Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy Page 15

  “A round of applause for our esteemed guest,” Catarina said.

  This was given, and Tessa stepped down and went over to a man, who kissed her lightly on the cheek. He was slender, and very elegant, dressed in black and white. His black hair had one single white streak in it, completing the dichromatic look.

  Memories assailed Simon, some easy to access, some hidden behind the frustrating web of forgetfulness. Jem had been at Luke and Jocelyn’s wedding as well. The way that he smiled at Tessa, and she back at him, made it clear what their relationship was—they were in love, of the realest, truest kind.

  Simon thought of Tessa’s story, of the Jem who had been a Silent Brother, and had been a part of her life so long ago. Silent Brothers did live a long time, and Simon’s foggy memory did recall something about one who had been returned to normal mortal life by heavenly fire. Which meant that Jem had lived in the Silent City for more than a hundred years, until his service was over. He had returned to life to live with his immortal love.

  Now that was a complicated relationship. It made a little memory loss and former vampire status seem almost normal.

  Dinner that night was a new culinary terror: Mexican food. There were roast chickens, or pollo asado, with the feathers still on, and square tortillas.

  Jace didn’t appear. Simon didn’t have to look around for him, as the entire cafeteria was on alert. Had there been a sighting of his mighty blond head, Simon would have heard the intake of breath. Dinner was followed by two hours of mandatory study in the library. After all that, Simon and George returned to their room, only to find Jace standing by the door.

  “Evening,” he said.

  “Seriously,” Simon said. “How long have you been lurking here?”

  “I wanted to talk to you.” Jace had his hands stuffed in his pockets and was leaning against the wall, looking like an advertisement for a fashion magazine. “Alone.”

  “People will say we’re in love,” Simon said.

  “You could come into our room,” George said. “If you want to talk. If it’s private, I can put earplugs in.”

  “I’m not going in there,” Jace said, glancing in the open doorway. “That room is so damp you could probably hatch frogs on the walls.”

  “Ah, that’ll be in my head now,” George said. “I hate frogs.”

  “So what do you want?” Simon said.

  Jace smiled lightly.

  “George, go inside the room,” Simon said, a bit apologetically. “I’ll be right in.”

  George ducked into their bedroom and shut the door behind him. Simon was now alone with Jace in a long corridor, which was a situation he felt like he’d been in before.

  “Thank you,” Jace said, surprisingly directly. “You were right about Tessa.”

  “She’s related to you?”

  “I went to talk to her.” Jace looked shyly pleased, as if a small light inside him had been turned on. It was the sort of expression that would, Simon suspected, have slain adolescent girls in their tracks. “She’s my great-great-great-something-grandmother. She was married to Will Herondale. I’ve learned about him before. He was part of stopping a massive demon invasion into Britain. She and Will were the first Herondales to run the London Institute. I mean, it isn’t anything I didn’t know, historically, but it’s— Well, as far as I know, there isn’t anyone alive who shares blood with me. But Tessa does.”

  Simon leaned back against the wall of the corridor. “Did you tell Clary?”

  “Yeah, I was on the phone with her for a couple of hours. She said Tessa hinted at some of this stuff during Luke and Jocelyn’s wedding, but she didn’t come right out and say it. She didn’t want me to feel burdened.”

  “Do you?” Simon said. “Feel burdened, that is.”

  “No,” Jace said. “I feel like there’s someone else who understands what it means to be a Herondale. Both the good parts and the bad. I worried because of my father—that maybe being a Herondale meant I was weak. And then I learned more and thought maybe I was expected to be some kind of hero.”

  “Yeah,” Simon said. “I know what that’s like.”

  They shared a small moment of bizarre, companionable silence—the boy who’d forgotten everything about his history, and the boy who’d never known it.

  Simon broke the silence. “Are you going to see her again? Tessa?”

  “She says she’s going to take me and Clary on a tour of the Herondale house in Idris.”

  “Did you meet Jem, too?”

  “We’ve met before,” said Jace. “In the Basilias, in Idris. You don’t remember, but I—”

  “Stopped him being a Silent Brother,” said Simon. “I do remember that.”

  “We talked in Idris,” said Jace. “A lot of what he said makes more sense to me now.”

  “So you’re happy,” Simon said.

  “I’m happy,” said Jace. “I mean, I’ve been happy, really, since the Dark War ended. I’ve got Clary, and I’ve got my family. The only dark spot’s been you. Not remembering Clary, or Izzy. Or me.”

  “So sorry to mess up your life with my inconvenient amnesia,” Simon muttered.

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” Jace said. “I meant I wish you remembered me because—” He sighed. “Forget it.”

  “Look, Herondale, you owe me one now. Wait out here.”

  “For how long?” Jace looked aggrieved.

  “As long as it takes.” Simon ducked into his room and shut the door. George, who had been lying in bed studying, looked glum when Simon informed him that Jace was lurking in the hall.

  “He’s making me nervous now,” George said. “Who’d want Jace Herondale following them around, being all mysterious and taciturn and blond. . . . Oh, right. Probably loads of people. Still, I wish he wouldn’t.”

