"You got expelled?" James asked. "When? Why?"
"In about four minutes," Matthew said. "Because I broke my solemn word, and exploded the south wing of the Academy."
James and his father both looked at the south wing. It stood, looking as if it would stand for another century.
"I hoped it would not come to this, but it has. I gave Christopher certain materials that I knew he could turn into explosives. I measured them very carefully, I made sure they were slow acting, and I made Thomas swear to bring Christopher away. I have left a note explaining that it was all my fault, but I do not wish to explain this to Mother. Please take me with you to the London Institute, so I can be taught how to be a Shadowhunter with James!"
"Charlotte will cut off my head," said Father.
He sounded tempted, though. Matthew was sparkling wickedly up at him, and Father enjoyed wickedness. Besides which, he was no more immune to The Smile than anyone else.
"Father, please," James said in a quiet voice.
"Mr. Herondale, please!" said Matthew. "We cannot be parted." James braced himself for the explanation about truth and beauty, but instead Matthew said, with devastating simplicity: "We are going to be parabatai."
James stared.
Father said: "Oh, I see."
Matthew nodded encouragingly, and smiled encouragingly.
"Then nobody should come between you," said Father.
"Nobody." Matthew shook his head as he said "nobody," then nodded again. He looked seraphic. "Exactly."
"Very well," said Father. "Everybody get into the carriage."
"Father, you did not steal Uncle Gabriel's carriage again," said James.
"This is your time of trouble. He would want me to have it, and he would have given it to me if I asked him, which as it happens I did not," said Father.
He helped Matthew up, then heaved Matthew's trunk into place and tied it securely. He gave it a puzzled look as he did so. James imagined Matthew's trunk was significantly heavier than James's.
Then he helped James up beside Matthew, and then swung himself up to sit on James's other side. He grasped the reins and they were off.
"When the south wing collapses, there could be flying debris," Father remarked. "Any one of us could be injured." He sounded very cheerful about this. "Best to stop on our way home and see the Silent Brothers."
"That seems excessi--" Matthew began, but James elbowed him. Matthew would learn how Father was about the Silent Brothers soon enough.
Anyway, James did not feel Matthew had a right to characterize anyone else's behavior as excessive, now that he had blown up the Academy.
"I was thinking we could split our training time between the London Institute and my house," Matthew went on. "The Consul's house. Where people cannot insult you, and can get used to seeing you."
Matthew had really meant it about being trained together, James thought. He had worked it all out. And if James was in Idris more often, he could perhaps see Grace more often, too.
"I'd like that," said James. "I know you'd like to see more of your father."
Matthew smiled. Behind them, the Academy exploded. The carriage jolted slightly with the force of the impact.
"We don't . . . have to be parabatai," Matthew said, his voice quiet under the sound of the blast. "I said it to make your father take me with you, so I could execute my new plan, but we don't . . . have to. I mean, unless you . . . maybe want to be."
James had thought he wanted a friend like himself, a parabatai who was shy and quiet and would enter in on James's feelings about the terror of parties. Instead here was Matthew, who was the life and soul of every party, who made dreadful hairbrush decisions, who was unexpectedly and terribly kind. Who had tried to be his friend and kept trying, even though James did not know what trying to be a friend looked like. Who could see James, even when he was a shadow.
"Yes," James said simply.
"What?" said Matthew, who always knew what to say.
"I'd like that," said James. He curled his hands, one around his father's coat sleeve, and one around Matthew's. He held on to them, all the way home.
Shadowhunter Academy, 2008
"So James found a parabatai and everything worked out great," Simon said. "That's awesome."
James was Tessa Gray's son, Simon had realized, a long way into the story. It was strange to think of that: It seemed to bring that lost boy very close, he and his friend. Simon liked the sound of James. He'd liked Tessa, too.
And though he was starting to get the feeling, even without his memories, that he hadn't always liked Jace Herondale--he liked him now.
