James knew this must be a warlock. In fact, he knew who it must be: the former High Warlock of London, Ragnor Fell, who lived part-time in the countryside outside Alicante, and who had agreed this year that he would teach in the Academy as a diversion from his magical studies.
James knew warlocks were good people, the allies of the Shadowhunters. Father often talked about his friend Magnus Bane, who had been kind to him when he was young.
Father had never mentioned whether Magnus Bane was green. James had never thought to inquire. Now he was rather urgently wondering.
“Which one of you is Christopher Lightwood?” Ragnor Fell asked in a stern voice. His gaze swept them all, and landed on the most guilty-looking person in the group. “Is it you?”
“Thank the Angel, no,” Thomas exclaimed, and went red under his summer tan. “No offense, Christopher.”
“Oh, none taken,” said Christopher airily. He blinked up at Ragnor, as if the tall, scary green man had entirely escaped his notice up until this moment. “Hello, sir.”
“Are you Christopher Lightwood?” Ragnor asked, somewhat menacingly.
Christopher’s wandering attention became focused on a tree. “Hm? I think so.”
Ragnor glared down at Christopher’s flyaway brown hair. James was beginning to be afraid he would erupt like a green volcano.
“Are you not certain, Mr. Lightwood? Did you perhaps have an unfortunate encounter when you were an infant?”
“Hm?” said Christopher.
Ragnor’s voice rose. “Was the encounter between your infant head and a floor?”
That was when Matthew Fairchild said, “Sir,” and smiled.
James had forgotten about The Smile, even though it was often broken out to great effect at family parties. The Smile won Matthew extra time before bed, extra Christmas pudding, extra anything he wanted. Adults were helpless to resist The Smile.
Matthew gave his all to this particular smile. Butter melted. Birds sang. People slipped about dazed amid the butter and birdsong.
“Sir, you will have to forgive Christopher. He’s a trifle absentminded, but he is definitely Christopher. It would be very difficult to mistake Christopher for anyone else. I vouch for him, and he can’t deny it.”
The Smile worked on Ragnor, as it worked on all adults. He unbent a tiny bit. “Are you Matthew Fairchild?”
Matthew’s smile became more playful. “I could deny it if I liked. I could deny anything if I liked. But my name certainly is Matthew. It has been Matthew for years.”
“What?” Ragnor Fell looked as if he had fallen into a pit of lunatics and could not get out.
James cleared his throat. “He’s quoting Oscar Wilde, sir.”
Matthew glanced over at him, his dark eyes suddenly wide. “Are you a devotee of Oscar Wilde?”
“He’s a good writer,” James said coldly. “There are a lot of good writers. I read rather a lot,” he added, making it clear that he was certain Matthew did not.
“Gentlemen,” Ragnor Fell put in, his voice a dagger. “If you could tear yourselves away from your fascinating literary conversation for a moment and listen to one of the instructors in the establishment where you have supposedly come to learn? I have a letter here about Christopher Lightwood and the unfortunate incident that caused the Clave such concern.”
“Yes, that was a very unfortunate accident,” said Matthew, nodding earnestly as if he was sure of Ragnor’s sympathy.
“And that was not the word I used, Mr. Fairchild, as I am sure you are aware. The letter says that you have volunteered to take full responsibility for Mr. Lightwood, and that you solemnly promise to keep any and all potential explosives out of his reach for the duration of his time at the Academy.”
James looked from the warlock to Matthew to Christopher, who was regarding a tree with dreamy benevolence. In desperation, he looked to Thomas.
Explosives? he mouthed.
“Don’t ask,” said Thomas. “Please.”
Thomas was older than James and Christopher, but much smaller. Aunt Sophie had kept him at home an extra year because he was sickly. He did not look sickly now, but he was still rather undersized. His tan, combined with his brown hair and brown eyes and his short stature, made him look like a small, worried horse chestnut. James found himself wanting to pat Thomas on the head.
