Welcome to Shadowhunter Academy (4 page)

He did not remember much about Clary’s brother, but he knew his name. He did not particularly want to remember more.

“Oh, right, Jonathan Herondale,” said Jon. “Of course you know him. I’m actually pretty good friends with him myself. Taught him a trick or two that probably helped you all out in the demon realms, am I right?”

“Do you mean—Jace?” Simon asked dubiously.

“Yeah, obviously,” said Jon. “He’s probably mentioned me.”

“Not that I recall . . . ,” said Simon. “But I do have demon amnesia. So there’s that.”

Jon nodded and shrugged. “Right. Bummer. He’s probably mentioned me and you forgot, on account of the demon amnesia. Not to brag, but we’re pretty close, me and Jace.”

“I wish I was close to Jace Herondale,” Julie sighed. “He is
so
gorgeous.”

“He is foxier than a fox fur in a fox hole on fox hunting day,” Beatriz agreed dreamily.

“Who’s this?” asked Jon, squinting at George, who was leaning back in his chair and looking rather amused.

“Speaking of people being foxy, do you mean? I’m George Lovelace,” said George. “I say my surname without shame, because I am secure in my masculinity like that.”

“Oh, a Lovelace,” said Jon, his brow clearing. “Yeah, you can sit with us.”

“I’ve got to say, my surname has never actually been a selling point before, though,” George remarked. “Shadowhunters, go figure.”

“Well, you know,” said Julie. “You’re going to want to hang out with people in your own stream.”

“Come again?” Simon asked.

“There are two different streams in the Academy,” Beatriz explained. “The stream for mundanes, where they inform the students more fully about the world and give them badly needed basic training, and the stream for real Shadowhunter kids, where we’re taught from a more advanced curriculum.”

Julie’s lip curled. “What Beatriz’s saying is, there’s the elite and there’s the dregs.”

Simon stared at them, with a sinking feeling. “So . . . I’m going to be in the dregs course.”

“No, Simon, no!” Jon exclaimed, looking shocked. “Of course you won’t be.”

“But I’m a mundane,” Simon said again.

“You’re not a regular mundane, Simon,” Julie told him. “You’re an exceptional mundane. That means exceptions are going to be made.”

“If anyone tried to put you in with the mundanes, I’d have words with them,” Jon continued loftily. “Any friend of Jace Herondale’s is, naturally, a friend of mine.”

Julie patted Simon’s hand. Simon stared at his hand as if it did not belong to him. He did not want to be put in the stream for losers, but he didn’t feel comfortable about being assured he would not be either.

But he did think he remembered Isabelle, Jace, and Alec saying some sketchy things about mundanes, now and then. Isabelle, Jace, and Alec weren’t so bad. It was just the way they were brought up: They didn’t mean what it seemed like they meant. Simon was pretty sure.

Beatriz, who Simon had liked on sight, leaned in across Julie and said: “You’ve more than earned your place.”

She smiled shyly at him. Simon could not help smiling back.

“So . . . I’m going to be in the dregs course?” George asked slowly. “I don’t know anything about Shadowhunters and Downworlders and demons.”

“Oh no,” said Jon. “You’re a Lovelace. You’ll find it will all come very easily to you: It’s in your blood.”

George bit his lip. “If you say so.”

“Most students in the Academy will be in the elite course,” Beatriz said hastily. “Our new recruits are mostly like you, George. Shadowhunters are searching all over the world for lost and scattered people with Shadowhunter blood.”

“So it’s Shadowhunter blood that gets you into the elite stream,” George clarified. “And not knowledge at all.”

“It’s perfectly fair,” Julie argued. “Look at Simon. Of course he’s in the elite stream. He has proven himself worthy.”

“Simon had to save the world, and the rest of us get in because we have the right surname?” George asked lightly. He winked at Simon. “Hard luck on you, mate.”

There was an uncomfortable silence around the table, but Simon suspected nobody felt as uncomfortable as he did.

“Sometimes those of Shadowhunter blood are put in the dregs stream, if they disgrace themselves,” Julie said shortly. “Mainly, yes, it is reserved for mundanes. That’s the way the Academy always worked in the past; it’s how it will work in the future. We take some mundanes, those with the Sight or with remarkable athletic promise, into the Academy. It’s a wonderful opportunity for them, a chance to become more than they could have ever dreamed. But they cannot keep up with real Shadowhunters. It would hardly be fair to expect them to. They can’t all be Simon.”