Catarina rolled her eyes so hard Simon thought he could hear them roll, like tiny, exasperated bowling balls.
"No, Simon. The Academy drove James Herondale out for being different, and all the people who loved him could do was follow him out. The people who drove them out did have to rebuild part of their precious Academy, mind you."
"Uh," said Simon. "Sorry, is the message I'm meant to be learning 'get out, get out as fast as you can'?"
"Maybe," Catarina said. "Maybe the message is to trust your friends. Maybe the message is not that people in the past did badly but that now we must all strive to do better. Maybe the message is you have to work these things out for yourself. You think all lessons have easy conclusions? Don't be a child, Daylighter. You're not immortal anymore. You don't have much time to waste."
Simon took that as the dismissal it was, scooping up his books. "Thanks for the story, Ms. Loss."
He ran down the stairs and out of the Academy, but he was too late, as he'd known he would be.
He was barely out of the door when he saw the dregs, filthy and tired, arm in arm, lurching up from the training grounds. Marisol was in front, her arm looped with George's. It looked as if someone had tried to pull out all her hair.
"Where were you, Lewis?" she called. "We could have used you cheering for us as we won!"
Some way behind them were the elites. Jon was looking very unhappy, which filled Simon with a deep sense of peace.
Trust your friends, Catarina had said.
Simon might speak up for mundies in class, but it mattered more that George and Marisol and Sunil spoke up too. Simon didn't want to change things by being the special one, the exceptional mundane, the former Daylighter and former hero. They had all chosen to come try to be heroes. His fellow dregs could win without him.
There was one more motive Catarina might have had that she had not announced, Simon thought.
She had heard this story from her dead friend Ragnor Fell.
Catarina had listened to her friend's stories, the way James Herondale had listened to his father's stories. Being able to tell the stories over again, having someone to listen and learn, meant her friend was not lost.
Maybe he could write to Clary, Simon thought, as well as Isabelle. Maybe he could trust her to love him despite how often he might fail her. Maybe he was ready to be told stories about himself and about her. He didn't want to lose his friend.
Simon was writing his letter to Clary when George came in, toweling his hair. He had taken his life in his hands and risked the showers in the dregs' bathroom.
"Hey," Simon said.
"Hey, where were you while the game was happening?" George asked. "I thought you were never coming back and I'd have to be pals with Jon Cartwright. Then I thought about being pals with Jon, was overwhelmed with despair, and decided to find one of the frogs I know are living in here, give it little frog glasses and call it Simon 2.0."
Simon shrugged, not sure how much he was supposed to tell. "Catarina kept me after class."
"Careful, or someone might start rumors about you two," said George. "Not that I would judge. She's obviously . . . ceruleanly charming."
"She was telling me a long story about Shadowhunters being jerks and about parabatai. What do you think about the whole parabatai thing, anyway? The parabatai rune is like a friendship bracelet you can never take back."
<
br /> "I think it sounds nice," said George. "I'd like that, to have someone who would always watch my back. Someone who I could count on at the times when this scary world gets the scariest."
"Makes it sound like there's someone you'd ask."
"I'd ask you, Si," said George, with an awkward little smile. "But I know you wouldn't ask me. I know who you would ask. And that's okay. I've still got Frog Simon," he added thoughtfully. "Though I'm not sure he's exactly Shadowhunter material."
Simon laughed at the joke, as George had meant him to, smoothing over the awkward moment.
"How were the showers?"
"I have one word for you, Si," said George. "A sad, sad word. Gritty. I had to shower, though. I was gross. Our victory was amazing but hard-won. Why are Shadowhunters so bendy, Simon? Why?"
George kept complaining about Jon Cartwright's enthusiastic if unskilled attempts at playing baseball, but Simon was not listening.
I know who you would ask.
A flash of memory came to Simon, as it did sometimes, cutting like a knife. I love you, he'd told Clary. He'd said it believing he was going to die. He'd wanted those to be his last words before he died, the truest words he could speak.
