards like a dancer, like a reed, too fast to be real.
"What are you doing?" Jace's friend asked, and Clary realised ze was speaking to her; staring at Clary, zir face was appalled. "Jace isn't a threat, call him off!"
Jace refused to engage, darting back and forth in the small space to get away from Simon's attacks but he wasn't trying to hit back, was clearly staying on the defensive and Clary didn't know why but she was too grateful to care, too afraid of the blank, mindless rage in Simon's face to worry about Jace's motive.
"He won't listen to me!" she told the enby. "I can't make him listen, I don't know what Jace is doing to him—"
Jace slid away from Simon's fist, swinging around and past the other boy, and as he did Clary saw his nostrils flare, thought incredulously he can smell things like I can even as Jace's eyes went wide with disbelief.
"He's claimed but not bonded, Alec for Lilith's sake help me—"
The enby—Alec, presumably—went pale. Ze ran at Simon without another word, and Clary saw something like a crystal pen in zir left hand before ze shoved it in a pocket and darted between the two boys, holding zir hands up at Simon.
"Woah, boy, easy. Calm down."
Simon stopped before he hit zir. He snarled, dropping to a crouch, but the enby just shook zir head, spreading zir fingers. "Hey, no, none of that now. You did good, your lilit is safe and sound but you're done now, you kept her safe. She's still yours."
Ze kept talking, speaking slowly and evenly as if ze were coaxing a wild horse. Clary had no idea what ze thought ze was doing until the scent coming off the enby finally reached her, and she almost gasped at the unexpectedness strangeness of it. The enby smelled like lavender and snow, an olfactory xanax; zir scent slid into Clary's lungs like incense and all her confusion and angry fear just…just melted away. Suddenly none of it seemed important; the girl in white, the impossible rage that had swept over Clary at the sight of her, the rush of need-want-mine tied to the sight-scent of Jace and the fear of what was happening to Simon… It was all going to be all right, the enby's scent promised; everything was good, everything was fine…
It was working on Simon too. At first his eyes were fixed on Jace, who watched warily from behind Alec, but as the seconds passed his gaze became unfocussed, even dreamy. As if he were being drugged.
A rush of revulsion tore through Clary, waking her up like a bucket of cold water. She could still smell the perfume, but its effect was suddenly muted and dull. "What are you doing to him?" she hissed. Striding forward, she grabbed Simon's wrist and pulled him behind her, away from these strangers and their aerosol-drugs—because what else could they be, what other reason was there for her fury and her lust and Simon's sudden bloodthirstiness? "Leave him alone!"
Alec blinked at her, confused. "I'm just soothing him, Syre," ze said, bemused but formal. "What's wrong?"
"You're drugging him!" Clary snapped. "Get away from us before I call the cops!"
"The—?" If anything, Alec's confusion deepened. Ze wasn't the only one: so close to zir, Clary could taste the enby's scent, and it was…it just was. Every girl or woman Clary had ever met had rankled at her like an itch, while the males, except for Simon, left her cold: this Alec person did neither. Ze felt like the eye of the storm, the embodiment of serenity: just standing next to zir made Clary feel a little calmer, a little more able to think clearly. "Syre, I don't understand."
"She brought an unMarked aatam to a nightclub, and you're expecting reason from her?" Jace said sarcastically.
"Be quiet!" Alec glanced apologetically at Clary. "He wasn't raised in an aieon, Syre. I'm afraid he's a bit of a savage." Ze cleared zir throat. "Um, the Sundancer Aieon-Na bids you welcome, but asks that you please make your way to the city Haven. The lilitare—" ze pronounced it lilit-are-ray "—is hunting tonight, and will receive you as soon as she's found her prey."
Even the clarifying effect of Alec's presence couldn't make zir declaration make sense. "I have no idea what you just said," Clary said, slowly and clearly because she was obviously talking to a lunatic, "but we're leaving now. Follow us, and I really will call the police." Why hadn't anyone noticed all this going on? She didn't want to take her eyes off Alec to find out. "Come on, Simon, let's go."
Neither Alec nor Jace made any move to stop her, although Jace's eyes were hot on her, watching her walk away. She saw something painful and hungry in his face, something anguished and pleading—and then it was gone, and he looked away from her, his shoulders set and his hands curled into fists.
It took an enormous effort of will not to run to him, not to answer the plea she glimpsed in his face. But there was Simon, who was too pale and his eyes shocky and dark, and she would not risk him by staying here even a moment longer. Hardening her heart, and ignoring the howl of frustrated possessiveness ringing in her head, she led Simon away from the magically cleared space at the heart of the crowd, almost tripping over a smooth white stone on the floor as she did so.
Where the hell had that come from?
Outside, the humidity of a New York summer night slapped her in the face. They were in the back alley, she realised; she had automatically gone for the performers' entrance. Didn't matter. She turned to Simon. "Are you okay?"
"I…think so?" He blinked at her from behind his glasses, but he was still paler than she liked. "What just happened?"
