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  His voice rang out against the stone ceiling. There were a lot of young kids staring at him. One was little Marisol, regarding him with a startled, thoughtful expression. Nobody said anything. They just looked.

  “Okay, I’ve said all I had to say, I’m feeling bashful, and I’m gonna go now,” Simon said, and fled the room.

  He almost walked right into Catarina Loss, who had been watching from the doorway.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  “Don’t be,” Catarina said. “In fact, I’m going to come with you. I’ll help you pack.”

  “What?” Simon asked, hurrying after her. “I actually have to move?”

  “Yeah, they put the dregs in the underground level,” Catarina said.

  “They put some kids in the dungeons, and nobody has ever pointed out that this is a disgusting system before now?”

  “Is it?” asked Catarina. “Do tell me more about the Shadowhunters, and their occasional tendency to be unfair. I will find it fascinating and surprising. Their excuse is that the lower levels are easier to defend, for the kids who cannot fight as well as their fellow students.”

  She strode into Simon’s room and looked around for his things.

  “I actually haven’t unpacked very much,” Simon said. “I was afraid of the possum in the wardrobe.”

  “The what?”

  “George and I found it very mysterious too,” Simon told her earnestly, picking up his bag and stuffing in the few things he had left lying out. He wouldn’t want to forget his lady gear.

  “Well,” Catarina said. “Whatever about possums. The point I want to make is . . . I may have gotten you wrong, Simon.”

  Simon blinked. “Oh?”

  Catarina smiled at him. It was astonishing, like a blue sunrise. “I was not looking forward to coming to teach here. Shadowhunters and Downworlders do not get along, and I try to keep myself more separated from the Nephilim even than most others of my kind. But I had a dear friend called Ragnor Fell, who used to live in Idris and taught in the Academy for decades before it was closed. He never had the greatest opinion of Shadowhunters, but he was fond of this place. I—lost him recently, and I knew this place could not operate without teachers. I wanted to do something in memory of him, even though I hated the idea of teaching a pack of arrogant Nephilim brats. But I loved my friend more than I hate Shadowhunters.”

  Simon nodded. He thought of his remembrance of Jordan, thought of how it hurt to even look at Isabelle and Clary. Without memory, they were lost. And nobody wanted someone they loved to be lost.

  “So I may have been a little cranky about coming,” Catarina admitted. “I may have been a little cranky about you, because—from all I know, you didn’t think much of being a vampire. And now you’re cured, what a miracle, and the Shadowhunters are so quick to pull you into the fold. You truly get to be one of them, what you always wanted. You had the stain of being one of us wiped away.”

  “I didn’t . . . ,” Simon said, and swallowed. “I can’t remember it all. So it’s like defending the actions of someone else sometimes.”

  “Must be frustrating.”

  Simon laughed. “You have no idea. I don’t—I didn’t want to be a vampire, I don’t think. I wouldn’t want to be made one again. Being stuck at age sixteen when all my friends and my family would’ve grown up without me; having the urge to—to hurt people? I didn’t want any of that. But—look, I don’t remember much, but I remember enough. I remember I was a person back then, just as much as I am now. Becoming a Shadowhunter won’t change that, if I ever do become a Shadowhunter. I’ve forgotten enough. I will not forget that.”

  He lifted his bag onto his shoulder, and gestured for Catarina to lead the way to his new room. She did, descending down stone steps Simon had figured were to the basement. He had not figured they kept kids in the basement.

  It was dark on the stairs. Simon put a hand to the wall to steady himself, and then snatched it back.

  “Oh, disgusting!”

  “Yes, most of the subterranean surfaces are coated in black slime,” said Catarina, in a matter-of-fact tone. “Watch yourself.”

  “Thank you. Thanks for that warning.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Catarina, a hint of a laugh in her voice. For the first time, it occurred to Simon that Catarina might actually be nice. “You said—if you ever do become a Shadowhunter. Are you thinking about leaving?”

