Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy

by Cassandra Clare

  Except the bundle was moving, in small incremental movements. Simon watched the fretful stir beneath the blanket, looked at the gleaming eyes peering out from the cocoon of fuzzy yellows, and his mind accepted what he was seeing, even as another shock came. A tiny fist emerged from the blankets, waving as if in protest at everything that was occurring.

  The fist was blue, the rich navy of the sea when it was deep and you were on a boat as evening fell. The blue of Captain America’s suit.

  “It’s a baby,” Beatriz breathed. “It’s a warlock baby.”

  There was a note pinned to the baby’s yellow blanket. Simon saw it at the precise moment that the wind caught it, snatching it off the blanket and whirling it away. Simon grabbed the paper out of the cold grip of the wind and looked at the writing, a hasty scribble on a torn scrap of paper.

  The note read: Who could ever love it?

  “Oh no, the baby’s blue,” said George. “What are we going to do?”

  He frowned as if he had not meant that to rhyme. Then he knelt down, because George was the not-so-secret sweetheart of the group, and awkwardly took the yellow-wrapped bundle in his arms. He stood up, his face ashen, holding the baby.

  “What are we going to do?” Beatriz warbled, echoing George. “What are we going to do?”

  Julie was plastered up against the door. Simon had personally seen her cut off a very large demon’s head with a very small knife, but she appeared as if she would expire with terror if someone asked her to hold the baby.

  “I know what to do,” said Simon.

  He would go find Magnus, he thought. He knew Magnus and Alec had arrived and were awake. He needed to talk to Alec anyway. Magnus had fixed Simon’s demon amnesia. Magnus had been around for centuries. He was the most adult adult that Simon knew. A warlock baby abandoned in this fortress of Shadowhunters was a problem Simon had no idea how to fix, and he felt he needed an adult. Simon was already turning to go.

  “Should I give the baby mouth to mouth?” George asked.

  Simon froze. “No, don’t do that. The baby is breathing. The baby’s breathing, right?”

  They all stood and stared at the little bundle. The baby waved his fist again. If the baby was moving, Simon thought, the baby must be breathing. He was not even going to think about zombie babies at this time.

  “Should I get the baby a hot water bottle?” George said.

  Simon took a deep breath. “George, don’t lose your head,” he said. “This baby is not blue because he is cold or because he cannot breathe. Mundane babies are not blue in this way. This baby is blue because he is a warlock, just like Catarina.”

  “Not just like Ms. Loss,” Beatriz said in a high voice. “Ms. Loss is more of a sky blue, whereas this baby is more of a navy blue.”

  “You seem very knowledgeable,” George decided. “You should hold the baby.”

  “No!” Beatriz squawked.

  She and Julie both threw up their hands in surrender. As far as they were concerned, it was clear, George was holding a loaded baby and should not do anything rash.

  “Everybody stay where you are,” said Simon, trying to keep his voice calm.

  Julie perked up. “Oooh, Simon,” she said. “Good idea.”

  Simon fled across the hall and up the stairs, moving at a pace that would have amazed his evil Shadowhunter gym teacher. Scarsbury had never provided him with motivation like this.

  He knew that Magnus and Alec had been put in a fancy suite up in the attics. Apparently there was even a separate kitchen. Simon just kept heading up, knowing he would hit the attics at some point.

  He reached the attics, heard murmuring and movement behind the door, and flung the door wide open.

  Then he stood, arrested on his second threshold of the day.

  There was a sheet over Alec and Magnus, but Simon could see enough. He could see Alec’s white, rune-scarred shoulders and Magnus’s wild black hair spread on the pillow. He could see Alec freeze, then turn his head and give Simon a look of absolute horror.

  Magnus’s golden cat eyes gleamed from over Alec’s pale shoulder. He sounded almost amused as he asked: “Can we help you?”

  “Oh my God,” Simon said. “Oh wow. Oh wow, I am really sorry.”

  “Please leave,” said Alec in a tight, controlled voice.

  “Right!” said Simon. “Of course!” He paused. “I can’t leave.”

