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Simon was starting to wonder about the fires. The fires didn’t like him. The fires moved around.

That seemed paranoid.

Outside, the trees were bare and the grass was brown. Inside, even the mold had retreated to its winter quarters between the stones in the basement walls. Shadowhunters didn’t believe much in central heating. The Academy had fireplaces, never too close together, and never near enough to anyone. No matter where Simon sat, they were at the far end of the room, crackling away. The elites tended to get into rooms first, and they took the fireside seats. But even when they didn’t—even when everyone entered at once—Simon ended up farthest from the fire. When you’re cold, a crackling fire starts to sound like gentle, mocking laughter. Simon tried to dismiss this thought from his head, because clearly the fires were not laughing at him.

Because that was paranoid.

There were several fireplaces in the cafeteria, but George and Simon had stopped trying to get seats near them. Simon had enough to worry about. He was looking at his plate. He had also told himself to stop doing this. Stop thinking about the food. Just eat the food. But he couldn’t help himself. Every night he teased it apart. Tonight looked to be some kind of stir-fry, but it appeared to have bread in it. There were peppers. There was something red.

It was pizza. Someone had stir-fried a pizza.

“No,” he said out loud.

“What?”

His roommate, George Lovelace, was already shoveling down his dinner. Simon just shook his head. These things didn’t bother George in the same way. Back home in Brooklyn, if Simon had heard that someone had stir-fried a pizza he would not have been upset. He would have assumed that some hipster restaurant had decided to deconstruct the pizza because that is what hipster restaurants in Brooklyn do. Simon would have laughed, and maybe at some point it would have become popular, and then there would be trucks that sold stir-fried pizza, and then he would have eaten it. Because that is how Brooklyn works and because pizza. Best guess in this situation? Maybe someone dropped the pizza, or it broke up in the middle of cooking and for some reason the only conceivable solution was to put it in a pan and wing it.

The problem wasn’t the pizza, not really. The problem was that the pizza made him think of home. Any New Yorker confronted with bad pizza will mentally return home for at least a few moments. Simon was born and raised a New Yorker in the same way the elites were born and raised Shadowhunters. It was a part of him—the hum and the throb of the city. It could be as rough as the Academy. He knew to look down for rats on the subway tracks or near the edges of public squares. He was trained instinctively to swerve to avoid getting splashed with dirty snow slush by cabs. He didn’t even need to look down to step over puddles left by dogs.

Obviously, there were better parts than that. He missed coming over the Brooklyn Bridge at night and seeing the sweep of it all—the city lit up for the night; the grand, man-made mountains; the river surging underneath. He missed the feeling of being around so many people doing and making amazing things. He missed the constant feeling of the whole thing being a magnificent show. And he missed his family and friends. It was the holiday season now, and he should have been at home. His mother would have already taken out the menorah that he had painted at the do-it-yourself clay workshop when he was a kid. It was bright, decorated in thick, messy strokes of blue, white, and silver paint. He and his sister were in charge of making potato pancakes together. They’d all sit on the sofa and exchange gifts. And everyone he cared about was just a short walk away, a subway stop at the most.

“You’ve got that look again,” George said.

“Sorry,” Simon said.

“Don’t be sorry. It’s okay to be miserable. It’s the holidays, and we’re here.”

This was what was so great about George—he always got it, and he never judged. There were many downsides to Shadowhunter Academy, but George made up for most of them. Simon had had good friends before. George was like having a brother. They shared a room. They shared their misery and their small triumphs and their terrible meals. And in the competitive atmosphere of the Academy, George always had his back. He never reveled in doing something better than Simon (and being built like one of the lesser Greek gods, George often did excel at physical things). Simon felt his spirits buoy again. Just that George knew what he was thinking—just having his friend there—it was everything.

“What’s she doing here?” George asked, nodding his head at someone behind Simon.

Dean Penhallow had appeared at the far end of the room (near the laughing fireplace). She didn’t usually come to dinner in the cafeteria. She never came near the place.

“Your attention, please,” she said. “We have some wonderful news to share with all students at the Academy. Julie Beauvale. Beatriz Mendoza. Please join me.”

