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Every Night & every Morn

Some to Misery are Born

Every Morn and every Night

Some are Born to sweet delight

Some are Born to sweet delight

Some are Born to Endless Night

—“Auguries of Innocence,” William Blake

Magnus believed that many old things were creations of enduring beauty. The pyramids. Michelangelo’s David. Versailles. Magnus himself.

However, just because something was old and imbued with years of tradition did not make it a work of art. Not even if you were Nephilim and thought having the blood of the Angel meant your stuff was better than anybody else’s.

Shadowhunter Academy was not a creation of enduring beauty. Shadowhunter Academy was a dump.

Magnus did not enjoy the countryside in early spring, before winter had truly ended. The whole landscape was as monochrome as an old movie, without the narrative energy. Dark gray fields rolled under a pale gray sky, and trees were stripped down to gray claws clutching for the rain clouds. The Academy matched its surroundings, squatting in the landscape like a great stone toad.

Magnus had been here a few times before, visiting friends. He had not liked it. He remembered walking long ago under the cold eyes of students who had been trained in the dark, narrow ways of Clave and Covenant, and who were too young to realize the world might be more complicated than that.

At least back then the place had not been falling down. Magnus stared at one of the slender towers that stood at each of the four corners of the Academy. It was not standing up straight; in fact, it looked like a poor relation of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Magnus stared at it, concentrated, and snapped his fingers. The tower leaped back into place as if it were a crouching person who had suddenly straightened up. There was a faint series of cries issuing from the tower windows. Magnus had not realized there were people inside. This struck him as unsafe.

Well, the inhabitants of the formerly leaning tower would soon realize he had done them a favor. Magnus eyed the angel in the stained-glass window set above the door. The angel stared down at him, sword blazing and face censorious, as if he disapproved of Magnus’s dress sense and was going to ask him to change.

Magnus walked under the judgmental angel and into the stone hall, whistling softly. The hall was empty. It was still very early in the morning, which perhaps explained some of the grayness. Magnus hoped the day would brighten before Alec arrived.

He had left his boyfriend in Alicante, at his father’s house. Alec’s sister, Isabelle, was staying there too. Magnus had slept uneasily at the Inquisitor’s house last night, and said he would leave them to have breakfast alone—just the family. For years he and Robert and Maryse Lightwood had arranged their lives so that they never saw each other unless duty called or large cash payments for Magnus beckoned.

Magnus was fairly sure Robert and Maryse missed those days and wished they would come back. Magnus knew they would never have chosen him for their son, and even if their son had to date a man, they would have preferred not a Downworlder, and certainly not a Downworlder who had been around during the days of Valentine’s Circle and seen them at a time in their lives they were not proud of now.

For himself Magnus did not forget. He might love one Shadowhunter, but it was impossible to love them all. He expected many more years politely avoiding and, when necessary, politely tolerating Alec’s parents. It was a very small price to pay to be with Alec.

Just now he had escaped Robert Lightwood and had a chance to inspect the rooms Magnus had requested the Academy prepare for them. From the state of the rest of the Academy, Magnus had dark forebodings about these rooms.

He ran lightly up the stairs in that silent, echoing place. He knew where he was going. He had agreed to come and give a series of guest lectures at the request of his old friend Catarina Loss, but he was, after all, the High Warlock of Brooklyn and he had certain standards. He had no intention of leaving his boyfriend for weeks. He had made it clear that he required a suite for himself and for Alec, and that the suite had to include a kitchen. He was not going to eat any of the meals Catarina had described in her letters. If possible, he intended to avoid even seeing any of the meals Catarina had described.

The map Catarina had drawn him was accurate: He found their rooms at the top of the building. The connected attic rooms could, Magnus guessed, possibly count as a suite. And there was a little kitchen, though Magnus feared it had not been updated since the 1950s. There was a dead mouse in the sink.

Maybe someone had left it there to welcome them. Maybe it was a festive gift.

Magnus wandered through the rooms, waving a hand that encouraged the windows and countertops to wash themselves. He snapped his fingers and sent the dead mouse as a present to his cat, Chairman Meow. Maia Roberts, the leader of the New York werewolf pack, was cat-sitting for them. Magnus hoped she would think Chairman Meow was a mighty hunter.

Then he opened the little refrigerator. The heavy door fell off, until Magnus gave it a stern look and it hopped back on. Magnus looked inside the refrigerator, waved his free hand, and saw to his satisfaction that it was now filled with many items from Whole Foods.

Alec would never have to know, and Magnus would send the money to Whole Foods later anyway. He swept through the rooms one more time, adding cushions to the bare, sad wooden chairs and heaping their multicolored blankets from home onto the lopsided canopy bed.

Emergency decorating mission accomplished and feeling far more cheerful, Magnus descended into the main hall of the Academy, hoping to find Catarina or see Alec coming. There was no sign of activity, so despite his misgivings, Magnus went to check for Catarina in the dining hall.

She was not there, but there were a few scattered Nephilim students having breakfast. Magnus supposed the poor creatures had gotten up early to throw javelins or some other unsavory business.

There was a thin blond girl heaping a gray substance that could have been porridge or eggs onto her plate. Magnus watched with silent horror as she carried it toward a table, acting as if she actually intended to eat it.

Then she noticed Magnus.

“Oh, hello,” said the blonde, stopping in her tracks as if she had been hit by a beautiful truck.

He gave her his most charming smile. Why not? “Hello.”

Magnus had been around the block before blocks were invented. He was familiar with what this look meant. People had undressed him with their eyes before.

He was impressed with the intensity of this particular look. It was rarer for people to rip off his clothes and send them flying to various corners of the room with their eyes.

They were not even particularly exciting clothes. Magnus had decided to dress with quiet dignity, as befitted an educator, and was wearing a black shirt and tailored pants. He was also, for that stylish educator touch, wearing a short robe over the shirt, but the glittering gold thread running through the robe was very subtle.

“You must be Magnus Bane,” the blonde said. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Simon.”

“I can’t blame him for bragging,” said Magnus.

“We’re so glad to have you here,” continued the blonde. “I’m Julie. I’m practically Simon’s best friend. I’m very cool with Downworlders.”

“How nice for us Downworlders,” Magnus murmured.

“I’m very excited for your lectures. And to spend time together. You, me, and Simon.”

“Won’t that be a party,” said Magnus.

She was trying, at least, and not all Nephilim did. And she mentioned Simon every other breath, despite Simon being a mundane. Besides, the attention was flattering. Magnus turned the smile up another notch.

“I look forward to getting to know you better, Julie.”

It was possible he misjudged the smile. Julie reached out a hand as if to take Magnus’s, and dropped her tray. She and Magnus looked down at the broken bowl and the sad, gray contents.

“It’s better this way,” Magnus said with conviction.

He gestured, and the whole mess vanished. Then he gestured to Julie’s outstretched hand, and a pot of blueberry yogurt with a small spoon appeared in it.

“Oh!” Julie exclaimed. “Oh, wow, thank you.”

“Well, since the alternative was going back and getting more of the Academy food,” said Magnus, “I think you owe me big. Possibly you owe me your firstborn. But don’t worry, I’m not in the market for anybody’s firstborn.”

Julie giggled. “Do you want to sit down?”

“Thank you for the offer, but actually, I was looking for someone.”

Magnus surveyed the room, which was slowly filling up. He still did not see Catarina, but at the door he saw Alec, with the air of someone newly arrived and talking to a mundane Indian boy who looked about sixteen.

He caught Alec’s eye and smiled.

“There’s my someone,” he said. “Lovely to meet you, Julie.”

“Likewise, Magnus,” she assured him.

As Magnus approached Alec, the other boy shook Alec’s hand. “I just wanted to say thanks,” the boy said, and left, with a nod to Magnus.

“Do you know him?” Magnus asked.

Alec looked mildly dazed. “No,” he said. “But he knew all about me. We were talking about—all the ways there are to be a Shadowhunter, you know?”

“Check you out,” said Magnus. “My famous boyfriend, inspiration to the masses.”

Alec smiled, a little embarrassed but mostly amused. “So, that girl was flirting with you.”

“Really?” Magnus asked. “How could you tell?”

Alec gave him a skeptical look.

“Well, it has been known to happen. I’ve been around for a long time,” said Magnus. “I’ve also been gorgeous for a long time.”

“Is that so?” said Alec.

“I’m in high demand. What are you going to do about it?”

He could not, and would not, have teased Alec like this years ago. Alec had been new to love, stumbling through his own terror at who he was and how he felt, and Magnus had been as careful with him as he knew how to be, afraid to hurt Alec and afraid to shatter this feeling between them, new to Magnus as it was to Alec.

It was a recent joy to be able to tease Alec and know he would not hurt him, to see Alec standing in a different way than he used to, easy and casual and confident in his own skin, with none of his parabatai’s swagger but with a quiet assurance all his own.

The dimly lit stone dining room, the clatter of students eating and gossiping, faded away, nothing but background to Alec’s smile.

“This,” said Alec. He reached out and tugged Magnus to him by the front of his robe, leaning back against the door frame and drawing Magnus slowly in for a kiss.

Alec’s mouth was soft and sure, the kiss slow, his strong hands holding Magnus close, pressed along the warm line of his body. Behind Magnus’s closed eyelids, the morning turned from gray to gold.

Alec was here. Even a hell dimension, as Magnus recalled, had been greatly improved by Alec’s presence. Shadowhunter Academy was going to be a snap.

*    *    *

Simon came up late to breakfast and found Julie capable of talking about nothing but Magnus Bane.

“Warlocks are sexy,” she said in the tones of one who had had a revelation.

“Ms. Loss is our teacher, and I am trying to eat.” Beatriz stared dispiritedly at her plate.

“Vampires are gross and dead, werewolves are gross and hairy, and faeries are treacherous and would sleep with your mom,” said Julie. “Warlocks are the sexy Downworlders. Think about it. They all have daddy issues. And Magnus Bane is the sexiest of them all. He can be High Warlock of my pants.”

“Uh, Magnus has a boyfriend,” said Simon.

There was a frightening glint in Julie’s eye. “There are some mountains you still want to climb, even though there are ‘No Trespassing’ signs up.”

“I think that’s gross,” said Simon. “You know, the way you think vampires are.”

Julie made a face at him. “You’re so sensitive, Simon. Why must you always be so sensitive?”

“You’re so terrible, Julie,” said Simon. “Why must you always be so terrible?”

Alec had been with Magnus, Julie reported. Simon was thinking more about that than Julie’s terribleness, which after all was not anything new. Alec was going to be staying at the Academy for weeks. He usually saw Alec in crowds of people, and it had never seemed the right time to talk to him. It was the right time now. It was time to talk it out, the problem between them that Jace had hinted at so darkly. He didn’t want there to be something wrong between him and Alec, who seemed like a good guy from what Simon could remember. Alec was Isabelle’s big brother, and Isabelle was—he was almost certain—Simon’s girlfriend.

He wanted her to be.

“Should we try to get a little archery practice in before class?” George asked.

“That’s jock talk, George,” said Simon. “I’ve asked you not to do that. But sure.”

They all got up, pushing their bowls aside, and walked to the front doors of the Academy, heading for the practice grounds.

That was the plan, but none of them made it to the practice grounds that day. None of them made it past the threshold of the Academy. They all stood on the front step, in a horrified cluster.

On the stone of the front step was a bundle, wrapped in a fuzzy yellow blanket. Simon’s eyes failed him in a way that had nothing to do with his glasses and everything to do with panic, refusing to register what was actually before him. It’s a bundle of junk, Simon told himself. Someone had left a parcel of garbage on their doorstep.

Except the bundle was moving, in small incremental movements. Simon watched the fretful stir beneath the blanket, looked at the gleaming eyes peering out from the cocoon of fuzzy yellows, and his mind accepted what he was seeing, even as another shock came. A tiny fist emerged from the blankets, waving as if in protest at everything that was occurring.

The fist was blue, the rich navy of the sea when it was deep and you were on a boat as evening fell. The blue of Captain America’s suit.

“It’s a baby,” Beatriz breathed. “It’s a warlock baby.”

There was a note pinned to the baby’s yellow blanket. Simon saw it at the precise moment that the wind caught it, snatching it off the blanket and whirling it away. Simon grabbed the paper out of the cold grip of the wind and looked at the writing, a hasty scribble on a torn scrap of paper.

The note read: Who could ever love it?

*    *    *

“Oh no, the baby’s blue,” said George. “What are we going to do?”

He frowned as if he had not meant that to rhyme. Then he knelt down, because George was the not-so-secret sweetheart of the group, and awkwardly took the yellow-wrapped bundle in his arms. He stood up, his face ashen, holding the baby.

“What are we going to do?” Beatriz warbled, echoing George. “What are we going to do?”

Julie was plastered up against the door. Simon had personally seen her cut off a very large demon’s head with a very small knife, but she appeared as if she would expire with terror if someone asked her to hold the baby.

“I know what to do,” said Simon.

He would go find Magnus, he thought. He knew Magnus and Alec had arrived and were awake. He needed to talk to Alec anyway. Magnus had fixed Simon’s demon amnesia. Magnus had been around for centuries. He was the most adult adult that Simon knew. A warlock baby abandoned in this fortress of Shadowhunters was a problem Simon had no idea how to fix, and he felt he needed an adult. Simon was already turning to go.

“Should I give the baby mouth to mouth?” George asked.

Simon froze. “No, don’t do that. The baby is breathing. The baby’s breathing, right?”

They all stood and stared at the little bundle. The baby waved his fist again. If the baby was moving, Simon thought, the baby must be breathing. He was not even going to think about zombie babies at this time.

“Should I get the baby a hot water bottle?” George said.

Simon took a deep breath. “George, don’t lose your head,” he said. “This baby is not blue because he is cold or because he cannot breathe. Mundane babies are not blue in this way. This baby is blue because he is a warlock, just like Catarina.”

“Not just like Ms. Loss,” Beatriz said in a high voice. “Ms. Loss is more of a sky blue, whereas this baby is more of a navy blue.”

“You seem very knowledgeable,” George decided. “You should hold the baby.”

“No!” Beatriz squawked.

She and Julie both threw up their hands in surrender. As far as they were concerned, it was clear, George was holding a loaded baby and should not do anything rash.