  “Now that I’ve touched the slime, I am,” Simon muttered. “No. I don’t know what I want, except that I don’t want to give up yet.”

  He almost reconsidered when Catarina led him to his room. It was much darker than the last room, though laid out in the same way. The wooden bedposts of the two narrow beds looked decayed, and in the corners of the room the black slime had grown almost viscous, turning into tiny black slime waterfalls.

  “I don’t remember hell all that well,” Simon said. “But I think I recall it was nicer than this.”

  Catarina laughed, then shocked Simon by leaning in and giving him a peck on the cheek. “Good luck, Daylighter,” she told him, laughing at his expression. “And whatever you do, don’t use the bathrooms on this floor. Not on any floor, obviously, but especially on this one!”

  Simon did not ask her to explain, because he was terrified. He sat down on his new bed, and then stood hastily back up at the resulting long creak and cloud of dust. Hey, at least this time he didn’t have a roommate—he was king of this claustrophobic, slimy domain. He set his mind to unpacking. The wardrobe in this room was actually clean and empty, which was a definite improvement. Simon might go live in the wardrobe with his funny T-shirts.

  He was long finished unpacking by the time George sauntered in, dragging his suitcase behind him and bearing his broken racket on his shoulder like a sword. “Hey, man.”

  “Hey,” Simon said cautiously. “Er, what—what are you doing here?”

  George dumped his suitcase and his racket on the slimy floor, and threw himself down on the bed. He stretched luxuriously, ignoring the ominous creak of the bed beneath him.

  “The thing is, the advanced course is actually pretty hard,” George said, as Simon started to smile. “And you may have heard: Lovelaces are quitters.”

  * * *

  Simon was even more relieved to have George the next day, so they could sit together rather than at one of the tables of thirteen-year-old mundanes, who were all giving them the side-eye when they were not whispering brokenly about their phones.

  The day brightened further when Beatriz plopped down at their new table as well.

  “I’m not going to drop out of advanced training to follow you around like Curlytop here,” Beatriz announced, “but we can still be friends, right?”

  She pulled George’s hair affectionately.

  “Be careful,” George said in a tired, humble voice. “I did not sleep in our small, slimy room. There is, I believe, a creature living in our walls. I hear it. Scuttling. I have to admit, I may not have made the brightest decision in following Simon. It’s possible I’m not that bright. It’s possible that looks are all I have.”

  “Actually . . . even though I’m not willing to follow you into boring classes and the endless disrespect of my classmates . . . I think it was a very cool thing you did, Simon,” said Beatriz.

  She smiled, teeth flashing white against her brown skin, and her smile was warm and admiring,—about the nicest thing Simon had seen all day.

  “You’re right, our morals are sound even though our walls are infested. And we’ll still have some interesting classes, Si,” George said. “Plus, don’t worry, we still get sent on missions to fight demons and rogue Downworlders.”

  Simon choked on his soup. “I was not worrying about that. Are any of our teachers at all worried that sending out people with no superpowers to fight demons might prove just a teeny bit, not to put too fine a po
int on it, fatal?”

  “They have to face trials of courage before they must face Ascension,” said Beatriz. “Better for them to drop out because they are scared, or even because a demon ate their leg, than to have them try to Ascend without being suitable, and die in the attempt.”

  “That’s a cool, cheerful, and normal thing to say,” Simon said. “Shadowhunters are great at saying normal things.”

  “Well, I’m looking forward to the missions,” said George. “And tomorrow a Shadowhunter is coming in to give a guest lecture on the lesser utilized weapons. I hope there’ll be a practical demonstration.”

  “Not in a classroom,” said Beatriz. “Think of what one heavy-duty crossbow could do to the walls.”

  That was all the warning Simon got before he clattered happily into class the next day, George on his heels, and found Dean Penhallow already there, talking with nervous good cheer. The classroom was very full—both the regular stream and the mundane stream were in attendance.