  “Believe me,” said Alec. “You can.”

  “There is an abandoned baby on the front steps of the Academy and I think it’s a warlock!” Simon blurted out.

  “Why do you think the baby is a warlock?” Magnus asked. He was the only one in the room who was composed.

  “Um, because the baby is navy blue.”

  “That is fairly compelling evidence,” Magnus admitted. “Could you give us a moment to get dressed?”

  “Yes! Of course!” said Simon. “Again, I’m very sorry.”

  “Go now,” Alec suggested.

  Simon went.

  After a short while Magnus emerged from the attic suite dressed in skintight black clothes and a shimmering gold robe. His hair was still wrecked, going every which way as if Magnus had been caught in a small personal tempest, but Simon was not going to quibble about the hair of his potential savior.

  “Really sorry again,” said Simon.

  Magnus made a lazy gesture. “Seeing your face was not the best moment of my day, Simon, but these things happen. Admittedly, they have never happened to Alec before, and he needs a few more minutes. Show me where the child is.”

  “Follow me,” said Simon.

  He ran down the stairs as fast as he had run up them, taking two at a time. He found the tableau at the threshold just as he had left it, Beatriz and Julie the horrified audience to George’s terrified and inexpert baby-holding. The bundle was now making a low, plaintive sound.

  “What took you so long?” Beatriz hissed.

  Julie still looked very shaken, but she managed to say: “Hello, Magnus.”

  “Hello again, Julie,” said Magnus, once again the only calm person in a room. “Let me hold the baby.”

  “Oh, thank you,” George breathed. “Not that I don’t like the baby. But I have no idea what to do with it.”

  George appeared to have bonded in the time it took Simon to run up and down a flight of stairs. He looked mushily down at the baby, clutching the bundle for a moment, and then as he handed the baby over to Magnus, he fumbled and almost dropped the baby on the stone floor.

  “By the Angel!” Julie exclaimed, hand pressed to her breast.

  Magnus arrested the fumble and caught the child, holding the blanket-wrapped bundle close against his gold-embroidered chest. He held the baby with more expertise than George did, which meant that he supported the baby’s head and it appeared as if he might have held a baby once or twice in his life. George had not looked like he was going to win any baby-holding championships.

  With a hand glimmering with rings, Magnus drew the blanket back a little, and Simon held his breath. Magnus’s eyes traveled over the baby, his impossibly small hands and feet, the wide eyes in his small face, the curls on his head so dark a blue they were almost black. The baby’s low constant sound of complaint rose a little, complaining harder, and Magnus smoothed the blanket back into place.

  “He’s a boy,” said Magnus.

  “Aw, a boy,” said George.

  “He’s about eight months old, I would say,” Magnus continued. “Someone raised him until they could not bear it anymore, and I suppose through the recruitment of mundanes to the Academy, someone thought they knew the place to bring a child they did not want.”

  “But someone wouldn’t leave their child . . . ,” George began, and fell silent under Magnus’s gaze.

  “People would. People do. And the choices people make are different, with warlock children,” Magnus said. His voice was quiet.

  “So there’s no chance anyone is coming back for him,” said Beatriz.

  Simon t
ook the note he had found folded on the child’s blanket and gave it to Magnus. He did not feel, looking into Magnus’s face, that he could give it to anyone else. Magnus looked at the note, nodded. Who could ever love it? flashed between his fingers, and then he tucked it away into his robe.

  There were other students gathering around them, and a rising hubbub of noise and confusion. If Simon had been in New York, he figured people would have been taking pictures of the baby with their phones. He felt a little like an exhibition in a zoo, and he was so grateful Magnus was there.

  “What is happening?” asked a voice from the top of the stairs.

  Dean Penhallow was standing there, with her strawberry-blond hair loose over her shoulders, clutching around her a black silk robe etched with dragons. Catarina stood at her side, fully dressed in jeans and a white blouse.

  “Seems like someone left a baby instead of the milk bottles,” she said. “That was careless. Welcome, Magnus.”

  Magnus gave her a little wave with his free hand and a wry smile.