"I have no idea," she said honestly. "I think maybe they had some kind of drugs in aerosol cans? I don't know what else could have done all that."
He was silent for a second. "I've never felt like that before," he said quietly. "I just… I was going to kill that guy. Really kill him. I wanted to rip him to pieces." He was shaking; Clary pulled him close and wrapped her arms around his torso. "What kind of drug does that?"
"I don't know," Clary repeated softly. She hated having to tell Simon that, hated not knowing. She was supposed to know; she was supposed to keep him safe. "Let's get home and talk to dad and Luke, okay? They'll figure out what to do."
Simon nodded shakily. "Okay." He took her hand when she offered it. "Figures we'd get the X-Files stuff the same night as our first time on stage, right?"
"Just our luck," she agreed.
They were heading towards the street when it happened again: between one blink and the next Clary's vision went red, the world washed in wet, bloody crimson, and the anger that had swept over her with the girl in white was nothing to this, a spark against the dark sun suddenly exploding in Clary's chest, so hot and blinding her very bones caught fire; her blood turned to blazing gold and the stink of sulphur snagged on her snarl, and there, right there, a man-shape came hurtling around the corner and down into the alley, towards Clary and Simon—
Simon—
This thing was not a man; it was abomination, it was evil, every cell of her body screamed out for her to wipe it off the face of the planet and it was coming at Simon—
Something in Clary tore open, and bright, hot gold gushed through her and out of her; she screamed, with the Morrigan's rage and the sweetest pain this world could know; and the alley was suddenly filled with light, with twin sweeping walls of white and gold light anchored in her heart—
Two walls of interwoven swords—
The man-shape skidded to a halt, its neon-blue eyes suddenly gone black as ink. There was horror in its face, and terror, and Clary exulted in it, shrieked a cry of wild triumph as she sprang towards her prey. It opened a mouth full of shark teeth to snarl defiance at her and her wings came slicing down like guillotines, blade-feathers bristling and black blood sprayed across the alley wall in a graffiti of dark oil and vengeance.
The man-shape dropped to the ground. The body was in three pieces; its head bounced a little way from the rest of the corpse, trailing that disgusting inky blood. The smell of it was enough to make Clary gag; some part of her was relieved none of it had touched her, or her—
Her wings—
She flexed them; it was easy. They had almost no weight, translucent sheets of light and metal that responded to her thoughts as smoothly as did her arms. The glow of them fell on the face of the girl in the white dress, standing stunned near the mouth of the alley. She must have been following the man-shape.
Clary was breathing hard. She felt warm and exhilarated, her pulse pounding in her wrists; there was laughter bubbling up her throat. The fabric of her bra rubbed against her nipples, the friction suddenly too much.
Was this what being drunk felt like?
She turned around to look at Simon; her ghostly wings slid through the brick of the alley walls as if they (wings or walls?) weren't there. But Simon was there, standing where she'd left him, unmarked by blood or savage shark teeth. Satisfaction curled through Clary like velvet; she had protected him. She had kept him safe.
He smelled of lust, staring at her, his eyes almost as dark as the monster's had been, his expression a mess of helpless, adoring desire, breathless and desperate. Clary purred, pleased.
"I was trying to herd it away from you—" She had forgotten the other girl. Clary glanced at her, her eyes narrowing. Distantly, she was aware of the corpse dissolving into thick, foul smoke, but she didn't care about that. Her attention was laser-focussed on the stranger. She was too close to Clary's Simon.
"—And for Lilith's sake, put your wings away! Anyone could see you!" The girl paused. She stepped forward, frowning slightly; Clary saw her inhale deeply. "Oh, someone smells delicious." She tilted her head, looking under Clary's outstretched wings. "Is he yours?"
Clary hissed at the interest in her voice. She snapped her wings down, blocking Simon from view. "Mine," she snarled.
"I don't smell a Mark," the other girl said lightly. Her expression hardened slightly. In the corner of Clary's eye the man-shape's corpse was dissolving into smoke, but she didn't take her attention from the other girl for an instant. The antagonism from before was building, bubbling just under the surface; it made Clary want to snap her teeth, or better yet, swipe her bladed wings at the other girl's smug face. "Who are you? What are you doing in this canton?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." And she wasn't going to give this girl her name.
"You—" The white princess dress swirled around her as the girl came closer still; Clary hissed at her again, but this time she hissed back, bristling, that raw rage rippling over her face. "Lying isn't going to save you. You—"
Suddenly she stopped. A frown settled over her elegant face, the anger replaced by a sudden confusion. "Wait…" The frown deepened; she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, and Clary knew right down to the bone that the other girl was scenting her.
Like an animal, some still-rational part of her mind thought, but then the other girl's eyes snapped open, horrified.
"Adam's balls, you're unmanifested!" She sounded appalled. "What in the Watchers' names are you doing here? Where's your aieon?" She looked past Clary at Simon. "Is he all you have with you?!"