  “—despite her tender years, a Shadowhunter of some renown and noted expertise with less used weapons such as the whip. May I welcome to Shadowhunter Academy our first guest lecturer: Isabelle Lightwood!”

  Isabelle turned, sleek black hair flaring around her shoulders and black skirt flaring around her pale legs. She was wearing glittery plum lipstick, so dark it looked almost black. Her eyes did look black, but another small knife of memory pierced Simon, of course at the worst time possible: he remembered the colors of her eyes from close up, very dark brown, like brown velvet, so close to black as to make no difference, but with paler rings of color . . .

  He stumbled over to his desk, and folded into his chair with a thump.

  * * *

  When the dean left, Isabelle turned and regarded her class with absolute contempt.

  “I am not actually here to instruct any of you idiots,” she told them, walking up and down the rows of desks. “If you want to use a whip, train with one, and if you lose an ear, don’t be a big whiny baby.”

  Several of the boys nodded, as if hypnotized. Almost all the boys were watching Isabelle as if they were a nest of snakes intent on being charmed. Some of the girls were watching her that way too.

  “I am here,” Isabelle announced, finishing her prowl of the perimeter and turning to face them all again with snapping eyes, “to determine my relationship.”

  Simon goggled. She couldn’t be talking about him. Could she?

  “Do you see that man?” Isabelle asked, pointing at Simon. Apparently she was talking about him. “That’s Simon Lewis, and he is my boyfriend. So if any of you think about trying to hurt him because he’s a mundie or—may the Angel have mercy on your soul—pursuing him romantically, I will come after you, I will hunt you down, and I will crush you to powder.”

  “We’re just bros,” said George hastily.

  Beatriz edged her desk away from Simon’s.

  Isabelle lowered her hand. The flush of excitement was receding from her face as well, as though she had come to say what she had said, and now that she was out of adrenaline she was actually processing what had come out of her mouth.

  “I am going to go now,” Isabelle announced. “Thank you for your attention. Class dismissed.”

  She turned and walked out of the room.

  “I have to—” Simon began, rising from his desk on legs that felt a little unsteady. “I have to go.”

  “Yeah, you do,” George said.

  Simon went out the door, and ran down the stone corridors of the Academy. He knew Isabelle was fast, so he ran, faster than he’d ever run on the training grounds, and he caught up to her in the hall. She stopped in the dim light of the stained-glass window as he called her name.

  “Isabelle!”

  She stood waiting for him. Her lips parted and gleamed, like plums under a winter frost, ready to be tasted. Simon could see himself running up to her, catching her in his arms, and kissing her mouth, knowing what it had taken for her to do that—his brave, brilliant Isabelle—and carried away in a whirl of love and joy, but he saw it as if through a pane of glass, as if looking into another dimension, one he could see but not quite touch.

  Simon felt a hot pang of grief through his whole body, not just through his chest, as if he had been struck by lightning. But he had to say it.

  “I’m not your boyfriend, Isabelle,” he called out.

  She went white. Simon was horrified by how badly his words had come out.

  “I mean, I can’t be your boyfriend, Isabelle,” he said. “I’m not him—that guy who was your boyfriend. That guy you want.”

  He almost said: I wish I could be. He had wished he could be. That was why he had come to the Academy, to learn how to be that guy they all wanted back. He’d wanted to be that way, be an awesome hero like in a game or a movie. He’d been so sure, at first, that was what he wanted.

  Except wishing he could be that guy was like wishing to obliterate the guy he was now: the normal, happy guy in a band, who could still love his mother, who did not wake up in the coldest, darkest hour of the night weeping for dead friends.

  And he did not know if he could be that guy she wanted, whether he wished it or not.

  “You remember everything, and I—I don’t remember enough,” Simon went on. “I hurt you when I don’t mean to, and I thought I could come to the Academy and come back better, but it’s not looking good. The whole game has changed. My skill level has decreased and the difficulty level has been jacked up to impossible—”

  “Simon,” Isabelle interrupted, “you’re talking like a nerd.”