Julie and Beatriz stood at the same time and looked at each other with a smile. Simon had seen that kind of smile before, that kind of synchronized movement. That was Jace and Alec all over. The pair made their way through the room. Chairs scraped as people made way, and there was the lightest murmur. The fire laughed and laughed and popped and laughed. When they reached the end of the room, the dean put an arm around each, and they all faced the school body.

“I am pleased to announce that Julie and Beatriz have decided to become parabatai.”

A sudden rush of applause. Several people stood, mostly in the elite track, and hooted and called out. This was allowed for a few moments, and then the dean raised her hand.

“As you all know, the parabatai ceremony is a serious commitment, a bond broken only by death. I know this news will cause many of you to consider whether you will find a parabatai. Not all Shadowhunters have a parabatai, or even want one. In fact, most of you will not. That is very important to remember. If you feel, as Julie and Beatriz do, that you have found your parabatai, or if you want to speak to someone about any part of the ceremony or what it means, you can speak to any of us. We are all here to help you make this most important of decisions. But again, congratulations to Julie and Beatriz. In their honor, there is a cake this evening.”

As she spoke, the lurking evil that were the Academy cooks were bringing out a large, uneven cake.

“You may now resume your meal, and please do have some cake.”

“Where did that come from?” George asked. “Those two? Parabatai?”

Simon shook his head. Shadowhunter families twined around each other like climbing vines. It was easier to find your lifetime partner when you started from birth. Many at the Academy were strangers. Julie and Beatriz, in the elite track, had more connections to each other, but Simon had never gotten the idea that they were that close.

“Well, that was a surprise,” George said in a low voice. “You all right?”

It had hit Simon like a bit of a blow. He had thought of asking Clary to be his parabatai. But parabatai were like Alec and Jace, training together as Shadowhunters since they were kids. Sure, Simon and Clary had known each other that long, but not in the throwing-knives-and-killing-demons way (except in video games, which, unfortunately, did not count). Simon started to move the idea of parabatai into the mental category of things he probably would not have. He was training all the time. He hadn’t seen her. He was . . .

. . . very good at making up excuses.

He’d chickened out. He had seen his birthday coming, like a giant countdown clock. Every day he told himself it was too late. Clary had come the day before his birthday, bringing him a Sandman Omnibus as a gift. By then, he told himself, the countdown was over. The buzzer went off in his mind. He was nineteen.

He’d tried to put it out of his mind. But now, looking at these two newly announced parabatai, he delivered himself a mental kick.

“It’s not for everyone, Si,” George said. “Come on. Eat up, and we’ll go back and you can tell me more about Firefly.”

In the evenings, Simon had been expanding George’s cultural education by explaining the plot of every episode of Firefly, one by one. This had become a pleasant ritual, but it, too, had a countdown. There was only one more episode to go.

Before they could do this, the dean made her way past their table and stopped.

“Simon Lewis, if you would please come with me for a moment?”

People from other tables glanced over. George looked down and poked at his pizza-fry.

“Sure?” Simon said. “Am I in trouble?”

“No,” she said, her voice flat. “No trouble.”

Simon pushed back his chair and stood.

“I’ll see you back at the room, yeah?” George said. “I’ll bring you some cake.”

“Sure,” Simon said.

Many people watched him go, because that is what happens when the dean gets you in the middle of dinner. Most of the elites, though, had clustered around Julie and Beatriz. There were laughs and squeals and everyone was talking very loudly. Simon worked his way around them to get to the dean.

“This way,” she said.

Simon tried to pause by the fire just for a second, but the dean was already moving toward the door that teachers used to enter and leave the cafeteria. The teachers didn’t eat with them all the time. There was clearly some other place, some other dining room somewhere in the Academy. Catarina Loss was the only one who came regularly, and Simon got the impression that she did so because she would rather brave the terrible student food than sit around with a bunch of Shadowhunters in a private room.

