The Fiery Trial Read Free Page B

seemed to have an odor. There was no garbage, though, and no smells of food or traffic. This was elemental New York. This was the island itself.
    “I feel a little weird,” Simon said. “Maybe I should have finished dinner. And now that I’ve just said that, I know there must be something wrong with me.”
    “You need to eat,” Clary said, giving him a light punch. “You’re turning into a big muscle man.”
    “You noticed?”
    “It’s hard not to notice, Superman. You’re like the after photo on some commercial for home workout equipment.”
    Simon blushed and looked away. It wasn’t snowing anymore. It was just dark and open, with many trees around. There was a bright bitterness to the cold.
    “Where do you think we are?” Clary said. “I’m guessing about . . . midway?”
    Simon knew it was possible to walk for some time in Central Park without really having a sense of where you are. The paths wind. The trees create a canopy. The land goes up and down in sharp inclines and declines.
    “Over there,” he said, pointing at a low pattern of shadows. “It opens up over there. It’s the entrance to something. Let’s go that way and look.”
    Clary rubbed her hands together and huddled against the cold. Simon wished he had a coat to offer her, almost more than he wished he had a coat to offer himself. Still, being cold in New York was better than being cold in the Academy. He had to admit, though, that Idris was more temperate. New York weather went to more extremes. This was the kind of cold that would give you frostbite if you stayed out in it too long. They probably needed to figure out where they were and get out of the park and into a building—any building. A store, a coffee shop, whatever they could find.
    They walked toward the opening, which revealed itself to be a collection of elaborately carved stone plinths. There were several of these, in sets. Eventually they led to an equally elaborately carved staircase that bent on its way down to a wide terrace with a massive fountain. There was a lake just beyond, covered in ice.
    “Bethesda Terrace,” Simon said, nodding. “That’s where we are. That’s in the Seventies, right?”
    “Seventy-Second,” Clary said. “I’ve drawn it before.”
    The terrace was just a large, ornamental area inside of the park and not really somewhere to be on a cold night—but it seemed to be the only place to be. If they walked toward it, at least they would know where they were, as opposed to wandering around in the trees and looping paths. They walked down the stairs together. Strangely, the fountain was going tonight. It was often turned off in the winter, and certainly when it was freezing cold. But the water flowed freely, and there was no ice on the water in the fountain base. The lights were on and all focused on the statue of the angel that stood in the middle of the fountain on top of two layered tiers and four tiny cherubs.
    “Maybe Magnus did mess up,” she said.
    Clary walked right up to the low edge of the fountain, sat down, and wrapped her arms around herself. Simon stared at the fountain. Funny, he thought, how they hadn’t noticed any lights a few minutes ago as they approached. Maybe they’d just come on. The angel of the Bethesda Fountain was one of the most famous statues in all of Central Park—wings extended, water pouring off her outstretched hands.
    He turned his head back down to tell Clary to look at the statue, but Clary was gone. He spun around, a full rotation. She was nowhere in sight.
    “Clary?” he called.
    There were no real places to conceal yourself on the terrace, and he’d looked away for only a moment. He walked halfway around the base of the fountain, calling her name several times. He looked up at the statue again. Same statue, looking down benevolently, water still dripping from her hands.
    Except the statue was facing him. And he’d walked to the other side. He should have been looking at the back of it. He