“Everybody stay where you are,” said Simon, trying to keep his voice calm.

Julie perked up. “Oooh, Simon,” she said. “Good idea.”

Simon fled across the hall and up the stairs, moving at a pace that would have amazed his evil Shadowhunter gym teacher. Scarsbury had never provided him with motivation like this.

He knew that Magnus and Alec had been put in a fancy suite up in the attics. Apparently there was even a separate kitchen. Simon just kept heading up, knowing he would hit the attics at some point.

He reached the attics, heard murmuring and movement behind the door, and flung the door wide open.

Then he stood, arrested on his second threshold of the day.

There was a sheet over Alec and Magnus, but Simon could see enough. He could see Alec’s white, rune-scarred shoulders and Magnus’s wild black hair spread on the pillow. He could see Alec freeze, then turn his head and give Simon a look of absolute horror.

Magnus’s golden cat eyes gleamed from over Alec’s pale shoulder. He sounded almost amused as he asked: “Can we help you?”

“Oh my God,” Simon said. “Oh wow. Oh wow, I am really sorry.”

“Please leave,” said Alec in a tight, controlled voice.

“Right!” said Simon. “Of course!” He paused. “I can’t leave.”

“Believe me,” said Alec. “You can.”

“There is an abandoned baby on the front steps of the Academy and I think it’s a warlock!” Simon blurted out.

“Why do you think the baby is a warlock?” Magnus asked. He was the only one in the room who was composed.

“Um, because the baby is navy blue.”

“That is fairly compelling evidence,” Magnus admitted. “Could you give us a moment to get dressed?”

“Yes! Of course!” said Simon. “Again, I’m very sorry.”

“Go now,” Alec suggested.

Simon went.

After a short while Magnus emerged from the attic suite dressed in skintight black clothes and a shimmering gold robe. His hair was still wrecked, going every which way as if Magnus had been caught in a small personal tempest, but Simon was not going to quibble about the hair of his potential savior.

“Really sorry again,” said Simon.

Magnus made a lazy gesture. “Seeing your face was not the best moment of my day, Simon, but these things happen. Admittedly, they have never happened to Alec before, and he needs a few more minutes. Show me where the child is.”

“Follow me,” said Simon.

He ran down the stairs as fast as he had run up them, taking two at a time. He found the tableau at the threshold just as he had left it, Beatriz and Julie the horrified audience to George’s terrified and inexpert baby-holding. The bundle was now making a low, plaintive sound.

“What took you so long?” Beatriz hissed.

Julie still looked very shaken, but she managed to say: “Hello, Magnus.”

“Hello again, Julie,” said Magnus, once again the only calm person in a room. “Let me hold the baby.”

“Oh, thank you,” George breathed. “Not that I don’t like the baby. But I have no idea what to do with it.”

George appeared to have bonded in the time it took Simon to run up and down a flight of stairs. He looked mushily down at the baby, clutching the bundle for a moment, and then as he handed the baby over to Magnus, he fumbled and almost dropped the baby on the stone floor.

“By the Angel!” Julie exclaimed, hand pressed to her breast.

Magnus arrested the fumble and caught the child, holding the blanket-wrapped bundle close against his gold-embroidered chest. Magnus held the baby with more expertise than George did, which meant that Magnus supported the baby’s head and it appeared as if he might have held a baby once or twice in his life. George had not looked like he was going to win any baby-holding championships.

With a hand glimmering with rings, Magnus drew the blanket back a little, and Simon held his breath. Magnus’s eyes traveled over the baby, his impossibly small hands and feet, the wide eyes in his small face, the curls on his head so dark a blue they were almost black. The baby’s low constant sound of complaint rose a little, complaining harder, and Magnus smoothed the blanket back into place.

“He’s a boy,” said Magnus.

“Aw, a boy,” said George.

“He’s about eight months old, I would say,” Magnus continued. “Someone raised him until they could not bear it anymore, and I suppose through the recruitment of mundanes to the Academy, someone thought they knew the place to bring a child they did not want.”

“But someone wouldn’t leave their child . . . ,” George began, and fell silent under Magnus’s gaze.

“People would. People do. And the choices people make are different, with warlock children,” Magnus said. His voice was quiet.

“So there’s no chance anyone is coming back for him,” said Beatriz.

Simon took the note he had found folded on the child’s blanket and gave it to Magnus. He did not feel, looking into Magnus’s face, that he could give it to anyone else. Magnus looked at the note, nodded. Who could ever love it? flashed between his fingers, and then he tucked it away into his robe.

There were other students gathering around them, and a rising hubbub of noise and confusion. If Simon had been in New York, he figured people would have been taking pictures of the baby with their phones. He felt a little like an exhibition in a zoo, and he was so grateful Magnus was there.

“What is happening?” asked a voice from the top of the stairs.

Dean Penhallow was standing there, with her strawberry-blond hair loose over her shoulders, clutching around her a black silk robe etched with dragons. Catarina stood at her side, fully dressed in jeans and a white blouse.

“Seems like someone left a baby instead of the milk bottles,” she said. “That was careless. Welcome, Magnus.”

Magnus gave her a little wave with his free hand and a wry smile.

“What? Why? Why would anyone do such a thing? What are we supposed to do with it?” the dean asked.

Sometimes Simon forgot that Dean Penhallow was really young, young for a teacher, let alone a dean. Other times he was forcefully reminded of that fact. She looked as panicked as Beatriz and Julie had.

“He’s much too young to be taught,” said Scarsbury, peering down from the crowded staircase. “Perhaps we should contact the Clave.”

“If the baby needs a bed,” George offered, “Simon and I could keep him in our sock drawer.”

Simon gave George an appalled glare. George looked distressed.

Alec Lightwood moved like a shadow through the crowds of students, head and shoulders above most of them but not shoving anyone aside. He moved quietly, persistently, until he was where he wanted to be: at Magnus’s side.

When Magnus saw Alec, his whole body relaxed. Simon had not even been aware of the tension running all through Magnus’s frame until he saw the moment when ease returned.

“This is the warlock child Simon was talking about,” Alec said in a low voice, and nodded toward the baby.

“As you see,” said Magnus. “The baby would not be able to pass for a mundane. His mother clearly does not want him. He is in a nest of the Nephilim, and I cannot think, among faeries or Shadowhunters or werewolves, where in the world he could possibly belong.”

Magnus’s calm and amusement had seemed infinite until a few minutes ago. Now Simon heard his voice fraying, a rope on which too much strain had been put, and which must soon snap.

Alec put a hand on Magnus’s upper arm, just above the elbow. He clasped Magnus’s arm firmly, almost absently providing silent support. He looked up at Magnus and then looked down, for a long, thoughtful moment, at the baby.

“Can I hold him?” Alec asked.

Surprise flew over Magnus’s face but did not linger. “Sure,” he said, and put the baby in Alec’s arms, held out to receive him.

Maybe it was that Alec had held a baby more recently than Magnus had, and certainly more often than George. Maybe it was that Alec was wearing what seemed to be an incredibly ancient sweater, worn soft with years and faded from dark green to gray, with only traces remaining of the original color.

Whatever the reason, as soon as Alec took the baby, the continuous soft whimpering noise ceased. There was still the buzzing of urgent whispers, up and down the hall, but the small group surrounding the child suddenly found themselves in a pocket of hushed silence.

The baby gazed up at Alec with grave eyes only a shade darker than Alec’s own. Alec gazed back at the baby. He looked as surprised as anyone else by the baby’s sudden hush.

“So,” said Delaney Scarsbury. “Should we contact the Clave and put this matter before them, or what?”

Magnus turned in a whirl of gold and fixed Scarsbury with a look that made him shrink back against the wall.

“I do not intend to leave a warlock child to the tender mercies of the Clave,” Magnus declared, his voice extremely cold. “We have this, don’t we, Alec?”

Alec was still looking down at the baby. He glanced up when Magnus addressed him, his face briefly dazed, as a man woken from a dream, but his expression set as with a sudden resolve.

“Yeah,” he answered. “We do.”

Magnus mirrored the move Alec had made before, clasping Alec’s upper arm in silent thanks, or a show of support. Alec returned to looking down at the baby.

It felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off Simon’s chest. It was not that he had been truly worried that he and George would have to raise the baby in their sock drawer—well, possibly a little worried—but the specter of a huge responsibility had loomed before him. This was a helpless, abandoned little child. Simon knew, all too well, how Downworlders were viewed by Shadowhunters. Simon had had no idea what to do. Magnus had taken the responsibility. He had taken the baby from them, both metaphorically and in actuality. He had not turned a hair as he did it. He had not acted as if it were a big deal at all.

Magnus was a really cool guy.

Simon knew Isabelle had slept over in Alicante, so she and Alec would both be with her father for one night. She was going down to the house where Ragnor Fell had once lived, where there was a working telephone. Catarina had set up another telephone in the Academy she said he could use this once. They had a telephone date. Simon was planning to tell her how cool Magnus and her brother had been.

*    *    *

Magnus thought he might become the first recorded warlock in history to have a heart attack.

He was walking around the practice grounds of Shadowhunter Academy at night because he could not stay in there and breathe stifling air with hundreds of Nephilim any longer.

That poor child. Magnus had hardly been able to look at him, he was so small and so entirely helpless. He could not do anything but think of how vulnerable the child was, and how deep the misery and pain of his mother must have been. He knew what kind of darkness warlocks were conceived under and born into. Catarina had been brought up by a loving family who had known what she was, and raised her to be who she was. Magnus had been able to pass for human, until he was not.

Magnus knew what happened to warlock children who were born visibly not human, who their mothers and the whole world could not bring themselves to accept. He could not calculate how many children there might have been down all the dark ages of the world, who could have been magical, who could have been immortal, but had never gotten the chance to live at all. Children abandoned as this one had been, or drowned as Magnus himself had almost been, children who never left a bright magical mark in history, who never received or gave love, who were never anything but a whisper fading on the wind, a memory of pain and despair fading into the dark. Nothing else was left of those lost children, not a spell, not a laugh, not a kiss.

Without luck, Magnus would have been among the lost. Without love, Catarina and Ragnor would have been among the lost.

Magnus had no idea what to do with this latest lost child.

He thanked, not for the first time, whatever strange, beautiful fortune had sent him Alec. Alec had been the one who carried the warlock baby up the stairs to the attic, and when Magnus had conjured up a crib Alec had been the one to place the baby tenderly in it.

Then when the baby had started to scream his little blue head off, Alec had taken the baby out of the crib and walked the floor with him, patting his back and murmuring to him. Magnus called up supplies and tried to make formula milk. He’d read somewhere that you tested how hot the milk was on yourself, and ended up burning his own wrist.

The baby had cried for hours and hours and hours. Magnus supposed he could not blame the small lost soul.

The baby was finally sleeping now that the sun had set through the tiny attic windows, and the whole day was gone. Alec was half-sleeping, leaning against the baby’s crib, and Magnus had felt he had to get out. Alec had simply nodded when Magnus said he was stepping out for a breath of air. Possibly Alec had been too exhausted to care what Magnus did.

The moon shone, round as a pearl, turning the stained-glass angel’s hair to silver and the bare winter fields into expanses of light. Magnus was tempted to howl at the moon like a werewolf.

He could not think of anywhere he could take the child, anyone he could trust the child to who would want it, who might love it. He could scarcely think of anywhere in this hostile world where the child might be safe.

He heard the sound of raised voices and rushing footsteps, this late, out in front of the Academy. Another emergency, Magnus thought. It’s been one day, and at this rate the Academy is going to kill me. He went running from the practice grounds to the front of the door, where he saw the very last person he had ever expected to see here in Idris: Lily Chen, the head of the New York vampire clan, with blue streaks in her hair that matched her blue waistcoat and her high heels leaving deep indentations in the dirt.

“Bane,” she said. “I need help. Where is he?”

Magnus was too tired to argue with her.

“Follow me,” said Magnus, and led the way back up the stairs. Even as he went, he thought to himself that all the noise he had heard outside the Academy could not possibly have been Lily alone.

He thought that, but he did not suspect what was to come.

Magnus had left behind a sleeping child and his worn-out love, and he opened the door on a scene of absolute chaos. For a moment it seemed as if there were a thousand people in his rooms, and then Magnus realized the real situation was far worse.

Every single one of the Lightwood family was there, each one causing enough noise for ten. Robert Lightwood was there, saying something in his booming voice. Maryse Lightwood was holding a bottle and appeared to be waving it around, giving a speech. Isabelle Lightwood was standing on top of a stool for no reason in the world Magnus could see. Jace Herondale was, even more mysteriously, lying flat out on the stone floor, and apparently he’d brought Clary, who looked at Magnus as if she were puzzled by her presence here as well.

Alec was standing in the middle of the room, in the middle of the human storm that was his family, holding the baby protectively to his chest. Magnus could not believe it was possible for his heart to sink further, but it somehow struck him as the greatest disaster in the world that the baby was awake.

Magnus stopped on the threshold, staring at the chaos, feeling entirely uncertain about what to do next.

Lily had no such hesitation.

“LIGHTWOOD!” Lily bellowed, charging in.

“Ah yes, Lily Chen, I believe?” said Robert Lightwood, turning to her with the dignity of the Inquisitor and no sign of surprise. “I remember you were interim representative for the vampires on the Council for a time. Glad to see you again. What can I do for you?”

Robert was obviously doing his best to show every courtesy to an important vampire leader. Magnus appreciated that, a little.

Lily did not care. “Not you!” she snapped. “Who even are you?”

Thick black brows shot up to the sky.

“I’m the Inquisitor?” said Robert. “I was the head of the New York Institute for over a decade?”

Lily rolled her dark eyes. “Oh, congratulations, do you want a medal? I need Alexander Lightwood, obviously,” said Lily, and swanned past a staring Robert and Maryse to their son. “Alec! You know that faerie dealer, Mordecai? He’s been selling fruit to mundanes at the edge of Central Park. Again! He’s at it again! And then Elliott bit a mundane who had partaken.”

“Did he reveal his vampire nature to anyone while intoxicated?” Robert asked sharply.

