Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy

by Cassandra Clare

  A mother, apparently, always knows.

  “Yes, yes, it’s horrible, but I’m not telling you so you can feel vindicated. I’m telling you . . .” She knitted her fingers together, looking suddenly nervous. “I had the strangest feeling when I heard the story, Simon, like I knew she would regret it—because I regretted it. Isn’t that strange?” She let out a nervous little giggle, but there was no humor in it. “Feeling guilty for something you haven’t even done? I can’t say why, Simon, but I feel like I’ve betrayed you in some terrible way I can’t remember.”

  “Of course you haven’t, Mom. That’s ridiculous.”

  “Of course it’s ridiculous. I would never. A parent should have unconditional love for her child.” Her eyes were glossy with unshed tears. “You know that’s how I love you, Simon, don’t you? Unconditionally?”

  “Of course I know that.”

  He said it like he meant it—he did mean it. But, of course, it was just another lie. Because in that other life, the one that had been wiped clean from both their minds, she had betrayed him. He’d told her the truth, that he’d been turned into a vampire, and she had thrown him out of the house. She had told him he was no longer her son. That her son was dead. She’d proven, to both of them, the conditions of her love.

  He couldn’t remember it happening, but on some level deeper than conscious thought, he remembered the feeling of it—the pain, the betrayal, the loss. It had never occurred to him she might remember too.

  “This is silly.” She brushed away a tear, gave herself a little shake. “I don’t know why I’m getting so emotional over this. I just . . . I just had this feeling that I needed to tell you that, and then you showed up here like it was meant to be, and . . .”

  “Mom.” Simon pulled his mother out of her chair and into a tight hug. She seemed so small to him suddenly, and he thought how hard she’d worked all these years to protect him, and how he would do anything to protect her in return. He was a different person now than he’d been two years before, a different Simon than the one who’d confessed to his mother and been turned out of the house—maybe his mother was different too. Maybe making that choice once was enough to ensure she would never make it again; maybe it was time to stop holding it against her, this betrayal neither of them could quite remember. “Mom, I know. And I love you, too.”

  She pulled away then, just far enough to meet his gaze. “What about you? What did you have to tell me?”

  Oh, nothing much, I’m just joining a supernatural cult of demon-fighters who’ve forbidden me to ever see you again, love ya.

  It didn’t have quite the right ring to it.

  “I’ll tell you in the morning,” he said. “You look exhausted.”

  She smiled, exhaustion painted across her face. “In the morning,” she echoed. “Welcome home, Simon.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” he said, and miraculously managed to do so without getting choked up. He waited for her to disappear behind her bedroom door, waited for her soft snores to begin. Then he scribbled a note apologizing for having to leave so abruptly. Without saying good-bye.

  His sister snored too—though, like their mother, she denied it. He could, if he stayed very silent, hear her all the way in the kitchen. He could wake her up, if he wanted, and he could probably even tell her the truth, or some version of it. Rebecca could be trusted—not just to keep his secrets, but to understand them. He could do what he’d come here to do, what he was supposed to do, say good-bye to her and tell her to love and protect their mother enough for both of them.

  “No.” He’d spoken softly, but the word seemed to echo in the empty kitchen.

  The Law was hard, but it was also riven with loopholes. Hadn’t Clary taught him that? There were Shadowhunters who found a way to keep their mundane loved ones in their lives—Simon himself was proof. Maybe that was why Clary had brought him here tonight—not to say good-bye, but to realize that he couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

  This isn’t forever, Simon promised his mother and sister as he slipped out the door. He promised himself it wasn’t cowardly, leaving without saying anything. It was a silent promise—that this wasn’t the end. That he’d find a way. And despite the fact that there was no one to appreciate his flawless Schwarzenegger accent, he swore his oath aloud: “I’ll be back.”