  Simon didn’t bother to lock the bedroom door, partially because there were no locks at Shadowhunter Academy, and partially because if Jace decided to come in and stand over Simon’s bed all night, he was going to do that, lock or no.

  “He must want something?” George said, stripping off his rugby shirt and throwing it into the corner of the room. “Is this a test? Are we going to have to fight Jace in the middle of the night? Si, not to bag on our awesome demon-fighting prowess, but I do not think that is a fight we can win.”

  “I don’t think so,” Simon said, dropping down onto his bed, which dropped much farther than it should have. That was definitely at least two springs breaking.

  They got ready for bed. As usual, in the dark, they talked about the mold and the many zoological possibilities crawling around them in the dark. He heard George turn toward the wall, the signal that he was about to sleep and the nightly chat was over.

  Simon was awake, hands behind his head, body still achingly sore from the fall out of the tree.

  “Do you mind if I turn on a light?” he asked.

  “Nae, go ahead. I can barely see it anyway.”

  They still said “turn on a light” like they were flicking a switch. They had candles at the Academy—nubby little candles that seemed to have been specially made to produce as little light as possible. Simon fumbled around on the small stand next to his bed and found his matches and lit his candle, which he pulled into the bed with him, balancing it on his lap in a way that was probably unsafe. One good thing about the floor of ultimate moisture was that it was unlikely to catch fire. He could still be burned, if the candle overturned in his lap, but it was the only way he would be able to see to write. He reached again for some paper and a pen. No texting here. No typing. Real pen to paper was required. He made a makeshift desk out of a book and began to write:

  Dear Isabelle . . .

  Should he start with “dear”? It was the way you started letters, but now that he saw it, it looked weird and old-fashioned and maybe too intimate.

  He got a new piece of paper.

  Isabelle . . .

  Well, that looked stark. Like he was angry, just saying her name like that.

&nbs
p; Another paper.

  Izzy,

  Nope. Definitely not. They were not at pet names yet. How the hell did you start a letter like this? Simon considered a casual “Hey . . .” or maybe just forgetting the salutation and getting right to the message. Texting was so much easier than this.

  He picked up the paper that started with “Isabelle” again. It was the middle choice. He would have to go with that.

  Isabelle,

  I fell out of a tree today.

  I’m thinking of you while I’m in my moldy bed.

  I saw Jace today. He may develop food poisoning. Just wanted you to know.

  I’m Batman.

  I’m trying to figure out how to write this letter.

  Okay. That was a possible start, and true.

  Let me tell you something you already know—you’re amazing. You know it. I know it. Anyone can see that. Here’s the problem—I don’t know what I am. I have to figure out who I am before I can accept that I’m someone who deserves someone like you. It’s not something I can accept just because I’ve heard it. I need to know that guy. And I know I am that guy you loved—I just have to meet him.

  I’m trying to figure out how that happens. I guess it happens here, in this school where they try to kill you every day. I think it takes time. I know things that take time are annoying. I know it’s hard. But I have to get there the hard way.

  This letter is probably stupid. I don’t know if you’re still reading. I don’t know if you’re going to rip this up or slice it in half with your whip or what.

  All of that came out in one solid flow. He tapped the pen against his forehead for a minute.

  I’m going to give this to Jace to give to you. He’s been trailing me around all day like some kind of Jacey shadow. He’s either here to make sure I don’t die, or to make sure I die, or maybe because of you. Maybe you sent him.

  I don’t know. He’s Jace. Who knows what he’s doing? I’m going to give this to him. He may read it before it gets to you. Jace, if you’re reading this, I’m pretty sure you’re going to get food poisoning. Do not use the bathrooms.

  It wasn’t romantic, but he decided to leave it in. It might make Isabelle laugh.

  If you are reading this, Jace, stop now.

  Izzy—I don’t know why you would wait for me, but if you do, I promise to make myself worth that wait. Or I’ll try. I can promise I am going to try.

  —Simon

  Simon opened the door and was not surprised to find Jace standing outside of it.

  “Here,” Simon said, handing him the letter.

  “Took you long enough,” Jace said.

  “Now we’re even,” said Simon. “Go party in the Herondale house with your weird family.”

  “I plan to,” said Jace, and smiled a sudden, strangely endearing smile. He had a chipped tooth. The smile made him seem like he was Simon’s age, and maybe they were friends after all. “Good night, Wiggles.”

  “Wiggles?”

  “Yes, Wiggles. Your nickname? It’s what you always made us call you. I almost forgot your name was Simon, I’m so used to calling you Wiggles.”

  “Wiggles? What does that . . . even mean?”

  “You would never explain,” Jace said with a shrug. “It was the big mystery about you. As I said, good night, Wiggles. I’ll take care of this.”

  He held up the letter and used it to make a salute.

  Simon shut the door. He knew most people on the hall had probably done everything they could to make sure they heard that exchange. He knew that in the morning he would be called Wiggles and there was nothing he would ever be able to do about it.

  But it was a small price to pay to get a letter to Isabelle.