Lily gave him a withering look, as if wondering why he was still here, then returned her attention to Alec. “Elliott performed a dance called the Dance of the Twenty-Eight Veils in Times Square. It is on YouTube. Many commenters described it as the most boring erotic dance ever performed in the history of the world. I have never been so embarrassed in my unlife. I’m thinking of quitting being leader of the clan and becoming a vampire nun.”

Magnus noticed Maryse and Robert, who did not have the best relationship and hardly ever spoke to each other, having a brief whispered consultation about what YouTube might be.

“As the current head of the New York Institute,” Maryse said, with an attempt at firmness, “if there is illegal Downworlder activity happening, it should be reported to me.”

“I do not talk to Nephilim about Downworlder business,” Lily said severely.

The Lightwood parents stared at her, and then swung their heads in sync to stare at their son.

Lily waved a dismissive hand in their direction. “Except for Alec, he’s a special case. The rest of you Shadowhunters just come in, lay down your precious Law, and chop off people’s heads. We Downworlders can handle our business ourselves. You Nephilim can stick to chopping off demons’ heads and I will consult with you as soon as the next great evil occurs, instead of the next great annoyance, which will occur probably on Tuesday, and which I, Maia, and Alec will deal with. Thank you. Please stop interrupting me. Alec, can these people even be trusted?”

“They’re my parents,” said Alec. “I know about the faerie fruit. The fey have been taking more and more chances lately. I already sent a message to Maia. She’s got Bat and some other boys prowling the precincts of the park. Bat’s friends with Mordecai; he can reason with him. And you keep Elliott away from the park. You know how he is with faerie fruit. You know he bit that mundie on purpose.”

“It could have been an accident,” Lily muttered.

Alec gave Lily a deeply skeptical look. “Oh, it could have been his seventeenth accident? He has to stop or he’s going to lose control under the influence and kill somebody. He didn’t kill the man, did he?”

“No,” Lily said sullenly. “I stopped Elliott in time. I knew you’d kill him, and then I knew you’d give me your disappointed look.” She paused. “You’re sure the werewolves have this in hand?”

“Yes,” said Alec. “You didn’t need to charge to Idris and spill Downworlder business in front of my whole family.”

“If they’re your family, they know you can handle a little thing like this,” Lily said dismissively. She ran two hands through her sleek black hair, fluffing it up. “This is such a relief. Oh,” she added, as if she had just noticed. “You’re holding a baby.”

Lily tended to have laser focus.

After the war with Sebastian, the Shadowhunters had been left dealing with the betrayal of the faeries and the crisis of how many Institutes had fallen and how many Nephilim had been Endarkened and lost in the war, their second war in a year.

They were in no shape to keep a close eye on the Downworlders, but the Downworlders had lost a great deal as well. Old structures that had held their society in place for centuries, like the Praetor Lupus, had been destroyed in the war. The faeries were waiting to revolt. And the werewolf and vampire clans of New York both had brand-new leaders. Both Lily and Maia were young to be leaders, and had succeeded entirely unexpectedly to leadership. Both of them had found themselves, due to inexperience and not lack of trying, in trouble.

Maia had called Magnus and asked if she could come and visit him, to ask his advice on a few things. When she showed up, she’d dragged Lily along with her.

Lily, Maia, and Magnus then sat around Magnus’s coffee table shouting at each other for hours.

“You can’t just kill someone, Lily!” Maia kept saying.

Lily kept saying: “Explain why.”

Alec had been cranky that day, having wrenched his arm almost out of its socket during a fight with a dragon demon. He’d been leaning against the kitchen counter, listening, nursing his arm, and texting Jace messages like Y DO U SAY THINGS R XTINCT WHEN THINGS R NOT XTINCT and Y R U THE WAY THAT U R.

Until he ran out of patience.

“Do you know, Lily,” he said in a cold voice, putting down his phone, “that you spend more than half the time you are speaking baiting Magnus and Maia, instead of offering suggestions? And you make them spend about the same amount of time arguing you down. So you’re making everything last twice as long. Which means you’re wasting everyone’s time. That’s not a really efficient way for a leader to behave.”

Lily was so startled she looked almost blank for a moment, almost truly young, before she hissed: “Nobody asked you, Shadowhunter.”

“I am a Shadowhunter,” said Alec, still calm. “The issue you’re having with the mermaids. The Rio de Janeiro Institute was having the same problem a couple of years ago. I know all about it. Do you want me to tell you? Or do you want to end up with half a dozen tourists on a boat to Staten Island drowned, at least that many Shadowhunters asking you embarrassing questions, and a little voice in your head saying, ‘Wow, I wish I’d listened to Alec Lightwood when I had the chance’?”

There was a silence. Maia had put an entire cookie into her mouth as they waited. Lily kept her arms crossed and looked sulky.

“Don’t waste my time, Lily,” Alec said. “What do you want?”

“I want you to sit down and help me, I suppose,” Lily grumbled.

Alec had sat down.

Magnus had not expected the meetings to happen more than a few times, let alone to see a rapport spring up between Alec and Lily. Alec had not been entirely comfortable with vampires, once. But Alec always responded to being relied on, being turned to. Whenever Lily came to him with a problem, at first haughtily and with an air of reluctance and later with demanding confidence, Alec did not rest until he had solved it.

One Thursday evening Magnus had heard the doorbell and walked in from the bedroom to find Alec laying out glasses, and realized that the occasional emergency gatherings had become regular meetings. That Maia and Lily and Alec would unroll a map of New York to pinpoint problem areas and have heated debates in which Lily made very nasty werewolf jokes, and each of them would call the other when they had a problem they did not know how to solve. That Downworlders and Shadowhunters alike would come to New York knowing there was a group with Downworlders and Shadowhunters who had power and would cooperate to solve problems. They would come to consult and find out if the group could help them, too.

Magnus realized that this was his life now, and he would not have it different.

“I like Alec so much,” Lily told Magnus at a party months later, slightly drunk and with glitter in her hair. “Especially when he gets snippy with me. He reminds me of Raphael.”

“How dare you,” Magnus had replied. “You are speaking of the man I love.”

He was bartending. His tuxedo had a glow-in-the-dark waistcoat, which made bartending in the artful gloom of the party somewhat easier. He’d spoken without thinking, casually, and then stopped, glass in his hand winking turquoise in the party lights. He’d been talking about Raphael easily, casually insulting, as if Raphael were still alive.

Lily had been Raphael’s ally and backup for decades. She had been utterly loyal to him.

“Well, I loved Raphael,” said Lily. “And Raphael never loved anyone, I know that much. But he was my leader. If I compare anybody to Raphael, it’s a compliment. I like Alec. And I like Maia.” She regarded Magnus with wide eyes, pupils dilated until they were almost black. “I’ve never been terribly fond of you. Except Raphael always said you were an idiot, but you could be trusted.”

Raphael had loved many people, Magnus knew. He had loved his mortal family. Maybe Lily didn’t know about them: Raphael had been so careful about them. Magnus thought Raphael might have loved Lily, though not in the way she had wanted.

He knew Raphael had trusted her. And Raphael had trusted Magnus. They stood together, these two Raphael had trusted, in one of those quietly terrible moments remembering the dead and knowing you would never see them again.

“Do you want another drink?” Magnus asked. “I can be trusted to make you another drink.”

“Bring on the party O neg, I’m feeling frisky,” Lily told him. She stared off into the distance as Magnus made her drink, her eyes fixed on showers of glitter that fell from the ceiling at intervals, but not seeing them. “I never thought I’d have to lead the clan. I thought Raphael would always be there. If I didn’t have the sessions with Alec and Maia, I wouldn’t know what to do half the time. A werewolf and a Shadowhunter. Do you think Raphael would be ashamed?”

Magnus slid Lily’s drink across the bar to her. “I don’t,” he told her.

Lily had smiled, a flash of fang beneath her plum-colored lipstick, and, clutching her drink, wandered over to Alec.

Now Lily stood next to Alec, having followed him to Idris, and looked at the baby in his arms.

“Hello, baby,” Lily whispered, hovering over the child. She snapped her fangs in the baby’s direction.

Jace rolled lightly, off the floor and to his feet. Robert, Maryse, and Isabelle put their hands on their weapons. Lily snapped her teeth again, entirely unaware the Lightwood family was clearly ready to mobilize and tear her into pieces. Alec looked at his family over Lily’s head and shook his own head in a small, firm gesture. The baby looked up at Lily’s glinting fangs and laughed. Lily clicked her teeth for him again and he laughed again.

“What?” Lily asked, looking up at Alec and sounding shy suddenly. “I always liked children, when I was alive. People said I was good with them.” She laughed, a little self-consciously. “It’s been a while.”

“That’s great,” said Alec. “You’ll be willing to babysit occasionally, then.”

“Ha-ha, I’m the head of the New York vampire clan and I’m much too important,” Lily told him. “But I’ll see him when I drop by your place.”

Magnus wondered how long Alec was envisioning it would be until they found the baby a home. Alec must think that it would take a while, and Magnus feared Alec was right.

He watched Alec, his head bowed over the baby in his arms, leaning toward Lily as they murmured to the baby together. Alec did not seem too upset, he thought. It was Lily who, after a space of baby-whispering, began to look a little uneasy.

“It occurs to me that I might be intruding,” Lily said.

“Oh really?” asked Isabelle, her arms crossed. “Do you think?”

“Sorry, Alec,” said Lily, pointedly not apologizing to anyone else. “See you in New York. Come back quick or some fool will burn the place down. Good-bye, Magnus, random other Lightwoods. Bye, baby. Good-bye, little baby.”

She stood on her tiptoes in high-heeled boots, kissed Alec on the cheek, and sashayed out.

“I do not like that vampire’s attitude,” said Robert in the silence following Lily’s departure.

“Lily’s all right,” said Alec mildly.

Robert did not say another word against Lily. He was careful with his son, Magnus had observed, painfully careful, but Robert was the one who had made the pain necessary. Robert had been thoughtless with his son in the past. It would be a long time of pain and care until things were right between them.

Both Robert and Alec were trying. That was why Alec had stayed to have breakfast with his father this morning.

Though Magnus was not at all sure what Robert Lightwood was doing here at the Shadowhunter Academy in the dark of night.

Let alone Maryse, who should be running the New York Institute. Let alone Isabelle and Jace.

Magnus was always pleased to see Clary.

“Hello, biscuit,” he said.

Clary sidled over to the doorway and grinned up at him, a thousand gallons of trouble in a pint-size body. “Hi.”

“What’s—”

Magnus intended to discreetly ask what the hell was going on, but he was interrupted by Jace lying down full length on the floor again. Magnus looked down, somewhat distracted.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m stuffing crevices with bits of material,” said Jace. “It was Isabelle’s idea.”

“I ripped up one of your shirts to do it,” Isabelle told him. “Not one of your nice shirts, obviously. One of the shirts that don’t suit you and which you shouldn’t wear again.”

The world blurred briefly in front of Magnus’s eyes. “You did what?”

Isabelle stared down at him from the stool where she was standing, her hands on her hips.

“We’re child-proofing the whole suite. If you could call this a suite. This whole Academy is a baby death trap. After we get finished here, we’re going to childproof your loft.”

“You’re not allowed in our apartment,” Magnus told her.

“Alec gave me a set of keys that says different,” Isabelle told him.

“I did do that,” Alec said. “I did give her keys. Forgive me, Magnus, I love you, I did not know she was going to be like this.”

Usually Robert looked slightly uneasy whenever Alec expressed affection to Magnus. This time, however, he was staring fixedly at the warlock baby and did not even seem to hear.

Magnus was starting to feel ever more disturbed by the turns this night was taking.

“Why are you being like this?” Magnus asked Isabelle. “Why?”

“Think about it,” said Isabelle. “We had to deal with the crevices. The baby could crawl around and get his hand or his foot stuck in a crevice! He could be hurt. You don’t want the baby to get hurt, do you?”

“No,” said Magnus. “Nor do I intend to tear my whole life into strips and rearrange it because of a baby.”

What he said sounded eminently reasonable to him. He was stunned when Robert and Maryse both laughed.

“Oh, I remember thinking that way,” Maryse said. “You’ll learn, Magnus.”

There was something strange in the way Maryse was speaking to him. She sounded fond. Usually she was carefully polite or businesslike. She had never been fond before.

“I expected this,” declared Isabelle. “Simon told me all about the baby on the phone. I knew you guys would be stunned and overwhelmed. So I got hold of Mom, and she contacted Jace, and Jace was with Clary, and we all came right away to pitch in.”

“It’s really good of you,” Alec said.

There was an air of surprise about him, which Magnus fully understood, but he seemed touched, which Magnus did not understand at all.

“Oh, it’s our pleasure,” Maryse told her son. She advanced on Alec, her hands out. She reminded Magnus of a bird of prey, talons outstretched, overcome by hunger. “What do you say,” she said in an alarmingly sweet voice, “you let me hold the baby? I’m the one in the room with the most experience with babies, after all.”

“That’s not true, Alec,” said Robert. “That is not true! I was very involved with all of you when you were young. I’m excellent with babies.”

Alec blinked at his father, who had appeared by Alec’s side with Shadowhunter speed.

“As I recall,” Maryse said, “you bounce them.”

“Babies love that,” Robert claimed. “Babies love bouncing.”

“Bouncing will make the baby spit up.”

“Bouncing will make the baby spit up with joy,” said Robert.

Magnus had, for several moments, believed that the only possible explanation was that the whole family was drunk. Now he was coming to a much worse conclusion.

Isabelle had come, in an organizing whirlwind, to childproof the whole suite. She had been able to persuade Jace and Clary to come and childproof too. And Maryse had spoken to her son’s partner with affection she had never shown before, and now she wanted to hold the baby.

Maryse was experiencing full-on grandma fever.

The Lightwoods thought he and Alec were keeping the baby.

“I need to sit down,” said Magnus in a hollow voice. He held on to the door frame so he did not fall down.

Alec glanced over at him, startled and concerned. His parents took their chance to pounce, hands outstretched for the baby, and Alec retreated a step. Jace sprang up from the floor, having his parabatai’s back, and Alec visibly came to a decision and put the baby into his parabatai’s arms so he had his hands free to ward his parents off.

“Mom and Dad, maybe don’t crowd him,” Magnus heard Alec suggesting.

