Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy

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Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy Page 53

by Cassandra Clare


  He’d spent two years trying to convince himself that it was okay if he never remembered, that he could live with piecing together the fragments of his past, relying on others to tell him about the person he’d once been. But it had never felt right. The empty hole in his memory was like a missing limb; he’d learned to compensate, but he’d never stopped feeling the absence or its pain.

  Now, finally, he was whole again.

  He was more than whole, he realized, as the Consul said proudly, “You are Nephilim now. I name you Simon Shadowhunter, of the blood of Jonathan Shadowhunter, child of the Nephilim.” It was a placeholder name, until he chose a new one for himself. Moments before, that had seemed unthinkable, but now it simply felt true. He was the same person he’d always been . . . and yet. He wasn’t Simon Lewis anymore. He was someone new.

  “Arise.”

  He felt . . . he didn’t know how he felt, except stunned. Filled with joy and confusion and what felt like a flickering light, growing brighter by the second.

  He felt strong.

  He felt ready.

  He felt like his abs were still pretty much only a two-pack, but he supposed even a magic cup could get you only so far.

  The Consul cleared her throat. “Arise,” she said again. Then she lowered her voice to a whisper. “That means you stand up and give someone else a turn.”

  Simon was still trying to shake off his joyous daze as he made his way back to the others. George was next, and as they passed each other, he gave Simon a surreptitious high five.

  Simon wondered what George would see inside the light, if it would be as wondrous. He wondered whether, after the ceremony was over, they would compare notes—or if this was the kind of thing you were supposed to keep to yourself. He supposed there was probably some kind of Shadowhunter protocol to follow—the Shadowhunters had a protocol for everything.

  We, he corrected himself wryly. We have a protocol for everything.

  This would take some getting used to.

  George was on his knees inside the circles, the Mortal Cup in his hands. It was strange, being a Shadowhunter while George was still a mundane, as if there was now an invisible divide between them. This is the farthest apart we’ll ever be, Simon thought, and silently urged his roommate to hurry up and drink.

  The Consul said the traditional words. George swore his oath of loyalty to the Shadowhunters without hesitation, drew in a deep breath, then jauntily raised the Mortal Cup as if giving a toast. “Slàinte!” he shouted, and as his friends broke into indulgent laughter, he took a slug.

  Simon was still laughing when the screaming began.

  The room fell dead silent, but inside Simon’s mind, there was a siren of pain. An inhuman, unearthly scream.

  George’s scream.

  On the dais, George and the Consul were engulfed in an impossible flash of blinding darkness. When it faded away, the Consul was on her feet, the Silent Brothers already by her side, all of them peering down at something horrible, something with the shape of a person, but not its face and not its skin. Something with black veins bulging through cracking flesh, something with the Mortal Cup still clenched in its rigid fist, some withered, writhing, crumbling creature with George’s hair and George’s sneakers, but in place of George’s smile, a tortured, toothless rictus leaking something too black to be blood. Not George, Simon thought furiously as the thing stopped jerking and trembling and fell still. And somehow, in Simon’s head, George screamed and screamed.

  The chamber was a storm of motion—responsible adults hustling students out of the room, gasps and cries and shrieks—but Simon barely registered any of it. He was moving forward, toward the thing that couldn’t be George, pressing toward the dais with Shadowhunter strength and Shadowhunter speed. Simon was going to save his roommate, because he was a Shadowhunter now, and that’s what Shadowhunters do.

  He didn’t notice Catarina Loss come up behind him, not until her hands were on his shoulders, her grip light enough that he should have been able to break free—but he couldn’t move.

  “Let go of me!” Simon raged. The Silent Brothers were kneeling by the thing now, the body, but they weren’t doing anything for it. They weren’t helping. They were just staring fixedly at the spiderweb of inky veins spreading across flesh. “I have to help him!”

  “No.” Catarina’s hand feathered across his forehead and the screaming in his mind fell silent. She was still holding on; he still couldn’t move. He was a Shadowhunter, but she was a warlock. He was helpless. “It’s too late.”

  Simon couldn’t watch the black veins eat up skin or the hollow eyes melt into the skull. He focused on the sneakers. George’s sneakers. One was untied, as it often was. Just that morning George had tripped over the laces, and Simon had caught him from falling. “The last time you’ll save me,” George had said with another of his wistful sighs, and Simon had shot back, “Not likely.”

  The veins were popping, with a sound like Rice Krispies in milk. The body was starting to ooze.

  Now Simon was holding on to Catarina too. He held tight.

  “What’s the point?” he said in despair, because what was the point of dying like this, not in battle, not for a good cause, not to save a fellow warrior or the world, but for nothing? And what was the point of living as a Shadowhunter, what was the point of skill and bravery and superhuman powers, when you couldn’t do anything but stand by and watch?

  “Sometimes there is no point,” Catarina said gently. “There only is what is.”

