A/N A lot of this chapter doesn't belong to me but is a conversion of Cassandra Clare's own writing, so of course I give her full credit. Enjoy x
During my brief incarceration I get these three things figured out: firstly, that Valentine will never hand over the Mortal Instruments in return for my life, as the inquisitor thinks he will. I am simply not important enough. Second, I make the resolution that if I ever get out of here alive, which I severely doubt I will, I will tell Clary that I do not love her and that I am in fact gay. Very gay. For her best friend. Of course, I won't break the news in quite those words, as I think it may sound heartless. Lastly, I decide firmly in my head that what happened at Luke's was no more than a slip of consideration on Simon's part, and he is actually no more than indifferent for me. I decide this on the basis that he drank my blood- and everyone knows that a thirsty vampire is a crazy one. He was filled with hunger, or lust at best, and figured he may as well get the better of me for once in his life. That's all.
I'm still bathing in self pity when Alec arrives, and that rather unusual jumping moment happens. I just jump. Out of my cell. Right out. Right into the path of Luke and Clary. The moment doesn't seem like a Coming Out Moment, so I bite my tongue. And then suddenly I'm hearing that he's gone again, Simon's gone again, and blood is rushing past my ears and I feel lightheaded. It seems obvious where we need to go- Valentine's ship. Simon, it seems, will be his final sacrifice.
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I'm too late. I'm too late, and he's dead. He's gone. I've lost him. I'm too late.
No. No, concentrate, Jace. Ignore the wound, the slash across his throat, ignore the gaping skin and the still, closed eyelids. Just think. He's not alive, so his heart never was beating. He stopped breathing the other day, before he became a vampire. What he really needs now is blood.
I don't even hesitate before pulling out a knife and slashing my wrist. I look down at Simon, who hasn't moved. The blood is running down my hand now, my wrist stinging. I hold it out over Simon's face, letting the blood drip down my fingers, spilling onto Simon's mouth. There's no reaction. Simon wasn't moving. I move closer; kneeling over Simon now, my breath making white puffs in the icy air. I lean down, press my bleeding wrist against Simon's mouth. "Drink my blood, idiot," i whisper. "Drink it."
For a moment nothing happens. My eyes prick with tears. Then Simon's eyes flutter. I get this sharp sting in my wrist, a sort of pull, a hard pressure—and Simon's right hand flies up and clamps onto my arm, just above the elbow. His back arches off the floor, the pressure on my wrist increasing as his fangs sink deeper. Pain shoots up my arm. "Okay," I grunt, breathless with relief. The pain continues, grows. "Okay, enough." Simon's eyes open. The whites are gone, the dark brown irises focused on my face even as he drinks my blood. Shameless. He's scaring me, I'm terrified. There's colour in his cheeks, a hectic flush like a fever. His lips are slightly parted, the white fangs stained with blood. "Simon?" I whisper.
Simon rises up. He moves with incredible speed, knocking me sideways and rolling on top of me. My head hits the metal floor, and my ears start to ring as Simon's teeth sink into my neck. I try to twist away, but the boy's arms are like iron bars, pinning me to the ground, fingers digging into his shoulders.
But Simon issn't hurting me- not really- the pain that had started out sharp has faded to a sort of dull burn, pleasant the way the burn of the stele was sometimes pleasant. A drowsy sense of peace steals through my veins and I feel my muscles relax. It feels better and better by the second until it feels good- not a gentle sort of good but the fiery kind, and there's a kind of delicious poison lacing up the veins in my arm, making me gasp. The hands that pushed Simon away a moment ago now press him closer to my body. I can feel the beat of my own heart, feel it slowing, it's hammering fading to a softer echo. A shimmering darkness creeps in at the corners of my vision, beautiful and strange. I close my eyes and let the strange elation envelop me-
Pain lances through my neck, and my eyes snap open. Simon is sitting up on me, staring down with wide eyes, his hand across his own mouth. His wounds are gone. Fresh blood, my blood, stains his shirt.
I can feel the pain of my bruised shoulders again, the slash across my wrist, my punctured throat. But most of all I feel every place he touched me, even slightly, burning red hot again his icy skin. I can no longer hear my heart beating, but I know it is slamming away inside my chest.
Simon takes his hand away from his mouth. His fangs are gone. His eyes are shining with horror, guilt. Hatred for himself. "I could have killed you," he says. There's a sort of pleading in his voice.
I say the only thing that I know to be true. "I would have let you."
