Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy

by Cassandra Clare

  She was always there, day or night, and that night was no different.

  Well, slightly different: That night she wasn’t alone.

  She stood behind her desk with her arms crossed, flanked by Robert Lightwood and Dean Penhallow, the three of them looking so somber it was almost like they were waiting for him. He didn’t let himself hesitate or think of the consequences.

  Or think of Izzy.

  “There’s a group of students trying to raise a demon,” Simon panted. “We have to stop them.”

  No one seemed surprised.

  There was a soft throat clearing—Simon turned to discover Julie Beauvale creeping out from behind the door he’d flung open in her face.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Same thing you are,” Julie said. Then she blushed and gave him an embarrassed little shrug. “I guess you made a good case.”

  “But how did you get here before me?”

  “I took the east stairwell, obviously. Then that corridor behind the weapons room—”

  “But doesn’t that dead-end at the dining hall?”

  “Only if you—”

  “Perhaps we can table this fascinating cartographic discussion until later,” Catarina Loss said mildly. “I think we have more important business at hand.”

  “Like teaching your idiot students a lesson,” Robert Lightwood growled, and stormed out of the office. Catarina and the dean strode after him.

  Simon exchanged a nervous glance with Julie. “You, uh, think we’re supposed to follow them?”

  “Probably,” she said, then sighed. “We might as well let them expel all of us in one shot.”

  They traipsed after their teachers, letting themselves fall more and more behind.

  As they neared Jon’s room, Robert’s shouts were audible from halfway down the corridor. They couldn’t quite make out his words through the thick door, but the volume and cadence made the situation quite clear.

  Simon and Julie eased the door open and slipped inside.

  George, Jon, and the others were lined up against the wall, faces pale, eyes wide, all of them looking steeled for a firing squad. While Isabelle was standing by her father’s side . . . beaming?

  “Failures, all of you!” Robert Lightwood boomed. “You lot are supposed to be the best and brightest this school has to offer, and this is what you have to show for yourselves? I warned you about the dangers of charisma. I told you of the need to stand up for what’s right, even if it hurts the ones you love most. And all of you failed to listen.”

  Isabelle coughed pointedly.

  “All of you except two,” Robert allowed, jerking his head at Simon and Julie. “Well done. Isabelle was right about you.”

  Simon was reeling.

  “It was all a stupid test?” Jon yelped.

  “A rather clever test, if you ask me?” Dean Penhallow said.

  Catarina looked as if she had some things to say on the subject of foolish Shadowhunters playing cat-and-mouse games with their own, but as usual, she bit her tongue.

  “What percentage of our grades will this be?” Sunil asked.

  With that, there was a lot of yelling. Quite a bit of ranting about sacred responsibilities and carelessness and how unpleasant a night in the dungeons of the Silent City could be. Robert thundered like Zeus, Dean Penhallow did her best not to sound like a babysitter scolding her charges for stealing an extra cookie, while Catarina Loss put in the occasional sarcastic remark about what happened to Shadowhunters who thought it would be fun to slum it in warlock territory. At one point, she interrupted Robert Lightwood’s tirade to add a pointed comment about Darth Vader—and a sly look at Simon that made him wonder, not for the first time, just how closely she was watching him, and why.

  Through it all, Isabelle watched Simon, something unexpected in her gaze. Something almost like . . . pride.

  “In conclusion, next time, you’ll listen when your elders talk,” Robert Lightwood shouted.

  “Why would anyone listen to anything you had to say about doing the right thing?” Isabelle snapped.

  Robert’s face went red. He turned to her slowly, fixing her with the kind of icy Inquisitor glare that would have left anyone else whimpering in a fetal ball. Isabelle didn’t flinch.

  “Now that this sordid business is concluded, I’d ask you all to give me and my dutiful daughter here some privacy. I believe we have some things to settle,” Robert said.

  “But this is my room,” Jon whined.

  Robert didn’t need to speak, just turned that Inquisitor glare on him; Jon flinched.

  He fled, along with everyone else, and Simon was about to follow suit when Isabelle’s fingers snatched for his wrist.

  “He stays,” she told her father.