“Some of them simply will not have the aptitude,” Jon remarked in a lofty tone. “Some of them won’t live through Ascension.”

Simon opened his mouth, but before he could ask any further questions he was interrupted by the sound of a lone clap.

“My dear students, my present and future Shadowhunters,” said Dean Penhallow, rising from her chair. “Welcome, welcome! To Shadowhunter Academy. It is such a joy to see you all here at the auspicious official opening of the Academy, where we will be training a whole new generation to obey the Law laid down by the Angel. It is an honor to have been chosen to come here, and a joy for us to have you.”

Simon looked around. There were about two hundred students here, he thought, uncomfortably crammed around rickety tables. He noticed again that several of them were very young, and grubby and desolate. Simon’s heart went out to them, even as he wondered exactly what the running water situation at the Academy was.

Nobody looked as if they felt honored to be here. Simon found himself wondering again about the Shadowhunters’ recruiting methods. Julie talked about them as if they were noble, searching for lost Shadowhunter families and offering mundanes amazing opportunities, but some of these kids looked about twelve. Simon had to wonder what your life must be like, if you were ready to leave it all and go fight demons at twelve.

“There have been a few unexpected losses from the staff, but I’m certain we will do splendidly with the excellent personnel we have remaining,” Dean Penhallow continued. “May I introduce Delaney Scarsbury, your training master.”

The man sitting next to her got up. He made Jon Cartwright’s biceps look like grapes held up to a grapefruit, and he actually had an eye patch, like the angel in the stained-glass window.

Simon turned slowly and looked at George, who he hoped would feel him on this one. He mouthed:
No way.

George, who obviously did feel him on this one, nodded and mouthed:
Pirate Shadowhunter!

“I look forward to crushing you all into a pulp and molding that pulp into ferocious warriors,” announced Scarsbury.

George and Simon exchanged another speaking glance.

A girl at the table behind Simon began to cry. She looked about thirteen.

“And this is Catarina Loss, a very estimable warlock who will be teaching you a great deal about—history and so on!”

“Yay,” said Catarina Loss, with a desultory wave of her blue fingers, as if she’d decided to try clapping without bothering to lift both hands.

The dean soldiered on. “In past years at the Academy, because Shadowhunters come from all over the globe, every day of the week we would serve a delicious dish from a different nation. We certainly intend to keep up that tradition! But the kitchens are in a slight state of disrepair and for now we have—”

“Soup,” said Catarina flatly. “Vats and vats of murky brown soup. Enjoy, kids.”

Dean Penhallow continued her one-woman applause. “That’s right. Enjoy, everyone. And again, welcome.”

There really was nothing on offer but huge metal vats full of very questionable soup.

Simon lined up for food, and peered into the greasy depths of the dark liquid. “Are there alligators in there?”

“I won’t make you any promises,” said Catarina, inspecting her own bowl.

Simon was exhausted and still starving when he crawled into bed that night. He tried to cheer himself up thinking again about how lately a girl had been on the bed. A girl on his bed for the first time ever, Simon thought, but then memories came like a wisp of cloud over the moon, dimming all certainty. He remembered Clary sleeping in his bed, when they were so little their pajamas had trucks and ponies on them. He remembered kissing Clary, and how she had tasted like fresh lemonade. And he remembered Isabelle, her dark hair flowing over his pillow, her throat bared to him, her toenails scratching his leg, like a sexy vampire movie aside from the bit about the toenails. The other Simon had been not only a hero but a lady-killer. Well, more of a lady-killer than Simon was now.

Isabelle. Simon’s mouth moved to form the shape of her name, pressing it into his pillow. He’d told himself he wasn’t going to think about her, not until he was really getting somewhere in the Academy. Not until he was on his way to being better, being the person she wanted him to be.

He turned so he was flat on his back and stared up at the stone ceiling.

“Are you awake?” George whispered. “Me too. I keep worrying that the possum will come back. Where did it even come from, Simon? Where did it go?”

*    *    *

The trials of transforming himself into a Shadowhunter became apparent to Simon the very next day.