It was all too bewildering, new terms and confusion battering at Clary's battle-hazed thoughts like hammers, like wings. She couldn't think clearly, couldn't make sense of anything, and her confusion made her angry, angrier. "Leave us alone!" she shouted. She snapped a wing back and curled it around Simon, using it to pull him against her. He was still mid-gasp when she grabbed him in her arms, flared both her wings, and shot up off the ground.
Simon yelped and clung to her as the ground vanished beneath them, but there was no fear-scent on his skin, only a dazed surprise. He was warm against her body, and the rush of cool air in her face cleared her mind a little, blew some of the terror-fury away like wind shredding toxic smoke; enough that she could wonder at how light he felt in her arms, enough that she could register the smell of his desire again.
She did not wonder about her wings, about her flight. She only wanted to go home. She wanted her dad and Luke to explain what was going on and make it better.
Simon nuzzled her neck as her wings beat hard, carrying them up and away. Heat shimmered about her feathers, keeping them both warm, and they streaked like a star. The fear was dissolving, and in its place exhilaration was building again, disbelieving awe and delight spinning through her ribcage like a suncatcher. Below them the city was a treasure-chest of neon gems and blazing candleflames, cars flashing over the roads like bioluminescent insects. Fluorescent billboards dazzled, and the skyscrapers looked decked out for Christmas, alight with glittering diamonds. Up here the human stink was all but gone, leaving only the incredible beauty of what mortals had built just because they could.
This is my home. This is my city. The thought brought with it an immense sense of pride.
Simon made a soft mewling sound, and the bolt of hunger it elicited nearly took her out of the sky. Breathing hard, Clary shook her head as she righted herself; the city might be gorgeous, but she recognised nothing from up here, and even if she had, it was dark. She didn't know how to get home, and they couldn't take the subway with wings sprouting from her back. Even New Yorkers would blink at that.
She picked a rooftop at random and dove, marvelling at how easy it was, at the rush of dancing with gravity. Shouldn't this be harder? Baby birds had to learn how to fly, but Clary touched down on the concrete as if she'd been doing it for years. She didn't even drop Simon.
The moment she let go of him, he dropped himself; without a word he folded to his knees, gasping, his hands flying behind his back to clasp at the base of his spine. Clary's wings glowed, shedding light across the rooftop; when Simon looked up at her she could see the glaze of need in his eyes, the flush on his cheeks. Now that the wind wasn't blowing his scent away the aroma of his desire was overwhelming, impossible to resist even as the beauty of him caught in Clary's throat, made her heart stutter.
She had thought New York by night was beautiful, but Simon—her Simon—
"Clary," he whispered, whimpered, and she groaned, closing her eyes for an instant because she had to, had to or would lose any shred of control. "Clary, please—please—" She opened her eyes to see him rock his hips, panting, the hard bulge of his arousal pressing against his jeans. Was that a wet spot darkening the denim? "I—I don't—I need you, God, please—"
There was fear in the lust, Clary realised, swallowing hard; Simon was scared, afraid of the intensity of this need, and it eased some of the pressure on her own brain. Her sex was aching almost to the point of pain, but he was afraid.
She would take care of him.
"Ssh," she murmured, stepping closer to him; she swept her wings around him as she cupped his face, and he shuddered, his eyes rolling a little as the feathers brushed his skin. "Ssh, darling, my perfect boy. It's okay. I've got you. I've always got you." She bent her head to kiss him, biting back the urge to moan as his lips parted instantly under hers, pleading without words for more.
She gave it to him. Locked her own need away, and laid him down on one of her wings, curling the tips of her primaries around his body. "I've got you," she whispered, over and over again—as his clothes came off, as he writhed against the silkiness of her plumage, as he begged with tears in his eyes for release, for her.
She took him in her mouth, and her feathers muffled his cries, kept them only for her.
And when he was done—panting, shivering, his fever soothed—her wings wrapped around him and held him tight as they both passed out, with no one but the stars to witness.
NOTES
The song Neon Myths sing is Cynics & Critics by Icon For Fire.
Kith and kin means friends and family—'kith' are friends, 'kin' are family. Among other things, it's a non-gendered way of referring to your audience, instead of saying something like 'ladies and gentlemen'.
Sammael is one of the most interesting angelic figures; the angel of death and God's right (or sometimes left) hand, Sammael is the father of demons but is unequivocally not one of the Fallen. The traditional understanding is that xe is not Fallen because God needs xem too much to kick xem out of Heaven. Xe is one of only two angels I know of that has such ambiguous/controversial standing in the celestial hierarchy.
Sendal was a thin, light silk made/used in the Middle Ages.
Iyrin is the name of the Watchers—angels sent to watch over/study humanity before the Flood—in Aramaic.
Enby is a queer term for someone who is non-binary; Clary refers to Alec this way in her thoughts because she can't figure out what gender (if any) Alec is from Alec's scent.
Syre is pronounced sire.
The Morrigan is a Celtic goddess of war and death.
Canton is an old French word literally meaning something like 'area'; in this verse the Nephilim use it to refer to territories controlled/under the dominion of different people.