Magnus found, for some reason, that his own focus had slipped to the baby. It was natural concern, he told himself. Anybody would be concerned. Jace, as far as Magnus knew, was not accustomed to children. It was not like the Shadowhunters were always babysitting for the kids down the block.

Jace was holding the baby somewhat awkwardly. His golden head, his hair full of fluff and dirt from lying down on the floor dealing with crevices, was bowed over the baby, staring down into the baby’s solemn little face.

The baby was dressed, Magnus saw. He was wearing an orange onesie, and the feet of the onesie were shaped to look like little fox paws. Jace rubbed one of the fox paws with a brown hand, fingers scarred like a warrior’s and slim as a musician’s, and the baby gave a sudden, vigorous wriggle.

Magnus rushed forward, realizing he had moved only when he was halfway across the room. He also realized that everyone else had lunged forward to catch the baby too.

Except Jace had kept hold of the baby despite the wriggle.

Jace looked flat-out terrified for a minute, then relaxed and looked around at everyone with his usual air of mild superiority.

“He’s fine,” Jace told them. “He’s tough.”

He looked toward Robert, clearly remembering Robert’s early words, and bounced the baby gingerly. The baby flailed, one small fist bouncing off Jace’s cheek.

“That’s good,” Jace encouraged. “That’s right. Maybe a little harder next time. We’ll have you punching demons in the face in no time. Do you want to punch demons in the face with me and Alec? Do you? Yes, you do.”

“Jace, honey,” Maryse cooed. “Give me the baby.”

“Want to hold the baby, Clary?” asked Jace in the tone of one offering an enormous treat to his lady love.

“I’m good,” said Clary.

The Lightwoods, including Jace, all stared at her with a kind of sad wonder, as if she had just proven herself tragically insane.

Isabelle had leaped down from the stool at the same time they had all rushed forward, ready to catch him. She looked at Magnus now.

“Are you going to kneecap your parents so you can hold the baby?” Magnus asked.

Isabelle laughed lightly. “No, of course not. Soon his formula will be ready. Then . . .” Isabelle’s face changed, set with terrifying determination. “I am going to feed the baby. Until then, I can wait, and help you guys come up with the perfect name for him.”

“We were talking about that a little as we came in from Alicante,” said Maryse, her voice eager.

Robert made another of his lightning-swift, cat-footed, and unsettling moves, this time to Magnus’s side. He put a heavy hand on Magnus’s shoulder. Magnus eyed Robert’s hand and felt deep unease.

“Of course, it’s up to you and Alec,” Robert assured him.

“Of course,” said Maryse, who never agreed with Robert on anything. “And we don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with. I would never want the little darling to have a name associated with—sadness rather than joy, or for either of you to feel like you have to do this. But we thought since . . . well, warlocks pick their own surnames a little later, so ‘Bane’ is not part of a family tradition . . . We thought you might consider, in memory but not as a burden . . .”

Isabelle said, her voice clear: “Max Lightwood.”

Magnus found himself blinking, partly in perplexity, but partly because of another feeling he found much less easy to define. His vision had blurred again and something in his chest had twisted.

The mistake the Lightwoods had made was ridiculous, and yet Magnus could not help but be stunned by their offer, and how genuine and sincere it had been.

This was a warlock child, and they were all Shadowhunters. Lightwood was an old, proud Shadowhunter name. Max Lightwood had been the Lightwoods’ youngest son. It was a name for one of their own.

“Or if you don’t like that . . . Michael. Michael’s a nice name,” Robert offered into the long silence. He cleared his throat after he spoke, and looked out of the attic windows, into the woods surrounding the Academy.

“Or you could hyphenate,” Isabelle said, her voice a little too bright. “Lightwood-Bane or Bane-Lightwood?”

Alec moved, reaching out not to take the baby but to touch him. The baby flung a hand up, tiny fingers curling around Alec’s finger, as if reaching back. Alec’s face, stricken since the mention of his brother’s name, was warmed by a sudden faint smile.

“Magnus and I haven’t talked about it yet, and we need to,” he said quietly. His voice had authority, even when it was quiet. Magnus saw Robert and Maryse nodding along to it, almost unconsciously. “But I was thinking maybe Max as well.”

That was when Magnus realized the magnitude of the situation. It was not just a wild conclusion Isabelle had leaped to and improbably convinced everyone else of. It was not just the Lightwoods.

Alec thought that he and Magnus were keeping the baby as well.

Magnus did go and sit down then, on one of the rickety chairs with a cushion from home placed on it. He could not feel his fingers. He thought he might be in shock.

Robert Lightwood followed him.

“I couldn’t help but notice that the baby is blue,” Robert said. “Alec’s eyes are blue. And when you do the”—he made a strange and disturbing gesture, and then made the sound whoosh, whoosh—“magic, sometimes there’s a blue light.”

Magnus stared at him. “I’m failing to see your point.”

“If you made the baby for yourself and Alec, you can tell me,” said Robert. “I’m a very broad-minded man. Or—I’m trying to be. I’d like to be. I would understand.”

“If I made . . . the . . . baby . . . ?” Magnus repeated.

He was not certain where to start. He had imagined Robert Lightwood knew how babies were made.

“Magically,” Robert whispered.

“I am going to pretend you never said that to me,” said Magnus. “I am going to pretend we never had this conversation.”

Robert winked, as if they understood each other. Magnus was speechless.

The Lightwoods continued on their quest to childproof the suite, feed the baby, and all hold the baby at once. Witchlight on every side, filling the whole small space of the attic, blazed and burned in Magnus’s vision.

Alec thought they were keeping the baby. He wanted to name him Max.

*    *    *

“I saw Magnus Bane and a sexy vampire lady in the hall,” Marisol announced as she passed Simon’s table.

Jon Cartwright was carrying her tray, and he almost dropped it. “A vampire,” he repeated. “In the Academy?”

Marisol looked up into his scandalized face and nodded. “A sexy one.”

“They’re the worst kind,” Jon breathed.

“So you weren’t too bad, then, Simon,” Julie remarked as Marisol walked on, spinning her tale of an alluring vampiress.

“You know,” Simon said, “sometimes I think Marisol goes too far. I know she likes jerking Jon’s chain, but nobody is dumb enough to believe in a warlock baby and a vampire on the same day. It’s too much. It makes no sense. Jon is going to catch on.”

He poked a mysterious lump in his stew. Dinner was very late tonight, and very congealed. Marisol fibbing about vampires must have put the idea in his head: Simon looked back on drinking blood and thought that it could not have been as bad as this.

“You would think she’d had enough excitement for one day,” George agreed. “I wonder how the poor little baby is doing. I was thinking, do you think he might change colors like a chameleon? How cool would that be?”

Simon brightened. “So cool.”

“Nerds,” said Julie.

Simon took that as praise. He did feel that George had really come along under his tutelage. He had even voluntarily bought graphic novels when he was in Scotland over Christmas. Maybe someday the student would become the master.

“This is hard luck for you, Simon,” said George. “I know you wanted to talk to Alec.”

Simon’s brief moment of cheer faded, and he collapsed with his face on the table. “Forget about talking to Alec. When I went to tell them about the baby, I walked in on Alec and Magnus. If Alec didn’t like me before, he definitely hates me now.”

Another old memory flashed in Simon’s mind, absolutely unwelcome: Alec’s pale, furious face as he looked down at Clary. Maybe Alec hated Clary, too. Maybe once someone crossed him, he never forgot and never forgave, and would always hate them both.

His hideous imaginings were interrupted by a sensation around their dinner table.

“What? Where? When? How? Did Magnus seem like an athletic yet tender lover?” Julie demanded.

“Julie!” said Beatriz.

“Thank you, Beatriz,” said Simon.

“Don’t say a word, Simon,” said Beatriz. “Not until I have acquired a pen and paper so I can write down everything you say. I’m sorry, Simon, but they are famous, and celebrities have to bear with this interest in their love lives. They’re like Brangelina.”

Beatriz rummaged through her bag until she found a notebook, and then opened it and gazed at Simon with an expectant air.

Julie, Idris born and bred, made a face. “What is Brangelina? It sounds like a demon.”

“It does not!” George protested. “I believe in their love.”

“They are not like Brangelina,” Simon said. “What would you even call them? Algnus? That sounds like a foot disease.”

“Obviously you would call them Malec,” said Beatriz. “Are you stupid, Simon?”

“I will not be distracted!” said Julie. “Does Magnus have piercings? Of course he does; when would he miss an opportunity to shine?”

“I didn’t notice, and even if I had noticed, I wouldn’t discuss it,” said Simon.

“Oh, because people in the mundane world never obsess about celebrities and their love lives,” Beatriz said. “See also, Brangelina. And that boy band George is obsessed with. He has all kinds of theories about their romances.”

“What . . . boy band . . . George is obsessed with?” Simon asked slowly.

George looked shifty. “I don’t want to talk about it. The band’s going through some hard times lately, and it makes me too sad.”

Far too many disturbing and upsetting things had happened to Simon today. He decided to stop thinking about George and the boy band.

“I’m the one who grew up a subway ride from Broadway, I know people get too interested in celebrities,” he said. “But it’s weird for me when you girls obsess over Jace or Magnus. It’s weird when Jon trails after Isabelle with his tongue hanging out.”

“Is George’s crush on Clary weird too?” asked Beatriz.

“Is this Betray George Day, Beatriz?” George demanded. “Si, I may have had certain thoughts about certain pocket-size vixens, but I would never tell you about them! I don’t want to make it weird!”

“Pocket-size vixens?” Simon stared. “Congratulations, you made it weird.”

George hung his head in shame.

“It’s weird for me because everybody acts as if they know famous people, but I really do know these people. They’re not images, like posters to hang on the wall. They’re not anything like you think they are. They have a right to privacy. It’s weird because I see everyone acting like they know who my friends are, when they only know a tiny bit of them, and it’s weird to see anyone acting as if they have some sort of claim on my friends and their lives.”

Beatriz hesitated, then put her pen down. “Okay,” she said. “I can see it’s weird for you, but—it does come from everyone admiring what they’ve done. People act like they know them because they want to know them. And being admired means they have a lot of influence over other people. They can do a lot of good with that. Alec Lightwood is Sunil’s inspiration to be a Shadowhunter. And you, Simon. A lot of people follow you because they admire you. There might be some weirdness mixed in with being admired like that, but I think there’s more good.”

“Oh, it’s not the same for me,” Simon mumbled. “I mean, I don’t even remember. I meant my friends. Including Alec, who is . . . my friend who doesn’t like me. They’re the special ones.”

He couldn’t be cool and assured like Magnus or Jace. He didn’t know what Beatriz was talking about. Also he felt suddenly paranoid over whether people were wondering if he had piercings.

Simon had no piercings. He used to be a musician in Brooklyn. He probably should have piercings.

Beatriz hesitated another instant, then tore off the page she’d written on and rolled it into a ball. “You’re special too, Simon,” she said, and blushed. “Everybody knows that.”

Simon looked at her red face and remembered George mentioning someone had a crush on him. He’d thought for a moment it might be Julie, and though it would be both bizarre and bizarrely flattering to have changed the heart of a Shadowhunter ice princess with his manly charms, he supposed Beatriz made more sense. He and Beatriz were really good friends. Beatriz had the best smile in the Academy. Simon would’ve been thrilled to have an attractive girl he was friends with get a crush on him, back in Brooklyn.

He felt mainly awkward now. He wondered if he was supposed to let Beatriz down easily.

Julie cleared her throat. “And just so you know . . . ,” she said, “there have been invasive questions asked about you. Also there was an incident where someone tried to steal one of your used socks and keep it as a trophy.”

“Who was the sock person?” Simon demanded. “That’s just nasty.”

“We never tell them anything,” Julie said. “And they may ask once, but they never ask again.” Her lip curled back from her teeth. She looked like a snarling blond tiger. “Because you’re a real person to us, Simon. And you’re our friend.”

She reached across the table and touched Simon’s hand, then drew it back as if she had been burned. Beatriz snatched Julie’s hand as soon as she’d drawn it back and pulled her out of her chair and toward the corner of the room where the food was laid out.

Neither of them needed more food. They had barely touched their stew. Simon watched as they went, and then stood talking to each other in fraught whispers.

“Well, they both seem strangely upset.”

George rolled his eyes. “Come on, Si, don’t be dense.”

“You can’t mean . . . ,” began Simon. “They can’t both—like me?”

There was a long silence.

“Neither of them like you?” Simon said. “You work out. And! You have a Scottish accent.”

“Don’t rub it in. Maybe girls fear me, because my keen eyes see too deeply into their souls,” George said. “Or maybe they’re intimidated by my good looks. Or maybe . . . Please don’t make me talk about what a lonely bugger I am anymore.”

He looked after Julie and Beatriz a little wistfully. Simon could not tell if George was wistful about Julie or Beatriz, or simply wistful about love in general. He’d had no idea his friends were involved in such an emotional tangle.

He was surprised. He felt awkward. And he didn’t feel anything else.

He liked Beatriz a lot. Julie was terrible, but Simon thought of Julie telling him about her sister, and he had to admit: Julie was terrible, but he liked her, too. Both of them were beautiful and badass and did not come with a burden of lost memories and tangled emotions.

He wasn’t even pleased they liked him. He wasn’t even slightly tempted.

He wished, with single-minded intensity, that Isabelle was here—not a letter, not a voice on the phone, but here.

He looked at George’s sad face and offered: “Want to talk about when Magnus and Alec go, and we steal their suite and make our own meals in our own little kitchen?”

George sighed. “Could we really, Simon, or is that too beautiful a dream? Every day would be a song. All I want is to make a sandwich, Simon. Just a humble sandwich, with ham, cheese, maybe a little dab of . . . oh my God.”

Simon wondered what a dab of “oh my God” would taste like. George had frozen, spoon to his lips, eyes fixed on a point over Simon’s shoulder.

Simon turned around in his seat and saw Isabelle framed in the doorway of the Academy dining hall. She was wearing a long dress the color of irises and her arms were spread wide, bracelets gleaming. Time seemed to slow, like a movie, like magic, like she was a genie who could appear in a puff of glittering smoke to grant wishes, and every wish would be her.