  Clary had said to give her a call when he was ready to head back to the Academy, but he wasn’t ready yet. It was strange: In another day, there’d be nothing keeping him from returning to New York for good. After his Ascension, he’d be a Shadowhunter for real. No more school, no more training missions, no more long days and nights in Idris missing his morning coffee. He hadn’t given much thought to what would happen next, but he knew he’d come home to the city and stay in the Institute, at least temporarily. There was no reason to feel so homesick for New York when he was this close to being back for good.

  Except he wasn’t quite sure who he’d be when he came back. When he Ascended. If he Ascended, if nothing terrible happened when he took his drink from the Mortal Cup.

  What would it mean to become a Shadowhunter, really? He’d be stronger and swifter, he knew that much. He’d be able to bear runes on his skin, see through glamours without a warlock’s help. He knew plenty about what he’d be able to do—but he didn’t know anything about how it would feel. About who he’d be when he was a Shadowhunter. It’s not that he thought one drink from a magic cup would instantly turn him into an egomaniacal, preternaturally handsome, wildly reckless snob like . . . well, like almost all the Shadowhunters he knew and loved. Nor did he expect that turning into a Shadowhunter would make him automatically disdain D&D, Star Trek, and all technology and pop culture invented after the nineteenth century. But who could know for sure?

  And it wasn’t just the confusing transformation from human to angel-warrior. He’d been assured that, in all likelihood, if he survived Ascension, he would get back all his memories. All those memories of the original Simon, the “real” Simon, the one he’d worked so hard to persuade people would be gone forever, would come flooding back into his brain. He supposed this should make him happy, but Simon found he felt rather territorial of his brain as it was now. What if that Simon—the Simon who’d saved the world, the Simon whom Isabelle had first fallen in love with—didn’t much like this Simon that he’d become? What if he drank from the Cup and lost himself all over again?

  It gave him a headache, thinking of himself as so many different people.

  He wanted one last night in the city as just this one: Simon Lewis, myopic, manga-loving mundane.

  Also, he still wanted some of those soup dumplings.

  Simon wandered down Flatbush, soaking in the familiar noises of New York at night, sirens and construction drills and road-rage honking, along with the slightly less familiar sounds of glamoured faerie hounds barking at the pigeons. He crossed the Manhattan Bridge, metal rattling beneath his feet as the subway roared past, the lights of the Financial District glittering through the fog. Even before he’d known anything about demons and Downworlders, Simon thought, he had always known New York was full of magic. Maybe that was why it had been so easy for him to accept the truth about the Shadow World: In his city, anything was possible.

  Conveniently, the bridge dumped him off in the heart of Chinatown. As he popped into his favorite hole-in-the-wall and scarfed a to-go order of dumplings, Simon’s mind strayed to Isabelle, wondering if she was close by, slashing evildoers with her electrum whip. It boggled his mind—if you thought about it, he was basically dating a superhero.

  Of course, the thing about dating a superhero was that you couldn’t exactly ask them to take a break from saving the world just because you were in the mood for a last-minute date. So Simon kept walking, soaking in the rhythm of the midnight city, letting his mind wander as aimlessly as his feet. At least, he thought he was wandering aimlessly, until he found himself on a familiar block of Avenue D, passing a bodega where the milk was always sour but the guy behind the counter would give
you free coffee with your morning doughnut, if you knew enough to ask.

  Wait, how did I know that? Simon thought. The answer came to him on the heels of the question. He knew that because, in some other forgotten life, he had lived here. He and Jordan Kyle had shared an apartment in the crumbling redbrick building on the corner. A vampire and a werewolf living together—it sounded like the beginning of a bad joke, but the only bad joke was that Simon had practically forgotten it ever happened.

  And Jordan was dead.

  It hit him now almost as hard as it had when he first heard: Jordan was dead. And not just Jordan. Raphael was dead. Isabelle’s brother Max, dead. Clary’s brother Sebastian, dead. Julie’s sister. Beatriz’s grandfather and father and brother, Julian Blackthorn’s father, Emma Carstairs’s parents—all of them dead, and those were only the ones Simon had been told about. How many other people he had cared about, or people the people he loved had cared about, had been lost to one Shadowhunter war or another? He was still a teenager—he wasn’t supposed to know this many people who had died.