  “He most certainly does not.”

  “Simon stays with me, or I leave with him,” Isabelle said. “Those are your choices.”

  “Er, I’m happy to go—” Simon began, “happy” being his polite substitute for “desperate.”

  “You stay,” Isabelle commanded.

  Robert sighed. “Fine. You stay.”

  That ended the discussion. Simon dropped down onto the edge of Jon’s bed, trying to wish himself invisible.

  “It’s obvious to me that you don’t want to be here,” Robert told his daughter.

  “What gave it away? The fact that I told you a million times that I didn’t want to come? That I didn’t want to play your stupid game? That I thought it was cruel and manipulative and a total waste of time?”

  “Yes,” Robert said. “That.”

  “And yet you made me come with you anyway.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Look, if you thought enforced bonding time was going to fix anything or make up for what you—”

  Robert sighed heavily. “I’ve told you before, what happened between your mother and me has nothing to do with you.”

  “It has everything to do with me!”

  “Isabelle . . .” Robert glanced at Simon, then lowered his voice. “I would really prefer to do this without an audience.”

  “Too bad.”

  Simon tried even harder to fade into the background, hoping maybe if he tried hard enough, his skin would take on the same pattern as Jon Cartwright’s surprisingly flowered sheets.

  “You and I, we’ve never talked about my time in the Circle, or why I followed Valentine,” Robert said. “I hoped you kids would never have to know that part of me.”

  “I heard your lecture, just like everyone else,” she said sullenly.

  “We both know that the story tailored for public consumption is never the whole truth.” Robert frowned. “What I didn’t tell those students—what I’ve never told anyone—is that unlike most of the Circle, I wasn’t what you’d call a true believer. The others, they thought they were Raziel’s sword in human form. You should have seen your mother, blazing with righteousness.”

  “So now it’s all Mom’s fault? Nice, Dad. Really nice. Am I supposed to think you’re some awesome guy for seeing through Valentine but going along with him anyway? Because your girlfriend said so?”

  He shook his head. “You’re missing my point. I was the most to blame. Your mother, the others, they thought they were doing what was right. They loved Valentine. They loved the cause. They believed. I could never muster that faith . . . but I went along anyway. Not because I thought it was right. Because it was easy. Because Valentine seemed so sure. Substituting his certainty for my own seemed like the path of least resistance.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Some of the venom had drained from her voice.

  “I didn’t understand then, what it would mean to be truly certain of something,” Robert said. “I didn’t know how it felt to love something, or someone, beyond all reservation. Unconditionally. I thought maybe, with my parabatai, but then—” He swallowed whatever he’d been about to say. Simon wondered how it could be worse than what he’d already confessed to. “Eventually, I assumed I just di
dn’t have it in me. That I wasn’t built for that kind of love.”

  “If you’re about to tell me that you found it with your mistress . . .” Isabelle shuddered.

  “Isabelle.” Robert took his daughter’s hands in his own. “I’m telling you that I found it with Alec. With you. With . . .” He looked down. “With Max. Having you kids, Isabelle—it changed everything.”

  “Is that why you spent years treating Alec like he had the plague? Is that how you show your kids that you love them?”

  At that, if possible, Robert looked even more ashamed of himself. “Loving someone doesn’t mean you’re never going to make mistakes,” he said. “I’ve made more than my share. I know that. And some of them I will never have the chance to make up for. But I’m trying my best with your brother. He knows how much I love him. How proud I am of him. I need you to know it too. You kids, you’re the one thing I’m certain of, the one thing I’ll always be certain of. Not the Clave. Not, unfortunately, my marriage. You. And if I have to, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to prove to you that you can be certain of me.”

  It was a lame party, the kind that even Simon had to admit might have been livened up by a demon or two. The decorations—a few sad streamers, a couple of underinflated helium balloons, and a hand-drawn poster that (mis)spelled out “CONGRATULATONS”—looked as if they’d been grudgingly thrown together at the last minute by a bunch of fifth graders in detention. The refreshment table was crowded with whatever food had been left over at the end of the semester, including stale croissants, a casserole dish filled with orange Jell-O, a vat of stew, and several plates heaped with unidentifiable meat products. As electricity didn’t work in Idris and no one had thought to hire a band, there was no music, but a handful of faculty members had taken it upon themselves to improvise a barbershop quartet. (This, in Simon’s mind, didn’t qualify as music.) Isabelle’s posse of demon summoners had been let off with a stern warning, and even allowed to attend the party, but none of them seemed much in the mood for revelry—or, understandably, for Simon.