Matthew patted Thomas on the head.
“Mr. Fell,” he said. “Thomas. Christopher. Jamie.”
“James,” James corrected.
“Do not worry,” Matthew said with immense confidence. “I mean, certainly, worry that we are trapped in an arid warrior culture with no appreciation for the truly important things in life. But do not worry about things exploding, because I will not permit anything to explode.”
“That was all you needed to say,” Ragnor Fell told him. “And you could have said it in far fewer words.”
He walked off, in a swirl of green skin and bad temper.
“He was green!” Thomas whispered.
“Really,” said Matthew, very dry.
“Oh, really?” asked Christopher brightly. “I didn’t notice.”
Thomas gazed sadly at Christopher. Matthew ignored him superbly. “I rather liked the unique hue of our teacher. It reminded me of the green carnations that Oscar Wilde’s followers wear to imitate him. He had one of the actors in, um, a play of his wear a green carnation onstage.”
“It was Lady Windermere’s Fan,” James said.
Matthew was clearly showing off, trying to sound superior and special, and James had no time for it.
Matthew turned The Smile on him. James was unsurprised to find he was immune to its deadly effects.
“Yes,” he said. “Of course. Jamie, I can see that as a fellow admirer of Oscar Wilde—”
“Uh,” said a voice to James’s left. “You new boys have barely been here five minutes, and all you can find to talk about is some mundane who got sent to prison for indecency?”
“So you know Oscar Wilde too, Alastair?” Matthew asked.
James looked up at the taller, older boy. He had light hair but dark brows, strongly marked, like very judgmental black brushstrokes.
So this was Alastair Carstairs, the brother of Lucie’s best friend, whom Father hoped James would make friends with. James had pictured someone more friendly, more like Cordelia herself.
Perhaps Alastair would be more friendly if he did not associate James with snotty Matthew.
“I know of many mundane criminals,” Alastair Carstairs said in chilly tones. “I read the mundane newspapers to find hints of demonic activity. I certainly don’t bother reading plays.”
The two boys he was with nodded in good Shadowhunter solidarity.
Matthew laughed in their faces. “Naturally. What use do sad, unimaginative little people have for plays?” he asked. “Or paintings, or dancing, or anything that makes life interesting. I am so glad to be at this dank little school where they will try to squeeze down my mind until it is almost as narrow as yours.”
He patted Alastair Carstairs on the arm. James was amazed that he was not immediately struck in the face.
Thomas was staring at Alastair with as much panic as James felt.
“Run along now,” Matthew suggested. “Do. Jamie and I were talking.”
Alastair laughed, his laugh sounding angrier than a sharp word would have. “I was only trying to give you young ones a little guidance about the way we do things in the Academy. If you’re too stupid to take heed, that is not my fault. At least you have a tongue in your head, unlike this one.”
He turned and glared daggers at James. James was so surprised and dismayed at this turn of events—he hadn’t done anything!—that he simply stood and stared with his mouth open.
“Yes, you, the one with the peculiar eyes,” Alastair snapped. “What are you gawping at?”
“I—” said James. “I—”
He did have peculiar eyes, he knew. He did not truly need eyeglasses, except for reading, but he w
ore them all the time in order to conceal his eyes. He could feel himself blushing, and Alastair’s voice became as sharp as his laugh.
“What’s your name?”
“H-Herondale,” James stammered out.
“By the Angel, his eyes are awful,” said the boy to Alastair’s right.
Alastair laughed again, this time with more satisfaction. “Yellow. Just like a goat’s.”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t strain yourself, Goatface Herondale,” Alastair said. “Don’t try to speak. You and your friends could perhaps cease obsessing about mundanes and try to think about little matters like saving lives and upholding the Law while you’re here, all right?”
He strolled on, his friends laughing with him. James heard the word spreading through the tightly knit crowd with laughter following it, like the ripples from a stone thrown into a pond.
Goatface. Goatface. Goatface.