“Surprise,” said Isabelle. “Miss me?”

Simon jumped to his feet. He might have knocked his bowl clear across the table and into George’s lap. He was sorry, but he would make it up to him later.

“Isabelle,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“Congratulations, Simon, that’s a very romantic question,” Isabelle told him. “Am I meant to take it as ‘No, I didn’t miss you, and I’m seeing other girls’? If so, don’t worry about it. Why worry, when life is short? Specifically, your life, because I am going to cut off your head.”

“I’m confused by what you’re saying,” Simon told her.

Isabelle raised her eyebrows and opened her lips, but before she could speak Simon caught her by the waist and drew her in against him, kissing her surprised mouth. Isabelle’s mouth relaxed, curving under his. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him back, sultry and exuberant at once, a femme fatale and a warrior princess, all the dream girls of all his nerdy fantasies in one. Simon pulled back for a moment to look into Isabelle’s night-dark eyes.

“I wasn’t aware,” said Simon, “that there are any other girls in the world but you.”

He was embarrassed as soon as he said it. It was in no way a smooth line. It was pathetically honest, trying to tell Isabelle what he had only just realized himself. But he saw Isabelle’s eyes shine like new stars waking in the night, felt her arm around his neck pulling him down for another kiss, and he thought to himself that the line might be a little smooth. After all, it had gotten him a girl, the girl. The only girl Simon wanted.

*    *    *

It was midnight before Magnus got all of the Lightwoods out of their suite. Isabelle had left to see Simon some time before, and Clary and Jace could usually be persuaded to go off together, but for a while he thought he was actually going to have to use magic on Maryse and Robert. He shoved them out of the door while they were still giving him helpful baby tips.

As soon as they were gone, Alec stumbled over to the bed and lay flat on his face, instantly asleep. Magnus was left with the baby.

It was possible the baby was stunned by the Lightwoods too. He lay in his crib staring up at the world with wide eyes. The crib was under a window, and he was in a small pool of light, moonshine shimmering on his crumpled blanket and his little fat legs. Magnus crouched down by the crib and watched him, waiting for the next eruption of screaming that meant he needed to be changed and fed. Instead he fell asleep too, his mouth open, a tiny blue rosebud.

Who could ever love it? the baby’s mother had written, but the baby did not know that yet. He slept, innocent and serene as any child secure of love. Magnus’s mother might have thought the same despairing words.

Alec thought they were keeping him.

Keeping him had not even occurred to Magnus. He had thought he lived life believing a thousand possibilities were open to him, but he had not thought of this possibility as being open to him: family life like mundanes and Nephilim had, love so secure that it could be shared with someone brand-new to the world and helpless.

He tried out the thought now.

Keeping him. Keeping the baby. Having a baby, with Alec.

Hours passed. Magnus hardly noticed, time went by so quietly, as if someone had laid out the carpet of the night to muffle time’s footsteps. He did not register anything but that small face, until he felt a soft touch on his shoulder.

Magnus did not get up, but he turned to see Alec looking down at him. The moonlight turned Alec’s skin silver and his eyes a darker, deeper blue, infinitely tender.

“If you thought I was asking you to keep the baby,” Magnus said, “I wasn’t.”

Alec’s eyes widened. He absorbed this in silence.

“You’re . . . still really young,” Magnus said. “I’m sorry if sometimes it seems as if I do not remember that. It’s strange to me—being immortal means both being young and being old are strange to me. I know I must seem strange to you sometimes.”

Alec nodded, thoughtful and not hurt. “You do,” he said, and leaned down with one hand gripping the side of the crib, touched Magnus’s hair, and gave him a moonlight-soft kiss. “And I never want anything but this. I never want a less strange love.”

“But you don’t have to be scared I would ever leave you,” said Magnus. “You don’t have to be scared of what will happen to the baby or that I will be hurt because the baby—is a warlock, and was not wanted. You do not have to feel trapped. You do not have to be scared, and you do not have to do this.”

Alec knelt down in the shadows and on the bare, dusty boards of the attic, next to the crib and facing Magnus.

“What if I want to?” he asked. “I’m a Shadowhunter. We marry young, and we have children young, because we might die young, because we want to do our duty to the world and have all the love in the world we can. I used to . . . I used to think I could never do that, never have that. I used to feel trapped. I don’t feel trapped now. I could never ask you to live in an Institute, and I don’t want to. I want to stay in New York, with you, and with Lily and Maia. I want to keep doing what we’re doing. I want Jace to run the Institute after my mother, and I want to work with him. I want to be part of the connection between the Institute and Downworlders. For so long I thought I could never have any of the things I wanted, except that I could maybe keep Jace and Isabelle safe. I thought I could have their backs in a fight. Now I have more and more people I care about, and . . . I want everyone I care about—I want people I don’t even know, I want all of us—to know we have each other’s backs so we do not have to fight alone. I am not trapped. I’m happy. I am exactly where I want to be. I know what I want, and I have the life I want. I’m not scared of any of the things you said.”

Magnus took a deep breath. It was better to ask Alec than to keep imagining the wrong thing. “What are you scared of, then?”

“Do you remember Mom suggesting calling the baby Max?”

Magnus nodded, carefully quiet.

He had never even met Alec’s little brother, Max. Robert and Maryse Lightwood had always tried to keep their children away from Downworlders, and Max had been too young to disobey.

Alec’s voice was soft, both for the baby and with memory. “I was never the cool brother. I remember when Mom used to leave Max with me, when he was really little, just learning how to walk, and I was always scared he would fall down and it would be my fault. I’d constantly try to get him to obey the rules and do what Mom said. Isabelle was so great with him, always making him laugh, and by the Angel, Max wanted to be just like Jace. He thought Jace was the coolest, the best Shadowhunter who ever lived, that the sun rose and set on him. Jace gave him a little toy soldier and Max used to take it to bed with him. I was jealous of how much Max loved that toy. I used to give him other things, toys that I thought were better, but he always loved that soldier best. He died holding that toy for comfort. I’m so glad he had it, that he had something he loved to comfort him. It was stupid and petty to be jealous.”

Magnus shook his head. Alec gave him a rueful smile, and then bowed his black head, looking at the floor.

“I always thought there would be more time,” said Alec. “I thought Max would get older, and he’d train with us more, and I’d help him train. I thought he would come on missions with us, and I’d have his back, the way I always try to have Jace’s and Isabelle’s backs. He’d know his boring big brother was good for something then. He’d know he could count on me, no matter what. He should have been able to count on me.”

“He was able to count on you,” Magnus said. “I know that. He knew that. Nobody who has ever met you could doubt it.”

“He never even knew that I’m gay,” said Alec. “Or that I love you. I wish he could have met you.”

“I wish I could have met him,” said Magnus. “But he knew you. He loved you. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do know that,” said Alec. “I just . . . I always wished I could be more for him.”

“You always try to be more, for everyone you love,” Magnus said. “You don’t see how your whole family turns to you, how they rely on you. I rely on you. Even Lily relies on you, for God’s sake. You love the people you love so much that you want to be an impossible ideal for them. You don’t realize that you are more than enough.”

Alec shrugged, a little helplessly.

“You asked me what I was scared of. I’m scared he won’t like me,” Alec said. “I’m scared I’ll let him down. But I want to try to be there for him. I want him. Do you?”

“I didn’t expect him,” said Magnus. “I didn’t expect anything like this to come, for me. Even if I thought sometimes about what it might be like if you and I did have a family, I thought it would not be for years. But yes. Yes, I want to try as well.”

Alec smiled, his smile so brilliant that Magnus realized how relieved he was, and realized belatedly how worried Alec had been that Magnus would say no.

“It is quick,” Alec admitted. “I thought about having a family, but I guess I always thought . . . Well, I guess I never expected anything like this to happen before we got married.”

“What?” said Magnus.

Alec just stared up at him. One long, strong archer’s hand was dangling into the baby’s crib, but Alec was intent on Magnus, his dark blue eyes darker than ever in the shadows, one look from Alec more important than a kiss from anyone else. Magnus saw he meant it.

“Alec,” he said. “My Alec. You have to know that’s impossible.”

Alec looked stunned and horror-struck. Magnus began to speak, the words tumbling out of his mouth faster and faster, trying to get Alec to see.

“Shadowhunters can marry Downworlders, in Downworlder or mundane ceremonies. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve seen other Shadowhunters dismiss those marriages as meaning nothing, and I’ve seen some Shadowhunters bow under pressure and break the vows they made. I know you would never bow or break. I know that type of marriage would mean just as much to you. I know that any promises you made me, you would keep. But I was alive before the Accords. I sat and ate and talked with Shadowhunters about peace between our people, and then those same Shadowhunters threw away the plates I ate off because they thought I irredeemably tainted whatever I touched. I will not have a ceremony that anyone looks down on as lesser. I do not want you to have any less than the ceremony you could have had, to honor your vows to a Shadowhunter. I have had enough of making compromises in the name of trying to make peace. I want the Law to change. I do not want to get married until we can get married in gold.”

Alec was quiet, his head bowed.

“Do you understand?” Magnus demanded, feeling almost desperate. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s not that I don’t love you.”

“I understand,” said Alec. He took a deep breath and looked up. “Changing the Law might take a while,” he said simply.

“It might,” said Magnus.

They were both quiet for a little while.

“Can I tell you something?” Magnus asked. “Nobody ever wanted me to marry them before.”

He’d had other loves, but none of them had ever asked, and he had known, had sensed with a cold, sinking feeling, that it would be useless, not to ask them. Whether it was because they did not feel they could promise until death did them part when Magnus would not die, because they took Magnus lightly or thought, being immortal, that he took them lightly. He had never known the reasons they did not want to marry him, but there it was: There had been lovers willing to die with him, but nobody had ever been willing to swear to live with him every day for as long as they both had to live.

Nobody until this Shadowhunter.

“I never asked anyone to marry me before,” said Alec. “So that’s a no, then?”

He laughed as he asked, a soft laugh, worn but happy. Alec always tried to give those he loved a path or an open door; he tried to give those he loved anything they wanted. They sat there, leaning against their baby’s crib together.

Magnus lifted his hand, and Alec caught it in midair, their fingers linking. Magnus’s rings flashed and Alec’s scars glowed in the moonlight. Both of them held on.

“It’s yes, one day,” Magnus said. “For you, Alec, it’s always yes.”

*    *    *

After classes the next day Simon sat in his dank dungeon room, resisted the almost irresistible temptation to go find Isabelle, and mustered up his courage.

He marched up the many flights of stairs and knocked on the door of Alec and Magnus’s rooms.

Magnus answered the door. He was wearing jeans and a loose, frayed T-shirt, holding the baby, and he looked very tired.

“How did you know he’d just woken up from a nap?” Magnus asked as he opened the door.

“Uh, I didn’t,” said Simon.

Magnus blinked at him, in the slow way that tired people did, as if they had to think deeply about blinking. “Oh, my apologies,” he said. “I thought you were Maryse.”

“Isabelle’s mother is here?” Simon exclaimed.

“Shhhh!” said Magnus. “She might hear you.”

The baby was grizzling, not quite crying but making a sound like a small, unhappy tractor. He wiped his damp face against Magnus’s shoulder.

“I’m really sorry to interrupt,” said Simon. “I was wondering if I could have a word alone with Alec.”

“Alec’s sleeping,” Magnus said flatly, and began to close the door.

Alec’s voice rang out before the door was quite closed. He sounded as if he was midyawn. “No, I’m not. I’m awake. I can talk to Simon.” He appeared in the doorway, pulling the door back open. “Go out and take a long walk. Get some fresh air. It’ll wake you up.”

“I’m great,” said Magnus. “I don’t need sleeping. Or waking. I feel great.”

The baby waved his fat hands in Alec’s direction, the gestures loose and uncoordinated but unmistakable. Alec looked startled but smiled, a sudden, unexpectedly nice smile, and reached out to take the baby in his arms. As soon as he did, the baby stopped grizzling.

Magnus waved his finger in the baby’s face. “I find your attitude insulting,” he informed him. He kissed Alec briefly. “I won’t be gone long.”

“Take as long as you need,” said Alec. “I have this feeling my parents might be coming to help very shortly.”

Magnus left, and Alec stepped away from the door, going to stand at the window with the baby.

“So,” said Alec. His shirt was rumpled, clearly slept in, and he was bouncing a baby. Simon felt bad even bothering him. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“I’m really sorry again about the other day,” Simon told him.

Then he wondered if it was terrible that he had referenced sex in front of Alec’s baby. Maybe Simon was just doomed to mortally offend Alec, over and over again. Forever.

“It’s okay,” said Alec. “I once walked in on you and Isabelle. I guess turnabout’s fair play.” He frowned. “Although you two were in my room at the time, so actually I think you still owe me.”

Simon was alarmed. “You walked in on me and Isabelle? But we haven’t . . . I mean, we didn’t . . . Did we?”

It would be typical of Simon’s life, he thought. Of all things in the world, he would forget that.

Alec looked upset to be having this discussion, but Simon fixed him with a pleading stare and Alec apparently took pity on Simon’s great patheticness.

“I don’t know,” Alec said at last. “You were in the process of taking your clothes off, as I remember. And I try not to remember. And you seemed to be engaging in some sort of role-play.”

“Oh. Whoa. Like advanced role-play? Were there costumes? Were there props? What is Isabelle going to be expecting here, exactly?”

“I won’t discuss this,” said Alec.

“But if you could just give me a tiny hint . . .”

“Get out of here, Simon,” said Alec.

Simon yanked himself back from the edge of role-playing panic, and pulled himself together.

This was more words than he had spoken to Alec in years.

Though Alec had just ordered him out of the room, so Simon had to admit things were not exactly going well.

“I’m sorry,” said Simon. “I mean, I’m sorry for the inappropriate questions. And I’m sorry for walking in on you, er, yesterday morning. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry for whatever it is that went wrong between us. Whatever you’re angry about. I honestly don’t remember, but I do remember how you are when you’re angry, and I don’t want things to be like that between us. I remember you don’t like Clary.”

Alec looked at Simon as if he was crazy.

“I like Clary. Clary’s one of my best friends.”

“Oh,” said Simon. “I’m sorry. I thought I remembered . . . I must have gotten it wrong.”