He'd been thinking all this time about his two possible lives, but he didn't have two possible lives. He had a real life, with real memories and a real best friend. He had his childhood as it had actually been, holding hands with Clary as they crossed the street, and the last year as it had actually been, with Jace saving his life and with him saving Isabelle's and with Clary there, Clary, always Clary.
The other life, the so-called normal life without his best friend, was a fake. It was like a giant woven tapestry portraying his life, scenes shown in threads that were all the colors of the rainbow, except it had one color--one of the brightest colors--ripped out.
Simon liked George, he liked all his friends at the Academy, but he was not James Herondale. He had already had friends before he came here.
Friends to live and die for, to have entangled with every memory. The other Shadowhunters, especially Clary, were a part of him. She was the color that had been ripped out, the bright thread woven through his first memories to his last. Something was missing from the pattern of Simon's life, without Clary, and it would never be right again, unless she was restored.
My best friend, Simon thought. Another thing worth living in this world for, worth being a Shadowhunter for. Maybe she wouldn't want to be his parabatai. God knew Simon was no prize. But if he got through this school, if he managed to become a Shadowhunter, he would have all the memories of his best friend back.
He could try for the bond between Jace and Alec, between James Herondale and Matthew Fairchild. He could ask if she would perform the ritual and speak the words that told the world what was between you, and that it was unbreakable.
He could at least ask Clary.
A new cover will be revealed each month as the Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy continue!
Continue the adventures of the Shadowhunters with Emma Carstairs and Julian Blackthorn in
Lady Midnight
The first book in Cassandra Clare's new series, The Dark Artifices.
Emma took her witchlight out of her pocket and lit it--and almost screamed out loud. Jules's shirt was soaked with blood and worse, the healing runes she'd drawn had vanished from his skin. They weren't working.
"Jules," she said. "I have to call the Silent Brothers. They can help you. I have to."
His eyes screwed shut with pain. "You can't," he said. "You know we can't call the Silent Brothers. They report directly to the Clave."
"So we'll lie to them. Say it was a routine demon patrol. I'm calling," she said, and reached for her phone.
"No!" Julian said, forcefully enough to stop her. "Silent Brothers know when you're lying! They can see inside your head, Emma. They'll find out about the investigation. About Mark--"
"You're not going to bleed to death in the backseat of a car for Mark!"
"No," he said, looking at her. His eyes were eerily blue-green, the only bright color in the dark interior of the car. "You're going to fix me."
Emma could feel it when Jules was hurt, like a splinter lodged under her skin. The physical pain didn't bother her; it was the terror, the only terror worse than her fear of the ocean. The fear of Jules being hurt, of him dying. She would give up anything, sustain any wound, to prevent those things from happening.
"Okay," she said. Her voice sounded dry and thin to her own ears. "Okay." She took a deep breath. "Hang on."
She unzipped her jacket, threw it aside. Shoved the console between the seats aside, put her witchlight on the floorboard. Then she reached for Jules. The next few seconds were a blur of Jules's blood on her hands and his harsh breathing as she pulled him partly upright, wedging him against the back door. He didn't make a sound as she moved him, but she could see him biting his lip, the blood on his mouth and chin, and she felt as if her bones were popping inside her skin.
"Your gear," she said through gritted teeth. "I have to cut it off."
He nodded, letting his head fall back. She drew a dagger from her belt, but the gear was too tough for the blade. She said a silent prayer and reached back for Cortana.
Cortana went through the gear like a knife through melted butter. It fell away in pieces and Emma drew them free, then sliced down the front of his T-shirt and pulled it apart as if she were opening a jacket.
Emma had seen blood before, often, but this felt different. It was Julian's, and there seemed to be a lot of it. It was smeared up and down his chest and rib cage; she could see where the arrow had gone in and where the skin had torn where he'd yanked it out.
"Why did you pull the arrow out?" she demanded, pulling her sweater over her head. She had a tank top on under it. She patted his chest and side with the sweater, absorbing as much of the blood as she could.
