City of Fallen Angels by Cassandra Clare

stench of gasoline. But it was the gnawing worry about what to do next that was the worst.
    He’d thrown away most of his blood supply and stashed the rest in his knapsack; he had about enough for a few more days, and then he’d be in trouble. Eric, wherever he was, would certainly let Simon stay in the house if he wanted, but that might result in Eric’s parents calling Simon’s mom. And since she thought he was on a school field trip, that would do him no good at all.
    Days, he thought. That was the amount of time he had. Before he ran out of blood, before his mother started to wonder where he was and called the school looking for him. Before she started to remember. He was a vampire now. He was supposed to have eternity. But what he had was days.
    He had been so careful. Tried so hard for what he thought of as a normal life—school, friends, his own house, his own bedroom. It had been strained, but that was what life
was
. Other options seemed so bleak and lonely that they didn’t bear thinking about. And yet Camille’s voice rang in his head.
What about in ten years, when you are supposed to be twenty-six? In twenty years? Thirty? Do you think no one will notice that as they age and change, you do not?
    The situation he had created for himself, had carved so carefully in the shape of his old life, had never been permanent, he thought now, with a sinking in his chest. It never could have been. He’d been clinging to shadows and memories. He thought again of Camille, of her offer. It sounded better now than it had before. An offer of a community, even if it wasn’t the community he wanted. He had only about three more days before she’d come looking for his answer. And what would he tell her when she did? He’d thought he knew, but now he wasn’t so sure.
    A grinding noise interrupted his reverie. The garage door was ratcheting upward, bright light spearing into the dark interior of the space. Simon sat up, his whole body suddenly on the alert.
    “Eric?”
    “Nah. It’s me. Kyle.”
    “Kyle?” Simon said blankly, before he remembered—the guy they’d agreed to take on as a lead singer. Simon almost flopped back down onto the ground again. “Oh. Right. None of the other guys are here right now, so if you were hoping to practice…”
    “It’s cool. That’s not why I came.” Kyle stepped into the garage, blinking in the darkness, his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “You’re whatshisname, the bassist, right?”
    Simon got to his feet, brushing garage floor dust off his clothes. “I’m Simon.”
    Kyle glanced around, a perplexed furrow between his brows. “I left my keys here yesterday, I think. Been looking for them everywhere. Hey, there they are.” He ducked behind the drum set and emerged a second later, rattling a set of keys triumphantly in his hand. He looked much the same as he had the day before. He had a blue T-shirt on today under a leather jacket, and a gold saint’s medal sparkled around his neck. His dark hair was messier than ever. “So,” Kyle said, leaning against one of the speakers. “Were you, like, sleeping here? On the floor?”
    Simon nodded. “Got thrown out of my house.” It wasn’t precisely true, but it was all he felt like saying.
    Kyle nodded sympathetically. “Mom found your weed stash, huh? That sucks.”
    “No. No … weed stash.” Simon shrugged. “We had a difference of opinion about my lifestyle.”
    “So, she found out about your two girlfriends?” Kyle grinned. He was good-looking, Simon had to admit, but unlike Jace, who seemed to know exactly how good-looking he was, Kyle looked like someone who probably hadn’t brushed his hair in weeks. There was an open, friendly puppyishness about him that was appealing, though. “Yeah, Kirk told me about it. Good for you, man.”
    Simon shook his head. “It wasn’t that.”
    There was a short silence between them. Then:
    “I … don’t live at home either,” Kyle said. “I left a couple of