Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy

by Cassandra Clare

even a statue of an angel that gave Simon nervous fits, since he was a Doctor Who fan. The angel wasn’t weeping, exactly, but it looked too depressed for Simon’s liking.

The only other branch of the Lovelaces gave up Shadowhunting in the 1800s—I think they had a daughter who came back, but she died, so we were all that was left.

Where did it even come from, Simon? Where did it go?”

“I am here,” Isabelle announced, finishing her prowl of the perimeter and turning to face them all again with snapping eyes, “to determine my relationship.” Simon goggled. She couldn’t be talking about him. Could she? “Do you see that man?” Isabelle asked, pointing at Simon. Apparently she was talking about him. “That’s Simon Lewis, and he is my boyfriend. So if any of you think about trying to hurt him because he’s a mundie or—may the Angel have mercy on your soul—pursuing him romantically, I will come after you, I will hunt you down, and I will crush you to powder.” “We’re just bros,” said George hastily.

a … Lord Montgomery? You dated a member of the nobility? How am I ever going to compete with that?” Isabelle still looked fond, but it was diluted with a good deal of impatience. “You’re Lord Montgomery, Simon!”

“Lazlo Balogh,”

“Head of the Budapest Institute,” George whispered in Simon’s ear. In spite of his self-proclaimed laziness, George had memorized the name of every Institute head—not to mention every famous Shadowhunter in history—before arriving at the Academy.

cowardice of the youngest of their party, a Shadowhunter named Tobias Herondale.”

William Herondale, for instance, or his son James, or Jonathan Lightwood Herondale today. But even the strongest tree can have a weak branch.

Like all Herondales, his ability to love without measure, without end, was both his great gift and his great curse.

And perhaps there are those of us who might help that along. When the time is right.”

“I am Tessa Gray,” she said in a low, clear voice. “And I believe in the importance of stories.”

Tessa Gray had mentioned two names: Jem Carstairs and Brother Zachariah. Apparently they were the same person. Which was interesting, because somewhere in Simon’s shifting memories, he knew those names. And he remembered Emma Carstairs, facing Jace—he couldn’t remember why, but he knew it had happened—and saying, The Carstairs owe the Herondales.

Will asleep, wrapped up in Brother Zachariah’s parchment robes, head on the table. Jem would be reading a book, or quietly looking out the window.

I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them to be real. —Oscar Wilde

“He went to the Academy more than a century ago. His name was James Herondale.”

Magnus says they tend to be a good-looking lot. Of course, Magnus also says they tend to be strange in the head. James Herondale was a bit of a special case.”

There was another boy at school, Matthew Fairchild, who did answer to that description. They did not get along particularly well.”

The only person who liked him was a girl, and nobody could know about Grace. Perhaps even Grace would not like him, if she knew any other people.

You never know when, and you never know who, but someday a stranger will burst through the door of your life and transform it utterly. The world will be turned upside down, and you will be happier for it.”

Not that he had any particular girl in mind, James told himself, and crushed all thoughts of Grace, the secret girl; Grace, who needed to be rescued.

People are afraid of anybody who is different: It makes them worry everyone else is different too, and just pretending to be all the same.”

You love, and tremble, and burn. Do not let any of them tell you who you are. You are the flame that cannot be put out. You are the star that cannot be lost. You are who you have always been, and that is enough and more than enough. Anyone who looks at you and sees darkness is blind.

Because I can see you, James. I will always look to you for light.

“My daughter tells me that one of the mundanes’ great heroes has a saying, ‘With great power comes substantial responsibility.’” Simon gaped. There was only one way Isabelle Lightwood, as far from a comics nerd as a person could get, would know a line—even a mangled one—from Spider-Man. She’d been quoting Simon. That had to mean something … right?

Why was it that he occasionally—maybe more than occasionally—found his thoughts straying to other girls, to how they might taste?

“Even if this wolf pack doesn’t have a lead on the monster that—”

Stephen nodded. Lucian, who was Valentine’s parabatai and the one he relied on most, shifted uncomfortably. “I promised Céline I would tutor her tonight,” he admitted. “I could cancel it, of course, but—” Valentine waved him off, laughing, and the others followed suit. “Tutoring? Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Stephen teased. “Seems like she’s already aced her O levels in wrapping you around her little finger.” Lucian blushed. “Nothing’s happening there, trust me,” he said, and it was presumably the truth. Céline, younger than the rest of the Circle, with the fragile, delicately pretty features of a porcelain doll, had been trailing their group like a lost puppy. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that she’d fallen hard for Stephen, but he was a lost cause, pledged to Amatis for life. She’d picked Lucian as her consolation prize, but it was just as obvious that Lucian had no romantic interest in anyone but Jocelyn Fairchild. Obvious, that is, to everyone except Jocelyn.