  And me, he thought suddenly. Don’t forget that one.

  Because it was true, wasn’t it? Before life as a vampire, there’d been death. Cold and bloodless and underground.

  Then, later, there’d been the forgetting, and that was a kind of death too.

  Simon wasn’t even a Shadowhunter yet, and already, this life had taken so much from him.

  “Simon. I thought you’d be here.”

  Simon turned around and was reminded that for all the losses, there’d also been some very significant gains. “Isabelle,” he breathed, and then, for quite a while, his lips were too occupied to speak.

  They went back to Magnus and Alec’s apartment. The couple had taken their new baby on vacation to Bali, which meant Simon and Isabelle could have the place to themselves.

  “You sure it’s okay for us to be here?” Simon asked, looking nervously around the apartment. The last time he’d seen it, the decorating ethos had been part–Studio 54, part-bordello: lots of disco balls, velvet curtains, and some appallingly placed mirrors. Now the living room looked like something puked up by a Babies“R”Us—blankets and diapers and mobiles and stuffed bunnies everywhere you looked.

  He still couldn’t believe Magnus Bane was someone’s dad.

  “I’m sure,” Isabelle said, stripping off her dress in one smooth motion to reveal the unending stretches of smooth, pale skin that lay beneath. “But if you want to leave . . .”

  “No,” Simon said, struggling for enough breath to speak. “Definitely. No. Here’s good. Very good.”

  “Well, then.” Isabelle swept a family of stuffed kittens off the couch, then stretched across like a very satisfied and very dangerous cat. She looked pointedly at Simon’s shirt, which was still on his body.

  “Well. Then.” Simon stood above her, unsure what to do next.

  “Simon.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m looking pointedly at your shirt.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Which is still on your body.”

  “Oh. Right.” He took care of that. Dropped down beside her on the couch.

  “Simon.”

  “Yes? Oh. Right.” Simon leaned toward her and pulled her close for a kiss, which she indulged for about thirty seconds before extricating herself.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “You tell me,” she said. “I, your incredibly sexy girlfriend that you never get to see, am prostrating myself before you half-naked, and you seem like you’d rather be watching a baseball game.”

  “I hate baseball.”

  “Exactly.” Isabelle sat up—though, mercifully, she didn’t put any clothes back on. Not yet. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

  Simon nodded.

  “So if, hypothetically, you were feeling a little nervous about this whole Ascension thing tomorrow, and wondering whether you still wanted to go through with it, you could talk to me about that.”

  “Hypothetically,” Simon said.

  “Just picking a topic at random,” Isabelle said. “We could also talk about Avatar: The Last Airplane, if you want.”

  “It’s the Airbender,” Simon said, suppressing a grin, “and I love you even if you are nerd-clueless.”

  “And I love you, even if you are a mundane,” she said. “Even if you stay a mundane. You know that, right?”

  “I . . .” It was easy for her to say, and he thought she probably even meant it. But that didn’t make it true. “You think you would? Really?”

  Isabelle let out her breath in an irritated puff. “Simon Lewis, are you forgetting that you were a mundane when I first kissed you? A rather scrawny mundane with terrible fashion sense, I should point out. And then you were a vampire, and I started dating you. Then you were a mundane again, but this time with freaking amnesia. And still, inexplicably, I fell in love with you all over again. What could possibly make you think I have any standards left when it comes to you?”

  “Uh, thank you, I think?”

  “ ‘Thank you’ is the correct response. And also ‘I love you, too, Isabelle, and I would love you even if you lost your memory or grew a mustache or something.’  ”

  “Well, obviously.” Simon tugged at her chin. “Though I’d draw the line at a beard.”

  “Goes without saying.” Then she looked serious again. “You do believe me, right? You can’t be doing this for me.”