  She said it almost fondly, but it freaked Simon out more. “And I don’t know how to be smooth, sexy vampire Simon for you, either!”

  Isabelle’s perfect mouth curved, like a dark half-moon in her pale face. “You were never that smooth, Simon.”

  “Oh,” said Simon. “Oh, thank God. I know you’ve had a lot of boyfriends. I remember there was a faerie, and”—another flash of memory, this time most unwelcome—“a . . . Lord Montgomery? You dated a member of the nobility? How am I ever going to compete with that?”

  Isabelle still looked fond, but it was diluted with a good deal of impatience. “You’re Lord Montgomery, Simon!”

  “I don’t understand,” said Simon. “When you’re made a vampire, are you also given a title?”

  Maybe that made sense. Vampires were aristocratic.

  Isabelle put her fingers up to touch her brow. It was a gesture that seemed like disdainful weariness, like Isabelle was tired of all this, but Simon saw the way her eyes closed, as if she could not look at him when she spoke. “It was just a joke between you and me, Simon.”

  Simon was tired of all this: of knowing pieces of her so well and others not at all, of knowing he was not what she wanted.

  “No,” he said. “It was a joke between you and him.”

  “You are him, Simon!”

  “I’m not,” Simon told her. “I don’t—I don’t know how to be, that’s what I’ve been realizing all this time. I thought I could learn to be him, but since I got to the Academy I learned that I can’t. I can’t experience everything we did over again. I’m never going to be the guy who did all that. I’m going to do different things. I’m going to be a different guy.”

  “Once you Ascend, you’ll get all your memories back!” Isabelle shouted at him.

  “If I Ascend, it will be in two years. I’m not going to be the same guy in two years, even if I do get all the memories back, because there will be so many other memories. You’re not going to be the same girl. I know you believed in me, Isabelle, I know you believed because you—you cared about him. That means more than I can tell you. But, Isabelle, Isabelle, it isn’t fair of me to take advantage of your belief. It isn’t fair to keep you waiting for him, when he isn’t ever coming back.”

  Isabelle had her arms cross
ed, fingers curled into the dark plum velvet of her own jacket as if she was offering herself comfort. “None of this is fair. It isn’t fair that part of your life was ripped from you. It’s not fair that you were ripped away from me. I’m so angry, Simon.”

  Simon took a step toward her and took one of her hands, uncurling her fingers from her jacket. He did not take her in his arms but he stood a little distance away from her, their hands linked across the distance. Her trembling mouth sparkled, and so did her eyelashes. He did not know if this was indomitable Isabelle crying, or whether it was sparkly mascara. All he knew was that she shone, like a constellation in the shape of a girl.

  “Isabelle,” he said. “Isabelle.”

  She was so much herself, and he had scarcely any idea who he was.

  “Do you know why you’re here?” she demanded.

  He just looked at her. There were so many things that question could mean, and so many ways to answer.

  “I mean at the Academy,” she said. “Do you know why you want to be a Shadowhunter?”

  He hesitated. “I wanted to be that guy again,” he said. “That hero that you all remember . . . and this seems like a training school for heroes.”

  “It’s not,” Isabelle said flatly. “It’s a training school for Shadowhunters. And yeah, I think that’s a pretty cool thing, and yeah, I think protecting the world is pretty heroic. But there are cowardly Shadowhunters and evil Shadowhunters and hopeless Shadowhunters. If you’re going to get through the Academy, you have to figure out why you want to be a Shadowhunter and what that means to you, Simon. Not just why you want to be special.”

  He winced, but it was true. “You’re right. I don’t know. I know that I want to be here. I know I need to be here. Believe me, if you’d seen the bathrooms, you’d know I didn’t make this decision lightly.”

  She gave him a withering look.

  “But,” he said, “I don’t know why. I don’t know myself well enough yet. I know what I said to you, at first, and I know what you hoped. That I could turn back into who I was before. I was really wrong and I am really sorry.”