Alec took a deep breath and admitted: “No, you didn’t get it wrong. I didn’t like Clary at first. I got—rough with her once. I slammed her up against a wall. She hit her head. I was a trained warrior and she didn’t have any training at all, back then. I’m twice her size.”

Simon had come here to conciliate Alec, so he was unprepared for the strong urge to take a swing at him. He couldn’t do it. Alec was holding a baby.

All he could do was stare at him in furious silence, at the very idea someone would touch his best friend.

“It’s no excuse,” Alec continued. “But I was afraid. She knew about me being gay, and she told me that she knew. She wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know, but I was scared of her because I didn’t know her. She wasn’t my friend then. She was just some mundane invading my family, and I knew Shadowhunters, I was friends with Shadowhunters, who if they’d ever guessed—they would have gone running to tell my parents, so my parents could talk sense into me. They would have told everybody. They would have thought they were doing the right thing.”

“It wouldn’t have been the right thing,” said Simon, still furious but shaken. “Clary would never do that. She never even told me.”

“I didn’t know her then,” said Alec. “You’re right. She never told anyone, about any of it. She had every right to say that I’d gotten rough with her. Jace would have punched me in the face if he’d known. I was terrified she would tell Jace that I was gay, because I wasn’t ready for Jace to know about me. But you’re right. She would never, and she didn’t.” He looked out of the window, patting the baby on the back. “I like Clary,” he said simply. “She always tries to do what’s right, and she never lets anyone else tell her what right is. She reminds my parabatai that he wants to live. Occasionally I wish she’d take fewer mad risks, but if I hated reckless crazy-brave people, I’d hate . . .”

“Let me guess,” said Simon. “His name rhymes with Face Herringfail.”

Alec laughed and Simon mentally congratulated himself.

“So you like Clary,” said Simon. “I’m the only one you don’t like. What did I do? I know you have a lot on your plate, but if you could just tell me what I did so I can apologize for it and so we can maybe be okay, I’d really appreciate it.”

Alec stared at him, then turned and walked toward one of the chairs in the attic. There were two rickety wooden chairs, both of which held cushions with peacocks embroidered on them, and there was a sofa. The sofa was a little slanted. Alec took one of the chairs, and Simon decided not to risk the sofa and took the other.

Alec put the baby on his knee, one arm carefully around his small, round body. With his free hand he played with the baby’s tiny hands, tapping them with his fingertips, as if he were teaching the baby how to play patty-cake. He was clearly getting ready for a confession.

Simon drew in a deep breath, preparing for whatever it was. He knew it might be really bad. He had to be ready.

“What did you do?” Alec asked. “You saved Magnus’s life.”

Simon was at a loss. An apology seemed inappropriate.

“Magnus was kidnapped, and I went into a hell dimension to save him. That was my whole plan. All I wanted to do was rescue him. On the way, Isabelle was badly hurt. My whole life, I always wanted to protect the people I loved, to make sure they were safe. I should have been able to do it. But I couldn’t. I wasn’t able to help either of them. You did. You saved Isabelle’s life. When Magnus’s father was intent on taking him and there was nothing I could do about it, nothing at all, you stepped in. I’d undervalued you, in the past, and you did everything I ever wanted to do, and then you were gone. Isabelle was a wreck. Clary was worse. Jace was so upset. Magnus felt guilty. Everyone was so hurt, and I wanted to help them, and you came back but you didn’t remember what you had done. I’m not really good with strangers, and you were a really complicated stranger. I couldn’t talk to you. It wasn’t that you did anything wrong. It was that there was nothing I could do to make it even between us. I owed you more than I could ever repay, and I didn’t even know how to thank you. It wouldn’t have meant anything. You didn’t even remember.”

“Oh,” said Simon. “Wow.”

It was weird to think of faceless strangers thinking of Simon as a hero. It was even weirder to have Alec Lightwood, who he’d thought did not even like him, talk about him as if he was a hero.

“So you don’t hate me, and you don’t hate Clary. You don’t hate anyone.”

“I hate people forcing me to talk about my feelings,” said Alec.

Simon stared at him for a moment, an apology on his lips, but he did not speak it. Instead he grinned, and Alec grinned shyly back.

“I’ve been doing it way too much since I got to the Academy.”

“I can imagine,” said Simon.

He had not been sure what would happen with the baby Alec and Magnus were taking care of, but from everything Isabelle had said, she was sure they were keeping him. That must have required a conversation.

“I would like,” Alec said, “not to talk about feelings again for about a year. Also maybe to sleep for a year. Do babies ever sleep?”

“I used to babysit sometimes,” Simon said. “As I recall babies do sleep a lot, but when you least expect it. Babies: more like the Spanish Inquisition than you think.”

Alec nodded, though he seemed confused. Simon made a mental note that it was his duty now, as Alec’s established friend, to introduce Alec to Monty Python as soon as possible. The baby crowed as if he were pleased by the comparison.

“Hey,” said Alec. “I’m sorry that I made you think I was mad at you, just because I didn’t know what to say.”

“Well,” Simon said. “Here’s the thing. I was helped along in my assumption.”

Alec stopped playing patty-cake with the baby. He went still all over. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t talk to me a lot, and I was a little worried about it,” Simon explained. “So I asked my friend, between us guys, if you had a problem with me. I asked my good friend Jace.”

There was a pause as Alec absorbed this news. “You did.”

“And Jace,” said Simon. “Jace told me that there was a big, dark secret issue between us. He said it wasn’t his place to talk about it.”

The baby looked at Simon, then back at Alec. His small face looked thoughtful, as if he might shake his head and go: That Jace, what will he do next?

“Leave this to me,” Alec said calmly. “He’s my parabatai and we have a sacred bond and everything, but now he has gone too far.”

“That’s cool,” said Simon. “Please exact awful vengeance for both of us, because I’m pretty sure he could take me in a fight.”

Alec nodded, admitting this very true fact. Simon could not believe he had been so worried about Alec Lightwood. Alec was great.

“Well,” Alec said. “Like I said . . . I do owe you.”

Simon waved a hand. “Nah. Call it even.”

*    *    *

Magnus was so tired, he stumbled into the Shadowhunter Academy dining room and thought about eating there.

Then he actually looked at the food and came to his senses.

It was not quite dinnertime, but there were a few students gathered early, even though Magnus did not anticipate there would be a rush on the slime lasagna. Magnus saw Julie and her friends at one table. Julie looked Magnus up and down, taking in the wrecked hair and Alec’s T-shirt, and Magnus read deep disillusionment on her face.

So a young girl’s dreams died. Magnus admitted, after a sleepless night and wearing one of Alec’s shirts because Isabelle had destroyed several of his own and the baby had been sick on several others, he might not be at his most glamorous.

It was probably good for Julie to face reality, though Magnus was determined to, at some point, take a shower, wear a better shirt, and dazzle the baby with his resplendence.

Magnus had visited Ragnor at the Academy, and he knew how the meals there worked. He squinted, trying to figure out which tables belonged to the elites and which to the dregs, the humans who aspired to be Nephilim but were not accepted by the Nephilim as good enough until they Ascended. Magnus had always thought the dregs showed enormous self-restraint by not rising up against Shadowhunter arrogance, burning down the Academy, and fleeing into the night.

It was possible that the Clave was right when they called Magnus an insurgent.

He could not work out, however, which tables belonged to whom. It had been very clear, years ago, but he was certain the blonde and the brunette Simon knew were Nephilim, and almost sure the gorgeous idiot who wanted to raise a baby with Simon in a sock drawer was not.

Magnus’s attention was attracted by the sound of a throaty, imperious voice coming from a Latina girl who looked all of fifteen. She was a mundane, Magnus knew at a glance. Something else he could tell at a glance: In a couple of years, whether she Ascended or not, she would be a holy terror.

“Jon,” she was saying to the boy across the table from her. “I am in so much pain from stubbing my toe! I need aspirin.”

“What’s aspirin?” asked the boy, sounding panicked.

He was obviously a Nephilim, through and through and through. Magnus could tell without seeing his runes. In fact, he was prepared to bet the boy was a Cartwright. Magnus had known several Cartwrights through the centuries. The Cartwrights all had such distressingly thick necks.

“You buy it in a pharmacy,” said the girl. “No, don’t tell me, you don’t know what a pharmacy is either. Have you ever left Idris in your whole life?”

“Yes!” said Jon, possibly Cartwright. “On many demon-hunting missions. And once Mama and Papa took me to the beach in France!”

“Amazing,” said the girl. “I mean that. I’m going to explain all of modern medicine to you.”

“Please don’t do that, Marisol,” said Jon. “I did not feel good after you explained appendectomies. I couldn’t eat.”

Marisol made a face at her plate. “So what you’re saying is, I did you a huge favor.”

“I like to eat,” said Jon sadly.

“Right,” said Marisol. “So, I don’t explain modern medicine to you, and then a medical emergency occurs to me. It could be solved with the application of a little first aid, but you don’t know that, and so I die. I die at your feet. Is that what you want, Jon?”

“No,” said Jon. “What’s first aid? Is there a . . . second aid?”

“I can’t believe you’re going to let me die when my death could so easily be avoided, if you had just listened,” Marisol went on mercilessly.

“Okay, okay! I’ll listen.”

“Great. Get me some juice, because I’ll be talking for a while. I’m still very hurt that you even considered letting me die,” Marisol added as Jon scrambled up and made for the side of the room where the unappetizing food and potentially poisonous drinks were laid out. “I thought Shadowhunters had a mandate to protect mundanes!” Marisol shouted after him. “Not orange juice. I want apple juice!”

“Would you believe,” said Catarina, appearing at Magnus’s elbow, “that the Cartwright kid was the biggest bully in the Academy?”

“Seems like he met a bigger bully,” Magnus murmured.

He congratulated himself on the correct Cartwright guess. It was hard to be sure, with Shadowhunter families. Certain traits did seem to run in their family lines, inbred as they were, but there were always exceptions.

For instance, Magnus had always found the Lightwoods rather forgettable. He’d liked some of them—Anna Lightwood and her parade of brokenhearted young ladies, Christopher Lightwood and his explosions, and now Isabelle—but there had never been a Lightwood who touched his heart, as some Shadowhunters had: Will Herondale or Henry Branwell or Clary Fray.

Until the Lightwood who was unforgettable; until the Lightwood who had not only touched but taken his heart.

“Why are you smiling to yourself?” Catarina asked, her voice suspicious.

“I was just thinking that life is full of surprises,” said Magnus. “What happened to this Academy?”

The mundane girl could not bully the Cartwright boy unless the boy cared about what happened to her—unless he saw her as a person, and did not dismiss her the way Magnus had seen countless Nephilim dismiss mundanes and Downworlders, too.

Catarina hesitated. “Come with me,” she said. “There’s something I want to show you.”

She took his hand and led him out of the Academy cafeteria, her blue fingers intertwined with his blue-ringed hands. Magnus thought of the baby and found himself smiling again. He had always thought blue was the loveliest color.

“I’ve been sleeping in Ragnor’s old room,” Catarina said.

She mentioned their old friend briskly and practically, with no hint of feeling. Magnus held her hand a little tighter as they went up two flights of stairs and down through stone corridors. The walls bore tapestries illustrating Shadowhunters’ great deeds. There were holes in several of the tapestries, including one that left the Angel Raziel headless. Magnus feared sacrilegious mice had been at the tapestries.

Catarina opened a large, dark oak wood door and led him into a vaulted stone room where there were a few pictures on the walls Magnus recognized as Ragnor’s: a sketch of a monkey, a seascape with a pirate ship on it. The carved oak bed was covered in Catarina’s severe white hospital sheets, but the moth-eaten curtains were green velvet, and there was a green leather inlay on a desk placed under the room’s single large window.

There was a coin on it, a circle of copper turned dark with age, and two yellowed pieces of paper, turning up at the edges.

“I was going through the papers in Ragnor’s desk when I found this letter,” Catarina said. “It was the only really personal thing in the room. I thought you might like to read it.”

“I would,” said Magnus, and she put it into his hands.

Magnus unfolded the letter and looked at the spiky black writing set deep into the yellow surface, as if the writer had been annoyed by the page itself. He felt as if he were listening to a voice he had thought silenced forever.

To Ragnor Fell, preeminent educator at Shadowhunter Academy, and former High Warlock of London:

I am sorry but not surprised to hear the latest crop of Shadowhunter brats are just as unpromising as the last lot. The Nephilim, lacking imagination and intellectual curiosity? You astonish me.

I enclose a coin etched with a wreath, a symbol of education in the ancient world. I was told a faerie placed good luck on it, and you are certainly going to need luck reforming the Shadowhunters.

I am as ever impressed by your patience and dedication to your job, and your continuing optimism that your students can be taught. I wish I could have your bright outlook on life, but unfortunately I cannot help looking around at the world and noticing that we are surrounded by idiots. If I were teaching Nephilim children I imagine I would sometimes feel forced to speak to them sharply and occasionally feel forced to drain them entirely of blood.

(Note to any Nephilim illegally reading Mr. Fell’s letters and invading his privacy: I am, naturally, joking. I have a very droll personality.)

You ask how life in New York is and I can only report the usual: smelly, crowded, and populated almost entirely by maniacs. I was almost knocked over by a party of warlocks and werewolves on Bowery Street. One particular warlock was in the front, waving a glittering purple ladies’ feather boa over his head like a flag. I am so embarrassed to know him. Sometimes I pretend to other Downworlders that I do not. I hope they believe me.

The main reason I am writing to you is, of course, so that we may continue your Spanish lessons. I enclose a fresh list of vocabulary words, and assure you that you are coming along very well. If you should ever make the terrible decision to accompany a certain badly dressed warlock of our acquaintance to Peru again, this time you will be prepared.

Yours most sincerely,

Raphael Santiago

“Ragnor would not have known the Academy was going to be shut down after Valentine’s Circle attacked the Clave,” Catarina said. “He kept the letter so he could learn the Spanish, and then he was never able to come back for it. From the letter, though, it seems like they wrote to each other quite frequently. Ragnor must have burned the others, since they contained comments that would have gotten Raphael Santiago into trouble. I know Ragnor was fond of that sharp-tongued little vampire.” She leaned her cheek against Magnus’s shoulder. “I know you were, as well.”