  Nothing but Shadows

  By Cassandra Clare and Sarah Rees Brennan

  The world transformed into sliding grayness, everything still moving slower than James was. Everything was sliding and insubstantial: The battering ram came at him and through him, unable to hurt him; it was like being splashed with water. James lifted a hand and saw the gray air full of stars.

  —Nothing but Shadows

  I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them to be real.

  —Oscar Wilde

  Shadowhunter Academy, 2008

  The afternoon sunlight was streaming warm through the arrow-slit windows of their classroom, painting the gray stone walls yellow. The elites and the dregs alike were sleepy from a long morning of training with Scarsbury, and Catarina Loss was giving them a history lesson. History applied to both the elites and the dregs, so they could all learn of the glory of the Shadowhunters and aspire to be a part of that glory. In this class, Simon thought, none of them seemed that different from each other—not that they were all united in aspiring to glory, but they were all equally glazed with boredom.

  Until Marisol answered a question correctly, and Jon Cartwright kicked the back of her chair.

  “Awesome,” Simon hissed behind his book. “That’s really cool behavior. Congratulations, Jon. Every time a mundie answers a question wrong, you say it’s because they can’t rise to the level of Shadowhunters. And every time one of us answers a question right, you punish them. I have to admire your consistency.”

  George Lovelace leaned back in his chair and grinned, feeding Simon his next line. “I don’t see how that’s consistent, Si.”

  “Well, he’s consistently a jackass,” Simon explained.

  “I can think of a few other words for him,” George remarked. “But some of them cannot be used around ladies, and some of them are Gaelic and cannot be understood by you mad foreigners.”

  Jon looked upset. Possibly he was upset that their chairs were too far away to kick.

  “I just think she shouldn’t speak out of turn,” he said.

  “It’s true that if you mundies listened to us Shadowhunters,” said Julie, “you might learn something.”

  “If you Shadowhunters ever listened,” said Sunil, a mundie boy who lived down the (slimy) hall from George and Simon, “you might learn a few things yourself.”

  Voices were rising. Catarina was beginning to look very annoyed. Simon gestured to Marisol and Jon to be quiet, but they both ignored him. Simon felt the same way as when he and Clary had set a fire in his kitchen by trying to toast grapes and create raisins when they were six: amazed and appalled that things had gone wrong so fast.

  Then he realized that was a new memory. He grinned at the thought of Clary with exploded grape in her red hair, and let the classroom situation escalate.

  “I’ll teach you some lessons down in the training grounds,” Jon snapped. “I could challenge you to a duel. Watch your mouth.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” remarked Marisol.

  “Oh, hey now,” said Beatriz. “Duels with fourteen-year-olds are a bad idea.”

  Everyone looked with scorn upon Beatriz, the voice of reason.

  Marisol sniffed. “Not a duel. A challenge. If the elites beat us in a challenge, then they get to speak out first in class for a week. If we beat them, then they hold their tongues.”

  “I’ll do it, and you’ll be sorry you ever suggested it, mundie. What’s the challenge?” Jon asked. “Staff, sword, bow, dagger work, a horse race, a boxing match? I’m ready!”

  Marisol smiled sweetly. “Baseball.”

  Cue mass puzzlement and panicked looks among the Shadowhunters.

  “I’m not ready,” George whispered. “I’m not American and I don’t play baseball. Is it like cricket, Si? Or more like hurling?”

  “You have a sport called hurling in Scotland?” Simon whispered back. “What do you hurl? Potatoes? Small children? Weird.”

  “I’ll explain later,” said George.

  “I’ll explain baseball,” said Marisol with a glint in her eye.

  Simon had the feeling Marisol was going to be a terrifying, tiny expert on baseball, the same way she was at fencing. He also had the feeling the elite stream was in for a surprise.

  “And I will explain h
ow a demonic plague almost wiped out the Shadowhunters,” said Catarina loudly from the front of the class. “Or I would, if my students would stop bickering and listen for one minute!”

  Everybody went very quiet, and listened meekly about the plague. It was only when the lesson ended that everyone started talking about the baseball game again. Simon had at least played before, so he was hurrying to put away his books and go outside when Catarina said: “Daylighter. Wait.”

  “Really, ‘Simon’ would be fine,” Simon told her.

  “The elite kids are trying to replicate the school they have heard about from their parents,” Catarina said. “Mundie students are meant to be seen and not heard, to soak up the privilege of being among Shadowhunters and prepare for their Ascension or death in a spirit of humility. Except you really have been stirring up trouble among them.”

  Simon blinked. “Are you telling me not to be so hard on the Shadowhunters, because it’s just the way they were raised?”

  “Be as hard on the smug little idiots as you like,” said Catarina. “It’s good for them. I’m just telling you so you realize what an effect you’re having—and what an effect you could have. You’re in an almost unique position, Daylighter. I only know of one other student who dropped from the elites to the dregs—not counting Lovelace, who would have been in the dregs from the beginning if the Nephilim didn’t make smug assumptions. But then, smug assumptions are their favorite thing.”

  That had the effect Catarina must have known it would. Simon stopped trying to fit his copy of The Shadowhunter’s Codex into his bag and sat down. The rest of the class would take some time to prepare before they actually had the baseball game. Simon could spare a little while.