"You don't know her, Simon. I mean, not anymore. And if she knew I was here, she'd murder me, but . . . can you just try to be a little nicer to her? Please?"
Simon was appalled. He knew that he'd disappointed Isabelle, that his very existence was a constant disappointment to her, that she wanted him to be someone else. But it had never occurred to him that he, the non-vampire, non-heroic, non-sexy iteration of Simon Lewis, could have the power to hurt her.
"I'm sorry," he blurted. "Tell her I'm sorry!"
"Are you kidding me?" Clary said. "Did you not hear the part about how she'd murder me if she knew I was talking to you about this? I'm not telling her anything. I'm telling you. Be careful with her. She's more fragile than she seems."
"She seems like the strongest girl I've ever met," Simon said.
"She's that, too," Clary allowed. She shifted uncomfortably then, and hopped to her feet. "Well, I should . . . I mean, I know you don't really want me around here, so . . ."
"It's not that, I just--"
"No, I get it, but--"
"I'm sorry--"
"I'm sorry--"
They both laughed, and Simon felt something loosening in his chest, a muscle he hadn't even known was clenched.
"It didn't used to be like this, huh?" he asked. "Awkward?"
"No." She gave him a sad smile. "It was a lot of things, but it was never awkward."
He couldn't imagine it, feeling so at ease with a girl, much less a girl like her, pretty and confident and so filled with light. "I bet I liked that."
"I hope so, Simon."
"Clary--" He didn't want her to leave, not yet, but he wasn't sure what to say to her if she stayed. "Do you know the story of Tobias Herondale?"
"Everyone knows that story," she said. "And, obviously, because of Jace . . ."
Simon blinked, remembering: Jace was a Herondale. The last of the Herondales. Or so he thought.
If he had family out there, lost for generations, he would want to know, wouldn't he? Was Simon supposed to tell him? Tell Clary?
He imagined a lost Herondale out there, some golden-eyed girl or boy who didn't know anything about the Shadowhunters or their sordid legacy. Maybe they would welcome finding out who they really were--but maybe, if Clary and Jace came knocking at their door, telling them stories of angels and demons and a noble tradition of death-defying insanity, they would run screaming in the opposite direction.
Sometimes, Simon wondered what would have happened if Magnus had never found him, never offered him the chance to reenter the Shadowhunter world. He would have been living a lie, sure . . . but it would have been a happy lie. He would have gone to college, kept playing with his band, flirted with some non-terrifying girls, lived on the surface of things, never guessing at the darkness that lay beneath.
He guessed that in his other life, telling Clary what he knew wouldn't even have been a question; he guessed that they were the kind of friends who told each other everything.
They weren't any kind of friends now, he reminded himself. She was a stranger who loved him, but she was still a stranger.
"What do you think of it?" he asked her. "What the Clave did to Tobias's wife and child?"
"What do you think I think?" Clary asked. "Given who my father was? Given what happened to Jace's parents, and how he survived it? Isn't it obvious?"
It may have been obvious to someone who knew them and their stories, but not to Simon.
Her face fell. "Oh."
His confusion must have been visible. As was her disappointment--like she was remembering all over again who he was, and who he wasn't.
"It doesn't matter. Let's just say that I do think the Law matters--but it's not the only thing that matters. I mean, if we followed the Law without thinking, would you and I ever have--"
"What?"
She shook her head. "No, I promised myself I wasn't going to keep doing this. You don't need a bunch of stories about what happened to us, who you used to be. You have to figure out who you are now, Simon. I want that for you, that freedom."
It amazed him, how well she understood. How she knew what he wanted without him having to ask.
It gave him the nerve to ask her something he'd been wondering ever since he got to the Academy. "Clary, back when we were friends, before you knew about Shadowhunting or anything, were you and I . . . the same?"
"The same how?"
He shrugged. "You know, into weird music and comics and, like, really not into gym."
"You mean, were we both klutzy nerds?" Clary asked, laughing again. "That's affirmative."
"But now you're--" He waved a hand at her, indicating the taut biceps, the graceful, coordinated way she moved, everything he knew of her past and present. "You're like this Amazon warrior."
"Thanks? I think? Jace is a good trainer. And, you know, there was incentive to get up to speed pretty quick. Fending off the apocalypse and all. Twice."
"Right. And I guess it's in your blood. I mean, it makes sense that you'd be good at all this stuff."
"Simon--" She narrowed her eyes, suddenly seeming to understand what he was getting at. "You do realize Shadowhunting isn't just about how big your muscles are, right? They don't call it Bodybuilding Academy."
He rubbed his aching biceps ruefully. "Maybe they should."