Magnus shut his eyes for a moment and remembered Raphael, who he had once done a favor; Raphael, who had died for him in return. He had known him when he was first turned, a snippy child with a will of iron, and known him through the years as Raphael led a vampire clan in all but name.

Magnus had never known Ragnor when Ragnor was young. Ragnor had been older than Magnus and, by the time Magnus met him, had become perpetually cranky. Ragnor had been yelling at kids to get off his lawn before lawns were invented. He had always been kind to Magnus, willing to fall in with any of Magnus’s schemes as long as he could complain throughout while they did it.

Still, in spite of Ragnor’s dark outlook on life in general and Shadowhunters in particular, Ragnor had been the one who came to Idris to teach Shadowhunters. Even after the Academy was closed, he had stayed in his little house outside the City of Glass and tried to teach the Nephilim who were willing to learn. He had always hoped, even when he refused to admit it.

Ragnor and Raphael. They were both supposed to be immortal. Magnus had thought they would last forever, as he did, down the centuries, that there would always be another meeting and another chance. But they were gone, and the mortals Magnus loved lived on. It was a lesson, Magnus thought, to love while you could, love what was fragile and beautiful and imperiled. Nobody was guaranteed forever.

Ragnor and Magnus had not gone to Peru again, and never would now. Of course, Magnus was banned from Peru, so he could not go anyway.

“You came to the Academy for Ragnor,” Magnus said to Catarina. “For the sake of Ragnor’s dreams, to see if you could teach the Shadowhunters to change. It seems a pretty different place, this time around. Do you think you succeeded?”

“I never thought I would,” said Catarina. “This was always Ragnor’s dream. I did it for him, and not the Shadowhunters. I always thought Ragnor teaching was foolish. You cannot teach people anything if they do not want to learn.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I didn’t change my mind,” said Catarina. “This time, they did want to learn. I could not have done this alone.”

“Who helped you?” asked Magnus.

Catarina smiled. “Our former Daylighter, Simon Lewis. He’s a sweet boy. He could have skated by on being a hero of the war, but he declared himself a member of the dregs, and he kept speaking up even though he had nothing to gain from it. I tried to help him along, but that was all I could do, and I could only hope it would be enough. One by one, the students followed his lead and started to fall from strictly Nephilim ways, like a set of rebellious dominoes. George Lovelace moved to the dregs dormitory with Simon. Beatriz Velez Mendoza and Julie Beauvale sat with them at mealtimes. Marisol Rojas Garza and Sunil Sadasivan started fighting with the elite kids at every opportunity. The two streams became a group, became a team—even Jonathan Cartwright. It was not all Simon. These are children who know Shadowhunters fought side by side with Downworlders when Valentine attacked Alicante. These are children who saw Dean Penhallow welcome me to their Academy. They are the children of a changing world. But I think they needed Simon here, to be their catalyst.”

“And you here, to be their teacher,” said Magnus. “Do you think you have found a new vocation in teaching?”

He gazed down at her, slim and sky blue in their friend’s old stone-and-green room. She made a terrible face.

“Hell no,” said Catarina Loss. “The only thing more terrible than the food are all the horrible, whiny teenagers. I’ll see Simon safely Ascended and then I am out of here, back to my hospital, where there are easy problems to deal with like gangrene. Ragnor must have been crazy.”

Magnus lifted Catarina’s hand, which he was still holding, to his lips. “Ragnor would have been proud.”

“Oh, stop it,” said Catarina, shoving him. “You’re so mushy since you fell in love. And now you’re going to be even worse, because you have a baby. I remember what it was like. They’re so small, and you put so much hope into them.”

Magnus glanced at her, startled. She almost never mentioned the child she had raised, Tobias Herondale’s child. Partly because it was not safe: It was not a secret the Nephilim could ever know, not a sin they would ever forgive. Partly, Magnus had always suspected, Catarina did not speak of him because it hurt too much.

Catarina caught the glance. “I told Simon about him,” she said. “My boy.”

“You must really trust Simon,” Magnus said slowly.

“Do you know?” said Catarina. “I really do. Here, take these. I want you to have them. I’m done with them.”

She picked up the old coin on the desk and put it in Magnus’s palm, in the hand that already held Raphael’s letter to Ragnor. Magnus looked at the coin and the letter.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” said Catarina. “I read the letter a lot during my first year in the Academy, to remind myself what I was doing here and what Ragnor would have wanted. I’ve honored my friend. I’ve almost completed my task. You take them.”

Magnus tucked away the letter and the good-luck charm, sent by one of his dead friends to another.

He and Catarina walked out of Ragnor’s room together. Catarina said she was going to eat dinner, which Magnus thought was extremely reckless of her.

“Can’t you do something safe and soothing, like bungee jumping?” he asked, but she insisted. He dropped a kiss on her cheek. “Come by the attics later. The Lightwoods will be there, so I need protection. We’ll have a party.”

He turned and left her, unwilling to enter the dining hall and behold the slime lasagna again. As he made his way up the stairs, he met Simon on his way down.

Magnus looked at Simon consideringly. Simon seemed alarmed by this.

“Come with me, Simon Lewis,” Magnus commanded. “Let’s have a chat.”

*    *    *

Simon stood at the top of one of the towers in Shadowhunter Academy with Magnus Bane, looking out at the gathering twilight and feeling vaguely uneasy.

“I could swear this tower used to be crooked.”

“Huh,” said Magnus. “Perception’s a funny thing.”

Simon was just not sure what Magnus wanted. He liked Magnus. He’d just never had a heart-to-heart with Magnus, and now Magnus was giving him a look that said what is your deal, Simon Lewis? Magnus even made the tatty gray shirt he was wearing look faintly stylish. He was fairly certain Magnus was too cool to care about his deal.

He glanced over at Magnus, who was standing at one of the large, glassless windows in the tower, the night wind blowing his hair back.

“I said to you once,” Magnus offered, “that one day, of all the people we know, the two of us might be the only ones left.”

“I don’t remember,” said Simon.

“Why should you?” Magnus asked. “Barring some freak tornado that sweeps away everyone we love, that is no longer true. You’re mortal now. And even the immortal can be killed. Maybe this tower will collapse and leave everyone to mourn us.”

The view from the tower, the stars over the woods, was beautiful. Simon wanted to get down.

Magnus reached into his pocket and took out an old, carved coin. Simon could not see the inscription on it in the dark, but he could see that there was one.

“This belonged to Raphael once. Do you remember Raphael?” Magnus asked. “The vampire who turned you.”

“Only in bits and pieces,” Simon said. “I remember him telling me Isabelle was out of my league.”

Magnus turned his face away, not quite successfully hiding a smile. “That sounds like Raphael.”

“I remember—feeling him die,” said Simon, his voice sticking in his throat. That was the worst of his stolen memories, that the weight of the memory remained when all else was gone, that he felt loss without knowing what he had lost. “He meant something to me, but I don’t know if he liked me. I don’t know if I liked him.”

“He felt responsible for you,” Magnus said. “It occurred to me today that maybe I should have felt responsible for you in the same way. I was the one who performed the spell that brought you back your memories; I was the one who set you on the path to Shadowhunter Academy. Raphael was the first one to place you in another world, but I placed you in another world as well.”

“I made my own choices,” Simon said. “You gave me the chance to do that. I’m not sorry you did. Are you sorry you restored my memories?”

Magnus smiled. “No, I’m not sorry. Catarina filled me in on a little of what’s been going on at the Academy. It seems like you have been doing just fine making your choices without me.”

“I’ve been trying,” said Simon.

He had been shocked by Alec praising him, and it was not as if he had expected Magnus to do it. But he felt warmed by Magnus’s words, suddenly warm all over, despite the wind sweeping in from the crystalline coldness of the sky. Magnus was not talking about the bits and pieces of his half-forgotten past but about what he was now and what he had done with his time since then.

It wasn’t anything remarkable, but he had been trying.

“I also heard you had a little adventure in Faerieland,” said Magnus. “We’ve been having trouble in New York with faerie fruit sellers as well. Part of the faeries running wild is the Cold Peace itself. People who are not trusted become untrustworthy. But there is something else wrong as well. Faerie is not a land without rules, without rulers. The Queen who was Sebastian’s ally has vanished, and there are many dark rumors as to why. None of which I would repeat to the Clave, because they would only impose harsher punishments on the faeries. They become harsher, and the fey wilder, and the hate between both sides grows day by day. There are storms behind you, Simon. But there is another and a greater storm coming. All the old rules are falling away. Are you ready for another storm?”

Simon was silent. He didn’t know how to answer that.

“I’ve seen you with Clary, and with Isabelle,” Magnus continued. “I know you are on the path to Ascension, to having a parabatai and a Shadowhunter love. Are you happy with it? Are you certain?”

“I don’t know about being certain,” Simon said. “I don’t know about being ready, either. I can’t say I haven’t had doubts, that I haven’t thought about turning back and being a kid in a band in Brooklyn. I think sometimes it’s too hard to believe in yourself. You just do the things you’re not sure you can do. You just act, in spite of not being certain. I don’t believe I can change the world—it sounds stupid to even talk about it—but I’m going to try.”

“We all change the world, with every day of living in it,” Magnus said. “You just have to decide how you want to change the world. I brought you into this world, the second time around, and though your choices are your own I do take some responsibility. Even if you are committed, you have other choices. I could arrange for you to be a vampire again, or a werewolf. Both are risky, but none as risky as Ascension.”

“Yes. I want to try changing the world as a Shadowhunter,” said Simon. “I really do. I want to try and change the Clave from the inside. I want that particular power to help people. It’s worth the risk.”

Magnus nodded.

He had meant it, Simon thought, when he said that Simon’s choices were his own. He had left it up to Simon, that day in Brooklyn when he and Isabelle had approached Simon outside his school. He did not question Simon now, even though Simon was afraid that choosing to be a Shadowhunter and not a Downworlder might have offended him. He didn’t want to be like the Shadowhunters who acted as if they were better than Downworlders. He wanted to be an entirely different kind of Shadowhunter.

Magnus did not look offended. He stood on the tower top, on stone in starlight, turning the coin that had belonged to the dead over and over in his fingers. He looked thoughtful.

“Have you thought about your Shadowhunter name?”

“Um . . . ,” Simon said shyly. “A little bit. I was wondering, actually—what’s your real name?”

Magnus sent him a sidelong glance. Nobody gave side-eye like someone with cat’s eyes. “Magnus Bane,” he said. “I know you’ve forgotten a lot, Smedley, but really.”

Simon accepted the subtle reproof. He understood why Magnus would object to the implication that the name he had chosen to define himself by, kept over long years and made both infamous and illustrious, was not real.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that my mind does keep coming back to names. If I survive Ascension, I’ll have to pick a Shadowhunter name. I don’t know how to pick the right one—I don’t know how to pick one that will mean something, mean more than any other name would.”

Magnus frowned.

“I’m not sure I’m cut out for this wise-advice business. Maybe I should wear a fake white beard to convince myself I am a sage. Pick the one that feels right, and don’t worry too much,” Magnus said eventually. “It’s going to be your name. You’re going to live with it. You’re going to give it meaning, not the other way around.”

“I’m going to try,” said Simon. “Is there any reason why ‘Magnus Bane’ was the one that felt right?”

“Magnus Bane felt right for a lot of reasons,” Magnus said, which was not really an answer. He seemed to sense Simon’s disappointment and take pity on him, because he added: “Here’s one.”

Magnus flipped the coin over and under his fingers, the circle of metal moving faster and faster. Blue lines of magic seemed to spring from his rings, a tiny storm rising in Magnus’s palm and catching the coin in a net of lightning.

Then Magnus threw the coin off the tower, into the night wind. Simon could see the falling coin, still touched with blue fire, going beyond the limits of the Academy grounds.

“There’s a scientific phenomenon to describe something that happens when an object is in motion. You think you know exactly what path it will take and where it will end up. Then suddenly, for no reason you can see . . . the arc changes. It goes somewhere you would never have expected.”

Magnus snapped his fingers, and the coin zigzagged in the air and returned to them as Simon stared, feeling like he was seeing magic for the first time. He dropped the coin in Simon’s hand and smiled, a blazing rebel’s smile, his eyes as gold as newly discovered treasure.

“It’s called the Magnus effect,” he said.

*    *    *

“Fzzzz,” Clary said, her bright red head hovering over the baby’s small dark-blue one. She pressed little kisses onto the baby’s cheeks, buzzing like a bee as she did so, and the baby chuckled and grasped at her curls. “Fzzzz, fzzz, fzzzz. I don’t know what I’m doing. I have never had a close relationship with any babies. For sixteen years I thought I was an only child, baby. And after that, baby, you don’t want to know what I thought. Please forgive me if I’m doing this wrong, baby. Do you like me, baby? I like you.”

“Give me the baby,” Maryse said jealously. “You’ve had him for four whole minutes, Clarissa.”

It was a party in Magnus and Alec’s suite, and the game of choice was Pass the Baby. Everyone wanted to hold him. Simon had shamelessly tried to curry favor with Isabelle’s father by teaching Robert Lightwood how to use Simon’s digital watch as a timer. Robert was now holding the watch in a death grip and studying it carefully. It would be Robert’s turn with the baby again in sixteen minutes, and he had clasped Simon’s shoulder and said, “Thanks, son,” which Simon took as a blessing to date Robert’s daughter. He did not regret the loss of his watch.

Clary surrendered the baby, and leaned back against the sofa between Simon and Jace. The sofa creaked dangerously as she settled back. Simon might have been safer in the formerly crooked tower, but he was willing to be in danger if he could stay next to Clary.

“He’s so sweet,” Clary whispered to Jace and Simon. “It’s strange to think he’s Alec and Magnus’s, though. I mean, can you imagine?”

“It’s not that strange,” Jace said. “I mean, I can imagine.”

A flush rose on his high cheekbones. He edged into the corner of the sofa as Simon and Clary both turned and stared at him.

Clary and Simon continued to stare judgmentally. It made Simon very happy. Judging people together was an essential part of best friendship.

Then Clary leaned forward and kissed Jace.