  “I’m not doing it for you,” Simon said, and that was true. He may have gone to the Academy, in part, because of Isabelle—but he’d stayed for himself. When he Ascended, it wouldn’t be because he needed to prove something to her. “But . . . if I did back out, which I would never do, but if I did, wouldn’t that make me a coward? You’d date a mundane, maybe. But I know you, Izzy. You couldn’t date a coward.”

  “And you, Simon Lewis, couldn’t be a coward. Not if you tried. It’s not cowardly to make a choice about what you want your life to be. Choosing what’s right for you, maybe that’s the bravest thing you can do. If you choose to be a Shadowhunter, I will love you for it. But if you choose to stay a mundane, I’ll love you for that, too.”

  “What if I just choose not to drink from the Mortal Cup because I’m afraid it will kill me?” Simon asked. It was a relief to finally say it out loud. “What if it had nothing to do with how I want to spend the rest of my life? What if it’s just being scared?”

  “Well, then, you’re an idiot. Because the Mortal Cup could never hurt you. It will know what I do, which is that you’d make an amazing Shadowhunter. The blood of the Angel could never hurt you,” she said, intensity blazing in her eyes. “It’s not possible.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “I really do.”

  “So the fact that we’re here, and you’re, you know—”

  “Partially disrobed and wondering why we’re still making small talk?”

  “—has nothing to do with the fact that you think this might be our last night together?”

  This earned him another exasperated sigh. “Simon, do you know how many times I’ve been almost certain one of us wouldn’t survive the next twenty-four hours?”

  “Um, several?”

  “Several,” she confirmed. “And on not one of those occasions have we ever had any sort of desperate, angsty farewell sex.”

  “Wait—we haven’t?”

  Over the last several months, Simon and Isabelle had gotten very close. Closer, he thought, than they’d ever been before, not that he could quite remember. At least conversationally. As for the other kind of close—talking on the phone and writing each other letters wasn’t exactly conducive to losing your virginity.

  Then there was the excruciating fact that Simon wasn’t certain he still had a virginity to lose.

  All this time he’d been too embarrassed to ask.

  “Are you kidding me?” Isabelle asked.

  Simon could feel his cheeks burning.

 
“You’re not kidding me!”

  “Please don’t be mad,” Simon said.

  Isabelle laughed. “I’m not mad. If we’d had sex, and you’d forgotten—which, by the way, I assure you would not be possible, demon amnesia or no demon amnesia—maybe I’d be mad.”

  “So we really never . . . ?”

  “We really never,” Isabelle confirmed. “I know you don’t remember, but things were a little hectic around here, what with the war and all the people trying to kill us and such. And like I said, I don’t believe in ‘farewell sex.’ ”

  Simon felt like the whole night—possibly the most important night of his young and sorrowfully inexperienced life—was hanging in the balance, and he was very afraid of saying the wrong thing. “So, uh, what kind of sex do you believe in?”

  “I think it should be a beginning of something,” Isabelle said. “Like, say, hypothetically, if your entire life were going to change tomorrow, if it were going to be the first day of the rest of your life, I’d want to be a part of that.”

  “The rest of my life.”

  “Yep.”

  “Hypothetically.”

  “Hypothetically.” She took off his glasses then and kissed him hard on the lips, then very softly on the neck. Exactly where a vampire would sink its fangs in, some part of him thought. Most of him, though, was thinking, This is actually going to happen.

  This is going to happen tonight.

  “Also, most of all, I believe in doing it because I want to do it,” Isabelle said plainly. “Just like anything else. And I want to. Assuming you do.”

  “You have no idea how much,” Simon said honestly, and thanked God that Shadowhunting blood didn’t bestow telepathy. “I should just warn you, I don’t, I mean, I haven’t, I mean, this would be the first time I, so—”

  “You’ll be a natural.” She kissed his neck again, then his throat. Then his chest. “I promise.”

  Simon thought about all the opportunities here for humiliation, how he had absolutely no idea what he was doing, and how usually when he had no idea what he was doing, he screwed things up. Riding a horse, wielding a sword, leaping from a tree—all these things people kept saying would come naturally to him usually came with bumps, bruises, and, more than once, a face full of manure.