  What is, Simon thought, the wave of rage and frustration and horror nearly consuming him. He would not let himself be consumed; he would not waste this moment, if this was all he had. He’d spent two years making himself strong—he would be strong for George, now, in the only way left to him. He would bear witness.

  Simon summoned his will. What is.

  He forced himself not to look away.

  What is: George. Brave and kind and good. George, dead. George, gone.

  And though he didn’t know what the Law had to say about dying by the Mortal Cup, whether the Clave would consider George one of their own and give him Shadowhunter burial rights, he didn’t care. He knew what George was, what he was meant to be, and what he deserved.

  “Ave atque vale, George Lovelace, child of Nephilim,” he whispered. “Forever and ever, my brother, hail and farewell.”

  Simon grazed a finger over the small stone plaque, tracing the engraved letters: GEORGE LOVELACE.

  “It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Isabelle said from behind him.

  “Simple,” Clary added. “He would have liked that, don’t you think?”

  Simon thought that George would have preferred to be interred in the City of Bones, like the Shadowhunter he was. (More to the point, he would have preferred not to be dead at all.) The Clave had refused him. He died in the act of Ascension, which in their eyes marked him as unworthy. Simon was trying very hard not to be angry about this.

  He spent a lot of time these days trying not to be angry.

  “It was nice of the London Institute to offer a place for him, don’t you think?” Isabelle said. Simon could hear in her voice how hard she was trying, how worried she was for him.

  They told me a Lovelace is always welcome at the London Institute, George had said when he heard about his placement.

  After his death the Institute made good on their word.

  There had been a funeral, which Simon had endured. There had been a variety of reunions, big and small, with his friends from the Academy, Simon and the others telling stories and trading memories and trying not to think about that last day. Jon almost always cried.

  Then there had been everything else: Life as a Shadowhunter, mercifully busy with training and experimenting with his newfound physical grace and energy, along with fighting off the occasional demon or rogue vampire. There had been long days with Clary, reveling in the fact that he could now remember every second of their friendship, preparing for their parabatai ceremony, whi
ch was only days away. There had been numerous training bouts with Jace, usually ending with Simon flat on his back while Jace stood over him, gloating about his superior skill, because that was Jace’s way of showing affection. There had been evenings babysitting Magnus and Alec’s son, snuggling the little blue boy to his chest and singing him to sleep, and feeling, for a few precious minutes, almost at peace.

  There had been Isabelle, who loved him, which made every day glow.

  There had been so much to make life worth living, and so Simon had lived, and time had passed—and George was still dead.

  He’d asked Clary to Portal him here, to London, for reasons he didn’t quite understand. He’d said good-bye to George so many times now, but somehow none of it felt quite final—it didn’t feel right.

  “I’ll take you there,” Clary had said. “But I’m coming with you.”

  Isabelle had insisted too, and Simon was glad of it.

  A soft breeze blew through the Institute’s garden, rustling the leaves and carrying the faint scent of orchids. Simon thought that George would be glad, at least, to spend eternity in a place where there was no threat of sheep.

  Simon rose to his feet, flanked by Clary and Isabelle. Each of them slipped her hand into his, and they stood silently, bound together. Now that Simon had regained his past, he could remember all the times he’d almost lost one of them—as he could remember now, vividly, all the people he had lost. To battle, to murder, to sickness. Being a Shadowhunter, he knew, meant being on an intimate basis with death.

  But then, so did being human.

  Someday he would lose Clary and Isabelle, or they would lose him. Nothing could stop that. So what was the point? he’d asked Catarina, but he knew better than that. The point wasn’t that you tried to live forever; the point was that you lived, and did everything you could to live well. The point was the choices you made and the people you loved.

  Simon gasped.

  “Simon?” Clary said in alarm. “What is it?”

  But Simon couldn’t speak; he could only gape at the gravestone, where the air was shimmering, and translucent light was shaping itself into two figures. One was a girl about his age; she had long blond hair, brown eyes, and the old-timey petticoats of a BBC duchess. The other was George, and he was smiling at Simon. The girl’s hand was on his shoulder, and there was something kind about the gesture, something warm and familiar.

  “George,” Simon whispered. Then he blinked, and the figures were gone.

  “Simon, what are you staring at?” Isabelle asked in the tight, irritated tone she used only when she was trying not to be afraid.

  “Nothing.” What was he supposed to say? That he’d seen George’s ghost rise from the mist? That he’d seen not just George, which would have almost made sense, but some beautiful old-fashioned stranger? He knew Shadowhunters could see ghosts when those ghosts wanted to be seen, but he also knew that grieving people often saw what they wanted to see.

  Simon didn’t know what to think. But he knew what he wanted to think.

  He wanted a beautiful Shadowhunter spirit from the past, maybe even a long-dead Lovelace, to take George away with her, to wherever it was spirits went. He wanted to believe that George had been welcomed into the arms of his ancestors, where some part of him would live on.