“Let’s pick up this conversation in about ten years,” she said. “Maybe longer! I’m going to dance with the girls.”

She went to join Isabelle, who was already dancing to the soft music in the midst of a circle of admirers who had come because they heard she was back. Foremost among them was Marisol, who Simon was pretty sure had determined to be Isabelle when she grew up.

The Lightwood baby celebration was in full swing. Simon smiled, watching Clary. He could remember a couple of times she had been wary around other girls, and they had stuck together instead. It was nice to see Isabelle hold out her hands to Clary, and Clary grasp them without hesitation.

“Jace,” said Simon as Jace watched Clary and smiled. Jace glanced at him and looked annoyed. “Remember when you told me that you wished I could remember?”

“Why are you asking me if I remember things?” Jace asked, sounding definitely annoyed. “I’m not the one who has problems with remembering. Remember?”

“I just wondered what you meant by that.”

Simon waited, giving Jace a chance to take advantage of his demon amnesia and tell him another fake secret. Instead, Jace looked incredibly uncomfortable.

“Nothing,” he said. “What would I mean? Nothing.”

“Did you just mean you wanted me to remember the past generally?” Simon asked. “So I’d remember all the adventures we had and the manly bonds we formed together?”

Jace continued to make an uncomfortable face. Simon remembered Alec saying Jace was so upset.

“Wait, was that actually it?” Simon asked incredulously. “Did you miss me?”

“Obviously not!” snapped Jace. “I would never miss you. I, um, was talking about something specific.”

“Okay. So, what specific thing did you want me to recall?” Simon asked. He eyed Jace suspiciously. “Was it the biting?”

“No!” said Jace.

“Was that a special moment for you?” Simon asked. “One that you wanted me to remember that we shared?”

“Remember this moment,” said Jace. “At the very next opportunity that offers, I am going to leave you to die at the bottom of an evil boat. I want you to remember why.”

Simon smiled to himself. “No, you won’t. You would never leave me to die at the bottom of an evil boat,” he muttered as Alec strolled over to the slanted sofa and Jace looked outraged by what he was hearing.

“Simon, normally it’s a pleasure to talk to you,” Alec said. “But could I have a word with Jace?”

“Oh, right,” Simon said. “Jace, I’d forgotten what I was trying to talk to you about. But now I remember very clearly. Alec and I had a little talk about his problem with me. You know, the one you told me he had. The terrible secret.”

Jace’s golden eyes went blank. “Ah,” he said.

“You think you’re hilarious, don’t you?”

“Though I realize that you are both a little annoyed with me, and this might not be the time to shower myself with praise,” Jace said slowly, “honesty compels me to tell you: Yes. Yes, I do think I am hilarious. ‘There goes Jace Herondale,’ people say. ‘Cutting wit, and also totally cut. It’s a burden Simon could never understand.’”

“Alec’s going to kill you,” Simon informed him, and patted Jace on the shoulder. “And I think that’s fair. For what it’s worth, I’ll miss you, buddy.”

He got up from the sofa. Alec advanced on Jace.

Simon trusted Alec to exact terrible vengeance for both of them. He had wasted enough time on Jace’s dumb joke.

George was dancing with Julie and Beatriz, clowning around to try and get them to laugh. Beatriz was already laughing, and Simon thought Julie would soon.

“Come on, dancing with me isn’t so bad,” George told Julie. “I may be no Magnus Bane . . .” He paused and looked over at Magnus, who had changed into a black gauze shirt with blue sequins twinkling underneath. “I definitely could not pull that off,” he added. “But I do work out! And I have a Scottish accent.”

“You know that’s right,” said Simon. He high-fived George and smiled at the girls, but he was already moving past them, on his way to the center of the dancers.

On his way to Isabelle.

He came up behind her and slid his arm around her waist. She leaned back against him. She was wearing the dress she’d worn the day he’d first met her for the second time, reminding him of the starry night over Shadowhunter Academy.

“Hey,” he whispered. “I want to tell you something.”

“What is it?” Isabelle whispered back.

Simon turned her toward him, and she let him. He thought they should have this conversation face-to-face.

Behind her, he could see Jace and Alec. They were hugging, and Alec was laughing. Jace was patting him on the back in a congratulatory way. So much for terrible vengeance, though Simon couldn’t really say he minded.

“I wanted to tell you before I try to Ascend,” he said.

The smile dropped off Isabelle’s face. “If this is an in-case-I-die speech, I don’t want to hear it,” she said fiercely. “You’re not going to do that to me. You’re not going to even consider dying. You’re going to be fine.”

“No,” Simon said. “You’ve got it all wrong. I wanted to say this now, because if I Ascend, I get my memories back.”

Isabelle looked confused instead of angry, which was an improvement. “What is it, then?”

“It doesn’t matter if I get my memories back or not,” Simon said. “It doesn’t matter if another demon gives me amnesia tomorrow. I know you: You’ll come find me again, you’ll come rescue me no matter what happens. You’ll come for me, and I’ll discover you all over again. I love you. I love you without the memories. I love you right now.”

There was a pause, broken by irrelevancies like the music and the murmur of the people all around them. He could not quite read the look on Isabelle’s face.

Isabelle said in a calm voice: “I know.”

Simon stared at her. “Was that . . . ,” he said slowly. “Was that a Star Wars reference? Because if it was, I would like to declare my love all over again.”

“Go on, then,” said Isabelle. “I mean it. Say it again. I’ve been waiting awhile.”

“I love you,” said Simon.

Isabelle was laughing. Simon would have thought he would be appalled to say those words to a girl and have her laugh at him. But Isabelle was always surprising him. He could not stop looking at her. “Really?” she asked, and her eyes were shining. “Really?”

“Really,” said Simon.

He drew her to him, and they danced together, on the top floor of the Academy, in the heart of her family. Since she’d been waiting awhile, he told her again and again.

*    *    *

Magnus kept misplacing his baby. This did not seem a good sign for the future. Magnus was sure you were meant to keep a firm grip on their location.

He eventually located the baby with Maryse, who had seized him in triumph and run away to coo over her treasure in the kitchen.

“Oh, hello,” said Maryse, looking a little guilty.

“Hello, you,” said Magnus, and curved a hand around the small blue head, feeling the crisp curls. “And hello, you.”

The baby let out a fretful little wail. Magnus thought he was learning to distinguish between the different wails, and he magicked up a bottle of formula, ready-made. He held out his arms and Maryse visibly summoned up the willpower to surrender the baby.

“You’re good with him,” Maryse offered as Magnus tucked him into the corner of his arm and popped the bottle into his small mouth.

“Alec’s better,” Magnus said.

Maryse smiled and looked proud. “He’s very mature for his age,” she said fondly, and hesitated. “I . . . wasn’t, at his age, when I was a young mother. I didn’t . . . behave in a way I would want any of my children to see. Not that it’s an excuse.”

Magnus looked down at Maryse’s face. He remembered facing off on opposite sides against her once, long ago, when she had been one of Valentine’s disciples and he had felt as if he would hate her and everyone to do with her forever.

He also remembered choosing to forgive another woman who had been on Valentine’s side, and who had come to him holding a child in her arms and wanting to make things right. That woman had been Jocelyn, and that baby had become Clary, the first and only child Magnus had ever seen grow up.

He had never thought he would have his own child, to watch grow up.

Maryse looked back at him, standing very tall and straight. Perhaps his assumption about how she had felt for all these years was wrong; perhaps she had never decided to ignore the past, and thought with Nephilim pride that he had to follow her lead. Perhaps she had always wanted to apologize and always been too proud.

“Oh, Maryse,” Magnus said. “Forget it. I’m serious, don’t mention it again. In one of those turns I never expected, we’re family. All the beautiful surprises of life are what make life worth living.”

“You still get surprised?”

“Every day,” said Magnus. “Especially since I met your son.”

He walked out of the kitchen with his son in his arms and Maryse behind him, back to the party.

His beloved Alec, paragon of maturity, appeared to be hitting his parabatai repeatedly around the head. Last time Magnus had seen them, they had been hugging, so he presumed Jace had made one of his many unfortunate jokes.

“What is wrong with you?” Alec demanded. He laughed and kept raining down blows as Jace flailed on the sofa, sending cushions flying, a vision of Shadowhunter grace. “Seriously, Jace, what is wrong with you?”

This seemed a reasonable question to Magnus.

He looked around the room. Simon was dancing with Isabelle, very badly. Isabelle did not seem to mind. Clary was jumping up and down with Marisol, barely taller than the younger girl. Catarina appeared to be fleecing Jon Cartwright at cards, over by the window.

Robert Lightwood was standing right beside Magnus. Robert had to stop creeping up on people like this. Someone was going to have a heart attack.

“Hello, little man,” said Robert. “Where did you go off to?”

He shot a suspicious look at Maryse, who rolled her eyes.

“Magnus and I were having a talk,” she said, touching Magnus’s arm.

Her behavior made perfect sense to Magnus: win over the son-in-law, gain more access to the grandchild. He had seen these kind of family interactions before, but he had never, never thought he would be part of them.

“Oh?” Robert said eagerly. “Have you decided on his name?”

The latest song stopped playing just as Robert asked the question. His booming voice rang out in the hush.

Alec leaped off Jace and over the back of the sofa, to stand beside Magnus. The sofa collapsed, gently, with Jace still trapped in the cushions.

Magnus looked at Alec, who looked back at him, hope shining in his face. That was one thing that had not changed about Alec in the time they had been together: He had no guile, used no tricks to hide how he really felt. Magnus never wanted him to lose that.

“We did talk about it, actually,” Magnus said. “And we thought that you had the right idea.”

“You mean . . . ,” Maryse said.

Magnus inclined his head, as close as he could come to a sweeping bow while holding the baby. “I am delighted to introduce you all,” he said, “to Max Lightwood.”

Magnus felt Alec’s hand rest, warm as gratitude and sure as love, against his back. He looked down at the baby’s face. The baby seemed much more interested in his bottle than his name.

The time might come when the child, being a warlock, would want to choose his own name to bear through the centuries. Until the time came when he was old enough to choose who he wanted to be, Magnus thought he could do a lot worse than this name, this sign of love and acceptance, grief and hope.

Max Lightwood.

One of the beautiful surprises of life.

There was a humming, delighted hush, with murmurs of pleasure and approval. Then Maryse and Robert began to fight about middle names.

“Michael,” Robert repeated, a stubborn man.

Catarina strolled up, tucking a roll of money into her bra and thus not looking like the most appropriate teacher in the history of time. “How about Ragnor?” she asked.

“Clary,” said Jace from the fallen sofa. “Help me. It’s gone all dark.”

Magnus wandered away from the debate, because Max’s bottle was almost empty and Max was starting to cry.

“Don’t magic a bottle, make a real one,” Alec said. “If he gets used to you being faster at feeding him, you have to feed him all the time.”

“That is blackmail! Don’t cry,” Magnus urged his son, going back into the kitchen so he could make up a bottle by hand.

It was not so difficult, getting the formula ready. Magnus had watched Alec do it several times now, and he found that he was able to follow along by doing what Alec had done.

“Don’t cry,” he coaxed Max again as the milk heated up. “Don’t cry, and don’t spit up on my shirt. If you do either of those things, I will forgive you, but I will be upset. I want us to get along.”

Max cried on. Magnus wiggled the fingers of his free hand over the baby’s face, wishing there was a magic spell to make babies hush that would not be wrong to cast.

To his surprise Max ceased crying, in the same way he had in the hall yesterday when transferred to Alec’s arms. He stared with a liquid, interested gaze at the sparkles cast on his face by Magnus’s rings.

“See?” Magnus said, and restored Max’s bottle to him, full again. “I knew we were going to get along.”

He went and stood in the kitchen doorway, cradling Max in his arms, so he could watch the party. Three years ago, he would not have thought any of this was possible. There were so many people he felt connected to, in this one room. So much had changed, and there was so much potential for change It was terrifying, to think of all that might be lost, and exhilarating to think of all he had gained.

He looked to Alec, who was standing between his parents, his stance confident and relaxed, his mouth curved in a smile at something one of them had said.

“Maybe one day it will be just you and me, my little blueberry,” Magnus said conversationally. “But not for a long, long time. We’ll take care of him, you and I. Won’t we?”

Max Lightwood made a happy burbling sound that Magnus took as agreement.

This warm, bright room was no bad starting place for his child’s path to knowing there was more to life than many people ever learned, that there was limitless love to be found, and time to discover it. Magnus had to trust that for himself, for his son, for his beloved, for all of the shining, fading mortals and enduring, struggling immortals that he knew, there would be time enough.

He put the bottle down to one side and pressed his lips to the fuzzy curls covering his son’s head. He heard Max make a small murmuring sound in his ear. “Don’t worry,” Magnus murmured back. “We’re all in this together.”

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 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 chest. 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 36 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.

SARAH REES BRENNAN is the author of the critically acclaimed Unspoken. The first book of her Demon’s Lexicon series received three starred reviews and was an ALA Top Ten Best Book for Young Adults. Unspoken and Team Human, a novel cowritten with Justine Larbalestier, were YALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults picks and TAYSHAS picks. Visit her at SarahReesBrennan.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 Shadowhunter's Codex

With Joshua Lewis

The Bane Chronicles

With Sarah Rees Brennan and Maureen Johnson

Order all the Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy Now!

Welcome to Shadowhunter Academy

The Lost Herondale

The Whitechapel Fiend

Nothing but Shadows

The Evil We Love

Pale Kings and Princes

Bitter of Tongue

The Fiery Trial

Born to Endless Night

Angels Twice Descending

Also by Cassandra Clare

City of Bones

City of Ashes

City of Glass

City of Fallen Angels

City of Lost Souls

City of Heavenly Fire

Clockwork Angel

The Clockwork Prince

Clockwork Princess

The Shadowhunter's Codex

The Bane Chronicles

Welcome to Shadowhunter Academy

The Lost Herondale

The Whitechapel Fiend

Nothing But Shadows

The Evil We Love

Pale Kings and Princes

Bitter of Tongue

The Fiery Trial

Angels Twice Descending

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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 imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2015 by Cassandra Claire, LLC.

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Contents

Born to Endless Night

'Lady Midnight' Excerpt

About the Authors