  “What? Why? Why would anyone do such a thing? What are we supposed to do with it?” the dean asked.

  Sometimes Simon forgot that Dean Penhallow was really young, young for a teacher, let alone a dean. Other times he was forcefully reminded of that fact. She looked as panicked as Beatriz and Julie had.

  “He’s much too young to be taught,” said Scarsbury, peering down from the crowded staircase. “Perhaps we should contact the Clave.”

  “If the baby needs a bed,” George offered, “Simon and I could keep him in our sock drawer.”

  Simon gave George an appalled glare. George looked distressed.

  Alec Lightwood moved like a shadow through the crowds of students, head and shoulders above most of them but not shoving anyone aside. He moved quietly, persistently, until he was where he wanted to be: at Magnus’s side.

  When Magnus saw Alec, his whole body relaxed. Simon had not even been aware of the tension running all through Magnus’s frame until he saw the moment when ease returned.

  “This is the warlock child Simon was talking about,” Alec said in a low voice, and nodded toward the baby.

  “As you see,” said Magnus, “the baby would not be able to pass for a mundane. His mother clearly does not want him. He is in a nest of the Nephilim, and I cannot think, among faeries or Shadowhunters or werewolves, where in the world he could possibly belong.”

  Magnus’s calm and amusement had seemed infinite until a few minutes ago. Now Simon heard his voice fraying, a rope on which too much strain had been put, and which must soon snap.

  Alec put a hand on Magnus’s upper arm, just above the elbow. He clasped Magnus’s arm firmly, almost absently providing silent support. He looked up at Magnus and then looked down, for a long, thoughtful moment, at the baby.

  “Can I hold him?” Alec asked.

  Surprise flew over Magnus’s face but did not linger. “Sure,” he said, and put the baby in Alec’s arms, held out to receive him.

  Maybe it was that Alec had held a baby more recently than Magnus had, and certainly more often than George. Maybe it was that Alec was wearing what seemed to be an incredibly ancient sweater, worn soft with years and faded from dark green to gray, with only traces remaining of the original color.

  Whatever the reason, as soon as Alec took the baby, the continuous soft whimpering noise ceased. There was still the buzzing of urgent whispers, up and down the hall, but the small group surrounding the child suddenly found themselves in a pocket of hushed silence.

  The baby gazed up at Alec with grave eyes only a shade darker than Alec’s own. Alec gazed back at the baby. He looked as surprised as anyone else by the baby’s sudden hush.

  “So,” said Delaney Scarsbury. “Should we contact the Clave and put this matter before them, or what?”

  Magnus turned in a whirl of gold and fixed Scarsbury with a look that made him shrink back against the wall.

  “I do not intend to leave a warlock child to the tender mercies of the Clave,” Magnus declared, his voice extremely cold. “We have this, don’t we, Alec?”

  Alec was still looking down at the baby. He glanced up when Magnus addressed him, his face briefly dazed, as a man woken from a dream, but his expression set as with a sudden resolve.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “We do.”

  Magnus mirrored the move Alec had made before, clasping Alec’s upper arm in silent thanks, or a show of support. Alec returned to looking down at the baby.

  It felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off Simon’s chest. It was not that he had been truly worried that he and George would have to raise the baby in their sock drawer—well, possibly a little worried—but the specter of a huge responsibility had loomed before him. This was a helpless, abandoned little child. Simon knew, all too well, how Downworlders were viewed by Shadowhunters. Simon had had no idea what to do. Magnus had taken the responsibility. He had taken the baby from them, both metaphorically and in actuality. He had not turned a hair as he did it. He had not acted as if it were a big deal at all.

  Magnus was a really cool guy.

  Simon knew Isabelle had slept over in Alicante, so she and Alec would both be with her father for one night. She was going down to the house where Ragnor Fell had once lived, where there was a working telephone. Catarina had set up another telephone in the Academy she said he could use this once. They had a telephone date. Simon was planning to tell her how cool Magnus and her brother had been.

  Magnus thought he might become the first recorded warlock in history to have a heart attack.