  He was lingering alone by the punch bowl—which smelled enough like fish to preclude him actually pouring himself any punch—when Isabelle joined him.

  “Avoiding your friends?” she asked.

  “Friends?” He laughed. “I think you mean ‘people who hate my guts.’ Yeah, I tend to avoid those.”

  “They don’t hate you. They’re embarrassed, because you were right and they were stupid. They’ll get over it.”

  “Maybe.” It didn’t seem likely, but then, not much that had happened this year fell into the category of “likely.”

  “So, I guess, thanks for sticking around for that whole thing with my dad,” Isabelle said.

  “You didn’t exactly give me much of a choice,” he pointed out.

  Isabelle laughed, almost fondly. “You really have no idea how a social encounter is supposed to work, do you? I say ‘thank you’; you say ‘you’re welcome.’  ”

  “Like, if I said, thank you for fooling all my friends into thinking you were a wild-and-crazy demon summoner so that they could get in trouble with the dean, you would say . . . ?”

  “You’re welcome for teaching them all a valuable lesson.” She grinned. “One that, apparently, you didn’t need to learn.”

  “Yeah. About that.” Even though it had all been a test—even though, apparently, Isabelle had wanted him to report her, he still felt guilty. “I’m sorry I didn’t figure out what you were doing. Trust you.”

  “It was a game, Simon. You weren’t supposed to trust me.”

  “But I shouldn’t have fallen for it. Of all people—”

  “You can’t be expected to know me.” There was an impossible gentleness in Isabelle’s voice. “I do understand that, Simon. I know things have been . . . difficult between us, but I’m not deluded. I may not like reality, but I can’t deny it.”

  There were so many things he wanted to say to her.

  And yet, right at this high-pressure moment, his mind was blank.

  The uncomfortable silence sat heavily between them. Isabelle shifted her weight. “Well, if that’s all, then . . .”

  “Back to your date with Jon?” Simon couldn’t help himself. “Or . . . was that just part of the game?”

  He hoped she wouldn’t catch the pathetic note of hope in his voice.

  “That was a different game, Simon. Keep up. Did it ever occur to you I just enjoy torturing you?” There was that wicked smile again, and Simon felt like it had the power to light him on fire; he felt like he was already burning.

  “So, you and he, you never—”

  “Jon’s not exactly my type.”

  The next silence was slightly more comfortable. The kind of silence, Simon thought, where you gazed googly-eyed at someone until the tension could only be broken with a kiss.

  Just lean in, he told himself, because even though he couldn’t actually remember ever making the first move on a girl like this, he’d obviously done so in the past. Which meant he had it in him. Somewhere. Stop being such a coward and freaking LEAN IN.

  He was still mustering up his courage when the moment passed. She stepped back. “So . . . what was in that letter, anyway?”

  He had it memorized. He could recite it to her right now, tell her that she was amazing, that even if his brain didn’t remember loving her, his soul was permanently molded to fit hers, like some kind of Isabelle-shaped cookie cutter had stamped his heart. But writing something down was different from saying it out loud—in public, no less.

  He shrugged. “I don’t really remember. Just apologizing for yelling at you that time. And that other time. I guess.”

  “Oh.”

  Did she look disappointed? Relieved? Irritated? Simon searched her face for clues, but it was impervious.

  “Well . . . apology accepted. And stop staring at me like I have a bug on my nose.”

  “Sorry. Again.”

  “And . . . I guess . . . I’m sorry I returned it without reading it.”

  Simon couldn’t remember whether she’d ever apologized to him before. She didn’t seem the type to apologize to anyone.

  “If you wrote me another one sometime, I might even read it,” she said, with studied indifference.