First, because Scarsbury was measuring them for their gear, which was a terrifying experience on its own. Second, because it involved hurtful personal comments about Simon’s physique.

“You have such narrow shoulders,” Scarsbury said thoughtfully. “Like a lady.”

“I’m lithe,” Simon informed him, with dignity.

He looked bitterly over at George, who was lounging on a bench waiting for Simon to finish being measured. George’s gear was sleeveless; Julie had already come over to compliment him on how good the fit was and touch his arms.

“Tell you what,” said Scarsbury. “I have some gear here meant for a girl—”

“Fine,” said Simon. “I mean, terrible, but fine! Give it to me.”

Scarsbury shoved the folded black material into Simon’s arms. “It’s meant for a tall girl,” he said in a voice that was possibly intended to be comforting, and definitely too loud.

Everyone looked around and stared at them. Simon prevented himself from taking a sarcastic bow, and stomped off to put on his gear.

After they got gear, they were given weapons. Mundane students could not wear runes or use steles or most Shadowhunter weapons, so they were all given mundane weapons; it was meant to broaden the Shadowhunter kids’ weapons knowledge. Simon feared his own weapons knowledge was as broad as spaghetti.

Dean Penhallow brought around giant boxes of terrifying knives, which seemed very strange in an academic setting, and asked them to select a dagger that suited them.

Simon picked a dagger completely at random, then sat at his desk waggling it about.

Jon nodded to it. “Nice.”

“Yeah,” Simon said, nodding back and gesturing with it. “That’s what I thought. Nice. Very stabby.”

He stabbed the dagger into the desk, where it got stuck and Simon had to pry it out of the wood.

Simon thought being trained could not possibly be as bad as being prepared to be trained, but as it turned out it was much worse.

*    *    *

The Academy days were half physical activity. It was like half the day was gym. Stabby, stabby gym.

When they were learning the basics of swordplay, Simon was paired up with the girl he’d noticed in the dining hall, the one who had cried when Scarsbury was introduced.

“She’s from the dregs stream, but I understand you’re not particularly experienced with swordplay,” Scarsbury told him. “If she’s not enough of a challenge, let me know.”

Simon stared at Scarsbury instead of doing what he wanted to do, which was saying he could not believe an adult was calling someone “dregs” to their face.

He looked at the girl, her dark head bowed, her sword shining in her trembling hand.

“Hey. I’m Simon.”

“I know who you are,” she muttered.

Right, apparently Simon was a celebrity. If he had all his memories, maybe this would seem normal to him. Maybe he would know that he deserved it, instead of knowing he did not.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Marisol,” she told him reluctantly. She was not shaking anymore, he noted, now that Scarsbury had retreated.

“Don’t worry,” he said encouragingly. “I’ll go easy on you.”

“Hmm,” said Marisol. She did not look like she was going to cry now; her eyes were narrowed.

Simon was not used to much younger kids, but they were both mundanes. Simon had an awkward fellow feeling. “You settling in okay? Do you miss your parents?”

“I don’t have parents,” Marisol said in a small, hard voice.

Simon stood stricken. He was such an idiot. He’d thought about it, why mundane kids might come to the Academy. Mundanes would have to choose to give up their parents, their families, their former lives. Unless, of course, they already had no parents and no families. He’d thought about that, but he’d forgotten, obsessing about his own memories and how he would fit in, thinking only about himself. He had a home to go back to, even though it wasn’t perfect. He’d had a choice.

“What did the Shadowhunters tell you, when they came to recruit you?”

Marisol stared at him, her gaze clear and cold. “They told me,” she said, “that I was going to fight.”

She had been taking fencing classes since she could walk, as it turned out. She cut him off at the knees and left him literally in the dust, stumbling as a tiny, swordy whirlwind came at him across the practice grounds, and falling.

He also stabbed himself in the leg with his own sword as he fell, but that was a very minor injury.

“Went a little too easy on her,” Jon said, passing by and helping Simon up. “The dregs won’t learn if they’re not taught, you know.”

His voice was kind; his glance at Marisol was not.

“Leave her alone,” Simon muttered, but he did not say that Marisol had beaten him fairly. They all thought he was a hero.

Jon grinned at him and walked on. Marisol did not even look at him. Simon studied his leg, which stung.