Simon had never been in the hall that the dean led him down. It was more dimly lit than the halls the students used. There were tapestries on the stone walls that were certainly as threadbare as the ones in the rest of the school, but they also looked more valuable. The colors were brighter and the gold threading had the glint of real gold. There were weapons along these walls. The student weapons were all in the weapons room, and those had some kind of safety to keep them in place. If you wanted a sword, you needed to undo several straps to get it down. These were placed in simple holders, making them easy to snatch at a second’s notice.

The noise of the cafeteria shrank away within the first few steps, and then there was quiet all around. The hall was a series of closed doorways, and the silence crowded him in.

“Where are we going?” Simon asked.

“To the reception room,” the dean said.

Simon looked out of the windows as they passed. Here, the glass was a quilt of tiny panes, held together by lead piping. Each diamond of glass was old and warped, and the overall effect was like a cheap kaleidoscope, one that showed only dark and a very lightly falling snow. It was the kind of snow that didn’t amount to anything on the ground. It would just dust the dead grass. The technical term for that level, he decided, was an “annoyance” of snow.

They reached a turn in the hall. The dean opened the first door after the turn and revealed a small but grand room, with furnishings that were not in the slightest bit broken or threadbare. Every chair in the room had legs of the same length, and the sofas were long and comfortable-looking with no visible sags or stuffing. Everything was upholstered in a lush, grape-purple velvet. There was a low table made of cherrywood, and on it was a massive and elaborate silver tea set with china cups. And sitting around the table on the fine-quality chairs and sofas were Magnus Bane, Jem Carstairs, Catarina Loss, and Clary, her red hair bright against her light blue sweater. Magnus and Catarina were together at the end (near the fire—of course it was, as in all other rooms, at the far end). Clary looked up at Simon, and though she smiled as soon as she saw him, her expression suggested that her invitation to this little party had also been recent and not well explained.

“Simon,” Jem said. “So good to see you. Please have a seat.”

Simon had only had a few encounters with Jem Carstairs, who was apparently as old as his wife, Tessa Gray. They both looked amazingly fit for 150 years. Tessa even looked pretty hot. (Maybe Jem looked hot too? As Simon had thought once before, he probably wasn’t the greatest judge of male attractiveness.) Was it weird to think people who were twice as old as your grandparents were good-looking?

“I’ll leave you to it,” the dean said, and again there was something missing in her tone. It was like she had just said, “I’ll just give you this dead snake.” She closed the door.

“We’re having tea,” Magnus said. He was measuring out spoonfuls of loose tea leaves into the strainer of a tiny teapot. “One for each cup. One for the pot.”

He set the tiny tea canister aside and picked up one of the large silver pots and poured steaming water through the strainer into the teapot. Catarina was watching him do this with a strange fascination.

Jem looked at ease in a white sweater and dark jeans. His black hair had a single, dramatic streak of silver in it that stood out against his brown skin. “How are you finding the training?” he asked, leaning forward.

“I don’t bruise as much anymore,” Simon said, shrugging.

“That’s excellent,” Jem said. “It means you’re finding your feet and deflecting more blows.”

“Really?” Simon said. “I thought it was because I was dead inside.”

Magnus dropped the lid back onto the tiny tea canister very suddenly, making a loud clanking noise.

“I’m very sorry to interrupt your dinner,” Jem said. He had a formal way of speaking that was the only thing about him that really showed his age.

“Never be sorry about that,” Simon muttered.

“I take it the food in the Academy isn’t its best feature.”

“I’m not sure it has a best feature,” Simon replied.

Jem smiled, his face lighting up. “We have cakes here, and scones. I think these are of a slightly higher quality than you are currently used to.”

He indicated a china plate full of small cakes and scones that looked very edible. Simon didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the closest scone and shoved it into his mouth. It was a bit dry, but it was better than anything he’d had in a while. He knew crumbs were falling out of his mouth and onto his dark T-shirt, but he found himself not caring.

“Okay, Magnus,” Clary said. “You said you would explain why you brought me here when Simon got here. Not that I’m not happy to see you, but you’re making me nervous.”

Simon nodded and chewed to show he agreed and backed Clary up 100 percent, as best friends were supposed to do. At least he hoped he was communicating that.