  He was walking around the practice grounds of Shadowhunter Academy at night because he could not stay in there and breathe stifling air with hundreds of Nephilim any longer.

  That poor child. Magnus had hardly been able to look at him, he was so small and so entirely helpless. He could not do anything but think of how vulnerable the child was, and how deep the misery and pain of his mother must have been. He knew what kind of darkness warlocks were conceived under and born into. Catarina had been brought up by a loving family who had known what she was, and raised her to be who she was. Magnus had been able to pass for human, until he was not.

  Magnus knew what happened to warlock children who were born visibly not human, who their mothers and the whole world could not bring themselves to accept. He could not calculate how many children there might have been down all the dark ages of the world, who could have been magical, who could have been immortal, but had never gotten the chance to live at all. Children abandoned as this one had been, or drowned as Magnus himself had almost been, children who never left a bright magical mark in history, who never received or gave love, who were never anything but a whisper fading on the wind, a memory of pain and despair fading into the dark. Nothing else was left of those lost children, not a spell, not a laugh, not a kiss.

  Without luck, Magnus would have been among the lost. Without love, Catarina and Ragnor would have been among the lost.

  Magnus had no idea what to do with this latest lost child.

  He thanked, not for the first time, whatever strange, beautiful fortune had sent him Alec. Alec had been the one who carried the warlock baby up the stairs to the attic, and when Magnus had conjured up a crib, Alec had been the one to place the baby tenderly in it.

  Then when the baby had started to scream his little blue head off, Alec had taken the baby out of the crib and walked the floor with him, patting his back and murmuring to him. Magnus called up supplies and tried to make formula milk. He’d read somewhere that you tested how hot the milk was on yourself, and ended up burning his own wrist.

  The baby had cried for hours and hours and hours. Magnus supposed he could not blame the small lost soul.

  The baby was finally sleeping now that the sun had set through the tiny attic windows, and the whole day was gone. Alec was half sleeping, leaning against the baby’s crib, and Magnus had felt he had to get out. Alec had simply nodded when Magnus said he was stepping out for a breath
of air. Possibly Alec had been too exhausted to care what Magnus did.

  The moon shone, round as a pearl, turning the stained-glass angel’s hair to silver and the bare winter fields into expanses of light. Magnus was tempted to howl at the moon like a werewolf.

  He could not think of anywhere he could take the child, anyone he could entrust the child to who would want it, who might love it. He could scarcely think of anywhere in this hostile world where the child might be safe.

  He heard the sound of raised voices and rushing footsteps, this late, out in front of the Academy. Another emergency, Magnus thought. It’s been one day, and at this rate the Academy is going to kill me. He went running from the practice grounds to the front of the door, where he saw the very last person he had ever expected to see here in Idris: Lily Chen, the head of the New York vampire clan, with blue streaks in her hair that matched her blue waistcoat and her high heels leaving deep indentations in the dirt.

  “Bane,” she said. “I need help. Where is he?”

  Magnus was too tired to argue with her.

  “Follow me,” said Magnus, and led the way back up the stairs. Even as he went, he thought to himself that all the noise he had heard outside the Academy could not possibly have been Lily alone.

  He thought that, but he did not suspect what was to come.

  Magnus had left behind a sleeping child and his worn-out love, and he opened the door on a scene of absolute chaos. For a moment it seemed as if there were a thousand people in his rooms, and then Magnus realized the real situation was far worse.

  Every single one of the Lightwood family was there, each one causing enough noise for ten. Robert Lightwood was there, saying something in his booming voice. Maryse Lightwood was holding a bottle and appeared to be waving it around, giving a speech. Isabelle Lightwood was standing on top of a stool for no reason in the world Magnus could see. Jace Herondale was, even more mysteriously, lying flat out on the stone floor, and apparently he’d brought Clary, who looked at Magnus as if she were puzzled by her presence here as well.

  Alec was standing in the middle of the room, in the middle of the human storm that was his family, holding the baby protectively to his chest. Magnus could not believe it was possible for his heart to sink further, but it somehow struck him as the greatest disaster in the world that the baby was awake.