Matthew laughed. “Well. What an—”
“Thanks so much for dragging me into that,” James snapped. He turned on his heel and walked away from the two friends he had hoped for at the Academy, and heard his new name whispered as he went.
James did what he had promised himself he absolutely would not do. He dragged his heavy bag through the courtyard, through the hall, and up several sets of stairs until he found a staircase that seemed private. Then he sat down and opened a book. He told himself that he was only going to read a few pages before he went down again. The Count of Monte Cristo was just descending on his enemies in a balloon.
James emerged hours later, to the sinking realization that the sky had gone dark gray and the sounds from the courtyard had faded away. His mother and Lucie were still in London, far away, and now he was sure his father was gone too.
He was trapped in this Academy full of strangers. He did not even know where he was supposed to sleep tonight.
He wandered around trying to find the bedrooms. He did not discover any, but he did find himself enjoying exploring such a big new place on his own. The Academy was a splendid building, the stone walls shining as if they had been polished. The chandeliers seemed made of jewels, and as James wandered in search of the dining hall, he found many beautiful tapestries depicting Shadowhunters through the ages. He stood looking at an intricate, colorful weaving of Jonathan Shadowhunter fighting during the Crusades, until it occurred to him that dinner must be soon and he did not want to draw any further attention to himself.
The sound of hundreds of strange voices alerted James to where the dining room must be. He fought the impulse to run away, steeled himself, and walked through the doors instead. To his relief, people were still assembling, the older students milling around and chatting to each other with the ease of long familiarity. The new students were hovering, much like James himself.
All except Matthew Fairchild, who was surveying the shining mahogany tables with disdain.
“We have to select a very small table,” he told Thomas and Christopher, his satellites. “I am here under protest. I will not break bread with the kind of violent ruffians and raving imbeciles who would attend the Academy willingly.”
“You know,” James said loudly, “Alastair Carstairs was right.”
“That seems very unlikely to me,” Matthew responded, then turned. “Oh, it’s you. Why are you still carrying your bag?”
“I don’t have to answer to you,” said James, which he was aware was a bizarre thing to say. Thomas blinked at him in distress, as if he had trusted James not to say bizarre things.
“All right,” Matthew said agreeably. “Alastair Carstairs was right about what?”
“People are attending the Academy because they hope to become better Shadowhunters, and save lives. That is a noble and worthy goal. You do not have to sneer at everybody you meet.”
“But how else am I going to amuse myself in this place?” Matthew protested. “You can sit with us, if you want.”
There was an amused glint in his brown eyes. James was certain from the way Matthew was looking at him that he was being made fun of, though he could not quite work out how.
“No thanks,” James said shortly.
He looked around at the tables, and saw that the first-year Shadowhunters were now settled around tables in careful, friendly patterns. There were other boys and even a few girls, though, who James could tell were mundanes. It was not so much clothing or build as the way they held themselves: as if they were afraid they might be attacked. Shadowhunters, in contrast, were always ready to attack.
There was one boy in shabby clothes sitting by himself. James crossed the dining room to sit at his table.
“Can I sit here?” he asked, desperate enough to be blunt.
“Yes!” said the other boy. “Oh yes, please. The name’s Smith. Michael Smith. Mike.”
James reached across the table and shook Mike Smith’s hand. “James Herondale.”
Mike’s eyes widened, clearly recognizing it as a Shadowhunter name. “My mother grew up in the mundane world,” James told him quickly. “In America. New York City.”
“Your mother was a mundane?” said a girl, coming over and sitting at his table. “Esme Philpott,” she added, shaking hands briskly. “I shan’t keep it when I Ascend. I’m thinking of changing the Esme too.”