Jules's breath was coming in hard pants. "Because when someone--shoots you with an arrow--" he gasped, "your immediate response is not--'Thanks for the arrow, I think I'll keep it for a while.'"
"Good to know your sense of humor is intact."
"Is it still bleeding?" Julian demanded. His eyes were shut.
She dabbed at the cut with her sweater. The blood had slowed, but the cut looked puffy and swollen. The rest of him, though--it had been a while since she'd seen him with his shirt off. There was more muscle than she remembered. Lean muscle pulled tight over his ribs, his stomach flat and lightly ridged. Cameron was much more muscular, but Julian's spare lines were as elegant as a greyhound's. "You're too skinny," she said. "Too much coffee, not enough pancakes."
"I hope they put that on my tombstone." He gasped as she shifted forward, and she realized abruptly that she was squarely in Julian's lap, her knees around his hips. It was a bizarrely intimate position.
"I--am I hurting you?" she asked.
He swallowed visibly. "It's fine. Try with the iratze again."
"Fine," she said. "Grab the panic bar."
"The what?" He opened his eyes and peered at her.
"The plastic handle! Up there, above the window!" She pointed. "It's for holding on to when the car is going around curves."
"Are you sure? I always thought it was for hanging things on. Like dry cleaning."
"Julian, now is not the time to be pedantic. Grab the bar or I swear--"
"All right!" He reached up, grabbed hold of it, and winced. "I'm ready."
She nodded and set Cortana aside, reaching for her stele. Maybe her previous iratzes had been too fast, too sloppy. She'd always focused on the physical aspects of Shadowhunting, not the more mental and artistic ones: seeing through glamours, drawing runes.
She set the tip of it to the skin of his shoulder and drew, carefully and slowly. She had to brace herself with her left hand against his shoulder. She tried to press as lightly as she could, but she could feel him tense under her fingers. The skin on his shoulder was smooth and hot under her touch, and she wan
ted to get closer to him, to put her hand over the wound on his side and heal it with the sheer force of her will. To touch her lips to the lines of pain beside his eyes and--
Stop. She had finished the iratze. She sat back, her hand clamped around the stele. Julian sat up a little straighter, the ragged remnants of his shirt hanging off his shoulders. He took a deep breath, glancing down at himself--and the iratze faded back into his skin, like black ice melting, spreading, being absorbed by the sea.
He looked up at Emma. She could see her own reflection in his eyes: she looked wrecked, panicked, with blood on her neck and her white tank top. "It hurts less," he said in a low voice.
The wound on his side pulsed again; blood slid down the side of his rib cage, staining his leather belt and the waistband of his jeans. She put her hands on his bare skin, panic rising up inside her. His skin felt hot, too hot. Fever hot.
"I have to call," she whispered. "I don't care if the whole world comes down around us, Jules, the most important thing is that you live."
"Please," he said, desperation clear in his voice. "Whatever is happening, we'll fix it, because we're parabatai. We're forever. I said that to you once, do you remember?"
She nodded warily, hand on the phone.
"And the strength of a rune your parabatai gives you is special. Emma, you can do it. You can heal me. We're parabatai and that means the things we can do together are . . . extraordinary."
There was blood on her jeans now, blood on her hands and her tank top, and he was still bleeding, the wound still open, an incongruous tear in the smooth skin all around it.
"Try," Jules said in a dry whisper. "For me, try?"
His voice went up on the question and in it she heard the voice of the boy he had been once, and she remembered him smaller, skinnier, younger, back pressed against one of the marble columns in the Hall of Accords in Alicante as his father advanced on him with his blade unsheathed.
And she remembered what Julian had done, then. Done to protect her, to protect all of them, because he always would do everything to protect them.
She took her hand off the phone and gripped the stele, so tightly she felt it dig into her damp palm. "Look at me, Jules," she said in a low voice, and he met her eyes with his. She placed the stele against his skin, and for a moment she held still, just breathing, breathing and remembering.
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