"Simon, you wouldn't be here if the people in charge didn't think you had what it takes."
"They think he had what it takes," Simon corrected her. "The guy with the vampy superstrength and--whatever else it is vampires bring to the table."
Clary got close enough to poke him in the chest, and then she did. Hard. "No, you. Simon, do you know how we got as far as we did in that demon dimension? How we managed to get ourselves close enough to Sebastian to take him down?"
"No, but I'm guessing it involved a lot of demon killing?" Simon asked.
"Not as much as there might have been, because you came up with a better strategy," Clary said. "Something you figured out from all those years playing D&D."
"Wait, seriously? Are you telling me that stuff actually worked in real life?"
"I'm telling you that. I'm telling you that you saved us, Simon. You did it more than once. Not because you were a vampire, not because of anything you've lost. Because of who you were. Who you still are." She stepped away then and took a deep breath. "I promised myself I wouldn't do this," she said fiercely. "I promised."
"No," he said. "I'm glad you did. I'm glad you came."
"I should get out of here," Clary said. "But try to remember about Izzy, okay? I know you can't understand this, but every time you look at her like she's a stranger, it's like . . . it's like someone pressing a hot iron to her flesh. It hurts that much."
She sounded so certain, like she knew.
Like maybe they weren't just talking about Isabelle anymore.
Simon felt it then, not the twinge of fondness he often experienced when Clary smiled at him, but a forceful rush of love that nearly swept him off his feet and into her arms. For the first time, he looked at her, and she wasn't a stranger, she was Clary--his friend. His family. The girl he'd sworn always to protect. The girl he loved as fiercely as he loved himself.
"Clary--" he said. "When we were friends, it was great, right? I mean, I'm not just imagining things, feeling like this is where we belong? We got each other, we supported each other. We were good together, right?"
Her smile turned from sad to something else, something that glowed with the same certainty that he felt, that there was something real between them. It was as if he'd switched on a light inside her. "Oh, Simon," she said. "We were absolutely amazing."
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--an
d 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 wanted 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.
Julian. A presence in her life for as long as she could remember, splashing water at each other in the ocean, digging in the sand together, him putting his hand over hers and them marveling at the difference in the shape and length of their fingers. Julian singing, terribly and off-key, while he drove, his fingers in her hair carefully freeing a trapped leaf, his hands catching her in the training room when she fell, and fell, and fell. The first time after their parabatai ceremony when she'd smashed her hand into a wall in rage at not being able to get a sword maneuver right, and he'd come up to her, taken her still-shaking body in his arms and said, "Emma, Emma, don't hurt yourself. When you do, I feel it, too."
Something in her chest seemed to split and crack; she marveled that it wasn't audible. Energy raced along her veins, and the stele jerked in her hand before it seemed to move on its own, tracing the graceful outline of a healing rune across Julian's ch
est. She heard him gasp, his eyes flying open. His hand slid down her back and he pressed her against him, his teeth gritted.
"Don't stop," he said.
Emma couldn't have stopped if she'd wanted to. The stele seemed to be moving of its own accord; she was blinded with memories, a kaleidoscope of them, all of them Julian. Sun in her eyes and Julian asleep on the beach in an old T-shirt and her not wanting to wake him, but he'd woken anyway when the sun went down and looked for her immediately, not smiling till his eyes found her and he knew she was there. Falling asleep talking and waking up with their hands interlocked; they'd been children in the dark together once but now they were something else, something intimate and powerful, something Emma felt she was touching only the very edge of as she finished the rune and the stele fell from her nerveless fingers.
"Oh," she said softly. The rune seemed lit from within by a soft glow.
About the Authors Cassandra Clare is the author of the #1 New York Times, USA TODAY, Wall Street Journal, and Publishers Weekly bestselling Mortal Instruments series and the Infernal Devices trilogy, and coauthor of the Bane Chronicles with Sarah Rees Brennan and Maureen Johnson. She also wrote The Shadowhunter's Codex with her husband, Joshua Lewis. Her books have more than 35 million copies in print worldwide and have been translated into more than thirty-five languages. Cassandra lives in western Massachusetts. Visit her at CassandraClare.com. Learn more about the world of the Shadowhunters at Shadowhunters.com.
Robin Wasserman's teen novels include the Seven Deadly Sins series, the Cold Awakening trilogy, Hacking Harvard, and The Book of Blood and Shadow. She is also the author of the middle grade series Chasing Yesterday. She lives in Brooklyn, New York. Visit her at RobinWasserman.com or follow her on Twitter at @RobinWasserman.
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authors.simonandschuster.com/CassandraClare
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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