James did not know what to say. He did not wish to insult a lady’s name by agreeing with her or insult a lady by arguing with her. He was not prepared to be approached by a strange girl. Very few girls were sent to the Academy: of course girls could be just as fine warriors as boys, but not everybody thought that way, and many Shadowhunter families wanted to keep their girls close. Some people thought the Academy had far too many rules, and some far too few. Thomas’s sisters, who were very proper, had not come to the Academy. Family legend reported that his cousin Anna Lightwood, who was the least proper person imaginable, had said if they sent her to the Academy, she would run away and become a mundane bullfighter.
“Mmm,” said James, a silver-tongued devil with the ladies.
“Did your mother Ascend with no trouble?” Mike asked eagerly.
James bit his lip. He was accustomed to everyone knowing the history of his mother: the child of a stolen Shadowhunter and a demon. Any child of a Shadowhunter was a Shadowhunter. Mother belonged to the Shadowhunter world as much as any of the Nephilim. Only, her skin could not bear Marks, and there had never before been anyone like her in the world. James did not quite know how to explain to people who did not know already. He was afraid he would explain wrong, and the explanation would reflect badly on Mother.
“I know a lot of people who Ascended with no trouble,” James said at last. “My aunt Sophie—Sophie Lightwood now—she was a mundane. Father says there never was anyone so brave, before or after Ascension.”
“What a relief!” said Esme. “Tell me, I think I’ve heard of Sophie Lightwood—”
“What a fearful comedown,” said one of the boys James had seen with Alastair Carstairs earlier. “Goatface Herondale is actually reduced to sitting with the dregs.”
Alastair and his other friend laughed. They went to sit at a table with other, older Shadowhunters, and James was certain he heard the word “Goatface” whispered more than once. He felt he was boiling from the inside out with shame.
As for Matthew Fairchild, James looked over at him only once or twice. After James had left him standing in the middle of the dining hall, Matthew had tossed his stupid blond head and chosen a very large table to sit at. He clearly had not meant a word about being so select. He sat with Thomas and Christopher on either side of him like a prince holding court, calling out jokes and summoning people to his side, and soon his table was crowded. He charmed several of the Shadowhunter students away from their tables. Even some of the older students came over to listen to one of Matthew’s apparently terribly amusing stories. Even Alastair Carstairs came over for a few minutes. Obviously he and Matthew were great friends now.
James caught Mike Smith looking over at Mat
thew’s table longingly, his face that of an outsider barred from all the fun, doomed to always be at the less exciting table with the less interesting people.
James had wanted friends, but he had not wanted to be the kind of friend who people settled for, because they could not get any better. Except he was, as he had always secretly feared, tedious and poor company. He did not know why books had not taught him how to talk so other people wanted to listen.
James eventually approached the teachers for help finding his bedroom. He found Dean Ashdown and Ragnor Fell in deep conversation.
“I am so terribly sorry,” said Dean Ashdown. “This is the first time we have ever had a warlock teacher—and we are delighted to have you! We should have thoroughly cleaned out the Academy and made sure there were no remnants of a less peaceful time.”
“Thank you, Dean Ashdown,” Ragnor said. “The removal of the mounted warlock’s head from my bedroom will be sufficient.”
“I am so terribly sorry!” said Dean Ashdown again. She lowered her voice. “Were you acquainted with the—er, deceased gentleman?”
Ragnor eyed her with disfavor. Though that might just be the way Mr. Fell looked. “If you were to happen upon the grotesquely severed head of one of the Nephilim, would you have to be acquainted with him to feel you might perhaps not fancy sleeping in the room where part of his desecrated corpse remained?”
James coughed in the middle of the dean’s third frantic apology. “I do apologize,” he said. “Could someone direct me to my room? I—got lost and missed all that.”
“Oh, young Mr. Herondale.” The dean looked quite happy to be interrupted. “Of course, let me show you the way. Your father entrusted me with a message for you that I can relay as we go.”
She left Ragnor Fell scowling after them. James hoped he had not made another enemy.
“Your father said—what a charming language Welsh is, isn’t it? So romantic!—Pob lwc, caraid. What does it mean?”
Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy Page 17