  “School’s over for the semester, remember? This weekend I go back to Brooklyn.” It seemed unimaginable.

  “They don’t have mailboxes in Brooklyn?”

  “I guess I could send you a postcard of the Brooklyn Bridge,” Simon allowed—then took a deep breath, and went for it. “Or I could hand deliver one. To the Institute, I mean. If you wanted me to. Sometime. Or something.”

  “Sometime. Something . . .” Isabelle mulled it over, letting him twist in the wind for a few endless, agonizing seconds. Then her smile widened so far that Simon thought he might actually self-combust. “I guess it’s a date.”

  Pale Kings and Princes

  By Cassandra Clare and Robin Wasserman

  This morning Mayhew ceded the classroom to a girl a few years older than Simon. Her white-blond hair fell in ringlets around her shoulders, her blue-green eyes sparkled, and her mouth was set in a grim line that suggested she’d rather be anywhere else. Professor Mayhew stood beside her, but Simon noticed the way he kept his distance and was careful not to turn his back on her. Mayhew was afraid.

  —Pale Kings and Princes

  What I Did on My Summer Vacation

  By Simon Lewis

  This summer, I lived in Brooklyn. Every morning I ran through the park. One morning, I met a nixie who lived in the dog pond. She had—

  Simon Lewis paused to consult his Chthonian/English dictionary for the word for “blond”—there was no entry. Apparently words relating to hair color were a nonissue for creatures of the demon dimensions. Much like, he’d discovered, words relating to family, friendship, or watching TV. He chewed his eraser, sighed, then bent over the page again. Five hundred words on how he spent his summer were due to his Chthonian teacher
by morning, and after an hour of work he had written approximately . . . thirty.

  She had hair. And—

  —an enormous rack.

  “Just trying to help,” Simon’s roommate, George Lovelace, said, reaching over Simon’s shoulder to scrawl in an ending to the sentence.

  “And failing miserably,” Simon said, but he couldn’t suppress a grin.

  He’d missed George this summer, more than he had expected to. He’d missed all of it more than he’d expected—not just his new friends, but Shadowhunter Academy itself, the predictable rhythms of the day, all the things he’d spent months complaining about. The slime, the dank, the morning calisthenics, the chittering of creatures trapped in the walls . . . he’d even missed the soup. Simon had spent most of his first year at the Academy worrying that he was out of place—that, any minute, someone important would realize they’d made a terrible mistake and send him back home.

  It wasn’t until he was back in Brooklyn, trying to sleep beneath Batman sheets with his mother snoring in the next room, that he realized home wasn’t home anymore.

  Home, unexpectedly, inexplicably, was Shadowhunter Academy.

  Park Slope wasn’t quite the same as he remembered, not with the werewolf cubs frolicking in the Prospect Park dog run, the warlock selling artisanal cheese and love potions at the Grand Army farmers’ market, the vampires lounging on the banks of the Gowanus, flicking cigarette butts at strolling hipsters. Simon had to keep reminding himself that they’d been there all along—Park Slope hadn’t changed; Simon had. Simon was the one who now had the Sight. Simon was the one who flinched at flickering shadows and, when Eric had the misfortune of sneaking up behind him, instinctively yanked his old friend off his feet and slammed him to the ground with an effortless judo flip.

  “Dude,” Eric gasped, goggling up at him from the parched August grass, “stand down, soldier.”

  Eric, of course, thought he’d spent the year at military school—as did the rest of the guys, as did Simon’s mother and sister. Lying to almost everyone he loved: That was another thing different about his Brooklyn life now, and maybe the thing that made him most eager for escape. It was one thing to lie about where he’d been all year, to make up half-assed stories about demerits and drill sergeants, most of them cribbed from bad eighties movies. It was another thing altogether to lie about who he was. He had to pretend to be the guy they remembered, the Simon Lewis who thought demons and warlocks were confined to the pages of comic books, the one whose closest brush with death involved aspirating a chocolate-covered almond. But he wasn’t that Simon anymore, not even close. Maybe he wasn’t a Shadowhunter, not yet—but he wasn’t exactly a mundane anymore either, and he was tired of pretending to be.