  Not likely, Simon reminded himself. George was adopted, not a Lovelace by blood. And for Shadowhunters—presumably even the dead ones who haunted British gardens—everything came down to blood.

  “Simon—” Isabelle pressed her lips to his cheek. “I know how much you . . . I know he was like your brother. I wish I could have known him better.”

  Clary squeezed his hand. “Me too.”

  Both of them, Simon was reminded, had also lost a brother.

  And both of them cared about more than just bloodlines. Both understood that family could be a matter of choice—a matter of love. So did Alec and Magnus, who’d taken someone else’s child into their home and their hearts. So did the Lightwoods, who’d adopted Jace when he had no one else.

  And so did Simon, who was now a Shadowhunter himself. Who could change what it meant to be a Shadowhunter just by making new choices. Better choices.

  He understood now why he’d felt the need to come here, almost as if he’d been summoned. Not to say good-bye to George but to find a way to hold on to a piece of him.

  “I think I know what I want my Shadowhunter name to be,” he said.

  “Simon Lovelace,” Clary said, as always, knowing his mind as well as he did. “It has a certain ring to it.”

  Isabelle’s lips quirked. “A sexy ring.”

  Simon laughed and blinked away a tear. For one blurry-eyed moment, he thought he saw George grinning through the mist again, and then he was gone. George Lovelace was gone.

  But Simon Lovelace was still here, and it was time to make that count.

  “I’m ready,” he told Clary and Isabelle, the two wonders who had changed his life, the two warriors who would risk anything and everything for those they loved, the two girls who had become his heroes and his family. “Let’s go home.”

  CASSANDRA CLARE is the author of the #1 New York Times and USA Today bestselling Lady Midnight as well as the internationally bestselling Mortal Instruments series and Infernal Devices trilogy. Her books have more than thirty-six million copies in print worldwide. Cassandra lives in western Massachusetts. Visit her at CassandraClare.com.

  SARAH REES BRENNAN is the New York Times bestselling author of the critically acclaimed Unspoken, the Demon’s Lexicon Trilogy, and Team Human, a novel cowritten with Justine Larbalestier. She lives in Ireland. Visit her at SarahReesBrennan.com.

  MAUREEN JOHNSON is the author of a dozen YA novels, including 13 Little Blue Envelopes, The Name of the Star, Suite Scarlett, and The Shadow Cabinet. Visit her at MaureenJohnsonBooks.com, @maureenjohnson on Twitter, or maureenjohnsonbooks on Tumblr.

  ROBIN WASSERMAN is the author of Girls on Fire as well as several bestselling novels for children and young adults. She lives in Brooklyn, New York. Visit her at RobinWasserman.com or follow her on Twitter at @RobinWasserman.

  SHADOWHUNTERS.COM

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  Also by Cassandra Clare

  THE MORTAL INSTRUMENTS

  City of Bones

  City of Ashes

  City of Glass

  City of Fallen Angels

  City of Lost Souls

  City of Heavenly Fire

  THE INFERNAL DEVICES

  Clockwork Angel

  Clockwork Prince

  Clockwork Princess

  THE DARK ARTIFICES

  Lady Midnight

  The Shadowhunter’s Codex

  With Joshua Lewis

  The Bane Chronicles

  With Sarah Rees Brennan

  and Maureen Johnson

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imaginatio
n, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  “Welcome to Shadowhunter Academy” copyright © 2015 by Cassandra Claire, LLC.

  “The Lost Herondale” copyright © 2015 by Cassandra Claire, LLC.

  “The Whitechapel Fiend” copyright © 2015 by Cassandra Claire, LLC.

  “Nothing but Shadows” copyright © 2015 by Cassandra Claire, LLC.

  “The Evil We Love” copyright © 2015 by Cassandra Claire, LLC.

  “Pale Kings and Princes” copyright © 2015 by Cassandra Claire, LLC.

  “Bitter of Tongue” copyright © 2015 by Cassandra Claire, LLC.

  “The Fiery Trial” copyright © 2015 by Cassandra Claire, LLC.

  “Born to Endless Night” copyright © 2015 by Cassandra Claire, LLC.

  “Angels Twice Descending” copyright © 2015 by Cassandra Claire, LLC.

  These titles were previously published individually as eBooks.

  Jacket illustration copyright © 2015 by Cliff Nielsen

  Interior illustrations copyright © 2016 by Cassandra Jean

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  Interior design by Mike Rosamilia and Nicholas Sciacca

  Jacket design by Russell Gordon and Nicholas Sciacca

  The text for this book was set in Dolly.

  CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

  ISBN 978-1-4814-4325-8

  ISBN 978-1-4814-4327-2 (eBook)

  Article in “The Whitechapel Fiend” reprinted from the Star, October 1, 1888, morning edition.

 

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