History, the way teachers liked it, was a racetrack, a straight shot from start to finish line; life itself was more of a maze.

It was one of the many things they had in common: They both enjoyed each other’s company more than that of any girl. Marriage seemed like such a misguided concept, Robert sometimes thought. How could he care for any wife more than he did for his parabatai, the other half of his soul? Why should he possibly be expected to?

“Entreat me not to leave thee, Or return from following after thee— For whither thou goest, I will go, And where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried. The Angel do so to me, and more also, If aught but death part thee and me.”

More like she wants us to get in trouble. Or she wants something. I don’t know what it is. But I don’t like it.”

“She told us to convince you to show up. She said ‘whatever it takes.’ So, you tell me, Simon.” The unsettling smile grew. “What’s it going to take?”

Isabelle brushed past Simon on his way out of the lecture. “Nine p.m., Jon’s room,” she whispered in his ear. “What?” It was like she was informing him of the exact time and place of his death—which, if he was forced to imagine what she might be doing in Jon Cartwright’s dorm room, would be imminent.

There was an implied dare on her face, a certainty that he wouldn’t have the nerve to do either. Simon was reminded that though he might have forgotten ever knowing Isabelle, she’d forgotten nothing about him. In fact, it could be argued that she knew him better than he knew himself.

Through it all, Isabelle watched Simon, something unexpected in her gaze. Something almost like … pride.

He fled, along with everyone else, and Simon was about to follow suit when Isabelle’s fingers snatched for his wrist. “He stays,” she told her father. “He most certainly does not.” “Simon stays with me, or I leave with him,” Isabelle said. “Those are your choices.” “Er, I’m happy to go—” Simon began, “happy” being his polite substitute for “desperate.” “You stay,” Isabelle commanded. Robert sighed. “Fine. You stay.” That ended the discussion. Simon dropped down onto the edge of Jon’s bed, trying to wish himself invisible.

And if I have to, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to prove to you that you can be certain of me.”

“Sometime. Something …” Isabelle mulled it over, letting him twist in the wind for a few endless, agonizing seconds. Then her smile widened so far that Simon thought he might actually self-combust. “I guess it’s a date.”

Isabelle Lightwood didn’t have it in her to look sheepish. But her face was doing its best. “Surprise?” When Simon had regained his power of speech, there was only one word available in his brain. “Isabelle.” Whatever crackled and sizzled between them was apparently so palpable that Helen could sense it too, because she swiftly slid past Isabelle into the bedroom and shut the door. Leaving the two of them alone. “Hi, Simon.” “Hi, Izzy.” “You’re, uh, probably wondering what I’m doing here.” It wasn’t like her to sound so uncertain. Simon nodded. “You never called me,” she said. “I saved you from getting decapitated by an Eidolon demon, and you didn’t even call.” “You never called me, either,” Simon pointed out. “And … uh … also, I kind of felt like I should have been able to save myself.” Isabelle sighed. “I thought you might be thinking that.” “Because I should have, Izzy.” “Because you’re an idiot, Simon.” She brightened. “But this is your lucky day, because I’ve decided I’m not giving up yet. This is too important to give up just because of a bad date.” “Three bad dates,” he pointed out. “Like, really bad dates.” “The worst,” she agreed. “The worst? Jace told me you once went out with a merman who made you have dinner in the river,” Simon said. “Surely our dates weren’t as bad as—” “The worst,” she confirmed, and broke into laughter. Simon thought his heart would burst at the sound of it—there was something so carefree, so joyous in the music of her laugh, it was almost ...

Other times I wish this place would evaporate. That no one could ever come here again.”

The marriage of true minds admits no impediments—but the make-out sessions of teenagers all too often do.

She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept, and sigh’d fill sore, And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four. And there she lullèd me asleep, And there I dream’d—Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream’d On the cold hill’s side. I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!”

All he cares about is his art and his Emma.

‘Show them what a Shadowhunter is made of; show them you aren’t afraid.’

“I need a hero. I’m holding out for a hero, in fact, until the morning light. And she’s gotta be sure, and it’s gotta be soon—because I have been kidnapped by evil faeries—and she’s gotta be larger than life.”

Magnus was now eying them intently, his cat eyes glistening in the dark. The room had gotten very dark indeed. Simon gave Clary a look that was supposed to mean: This is weird. She responded with a very clear look of response that said: Superweird.

“You drank water from Lake Lyn,” Jem said quietly. “The waters produce hallucinations.” “You had us drink water from Lake Lyn?

In fact, it was usually better not to ask Will what he was thinking….” That got a smile from Magnus and Catarina both.

Something about the way Emma and Julian were acting wasn’t quite what Simon expected. Sure, they would be nervous but … No, it was something else.