Magnus pulled himself up. When a very tall warlock with cat eyes pulls himself up to attention, it changes the mood in the room. There was suddenly a real air of purpose, with an undercurrent of strange energy. Catarina sank back into the sofa, dropping into Magnus’s shadow. It wasn’t like Catarina to be so silent. Catarina was the blue-tinted voice of reason and minor rebellion in the hallowed halls of the Academy.

“I’ve been asked to bring you both a message,” Magnus said, twisting one of the many rings that adorned his long fingers. “Emma Carstairs and Julian Blackthorn are to become parabatai. The ceremony requires two witnesses, and they have asked for you to be those witnesses.”

Clary raised an eyebrow and looked over to Simon.

“Of course,” she said. “Emma’s a sweetheart. Definitely. I’m in.”

Simon was midreach for another scone. He drew back his arm.

“Definitely,” he said. “Me too. But why couldn’t they just send us a letter?”

Magnus paused for a moment and looked at Catarina, then turned to Simon with a wink.

“Why send a letter when you can send something truly magnificent?”

It was a very Magnus thing to say, but it rang a little hollow. Something about Magnus seemed a little hollow. His voice, maybe.

“The ceremony will be performed in the Silent City tomorrow,” Jem said. “We have already arranged permission for you to attend.”

“Tomorrow?” Clary said. “And we’re just being asked now?”

Magnus shrugged elegantly, indicating that sometimes things like this just happened.

“What do we have to do?” Simon asked. “Is it complicated?”

“Not at all,” Jem said. “The position of the witness is largely symbolic, much like a wedding. You have nothing you have to say. It’s just a matter of standing with them. Emma chose Clary—”

“I can understand that,” Simon said. “But Julian wouldn’t choose me. We hardly know each other. Why not Jace?”

“Because Julian isn’t particularly close to him either,” said Jem, “and Emma made the suggestion that you and Clary, as best friends, would be meaningful witnesses for them. Julian agreed.”

Simon nodded as if he understood, though he wasn’t sure he did, really. He remembered having spoken to Julian at Helen and Aline’s wedding, not long ago. He remembered thinking what a weight he had on his slight shoulders, and how much he seemed to hold contained, hidden and within. Perhaps it was simply that there was no one else Julian cared for enough to stand as his witness? No one he looked up to? That was incredibly sad, if so.

“In any case,” said Magnus. “You are to stand with them as they go through the Fiery Trial.”

“The what?” Simon asked.

“That is the true name of the ceremony,” Jem said. “The two parabatai stand inside rings of fire.”

“Tea’s ready,” Magnus said suddenly. “Never let it sit for more than five minutes. Time to drink up.”

He poured two cups from the small pot.

“There’s only two cups,” Clary said. “What about you?”

“The pot is small. I’ll make another one. These are for the two of you. Drink up.”

The two cups were presented. Clary shrugged and sipped. Simon did the same. It was, to be fair, exceptional tea. Maybe this was why English people got so excited about it. There was a wonderful clarity to the flavor. It warmed his body as it went down. The room was no longer cold.

“This really is good,” Simon said. “I don’t really do tea, but I like this. I mean, they give us tea here but one time I had a cup that had a bone in it, and that was one of the best cups I had.”

Clary laughed. “So what are we supposed to wear?” she said. “As witnesses, I mean.”

“For the ceremony, formal gear. For the dinner afterward, regular clothing. Something nice.”

“Wedding stuff,” Catarina finally said. “It’s a lot like a wedding but . . .”

“. . . without the romance and flowers.”

That was Jem.

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

Simon drank his tea down in a few large gulps and returned the cup to the table.

“It’s funny,” he said. “There was just another parabatai announcement at dinner. Two students from the elite track.”

“That’s not uncommon for this time of year,” Jem said. “As the year draws to a close, people reflect, they make decisions.”

The room suddenly got warmer. Had the fire gotten higher? Had it sneaked closer? It was definitely crackling loudly, but now it didn’t sound like laughter—it sounded like breaking glass. The fire was speaking to them.

Simon caught himself. The fire was speaking? What was wrong with him? He looked around the room fuzzily, and heard Clary make an odd, surprised sound, as if she’d seen something she hadn’t expected.

“I think it’s time to begin,” said Jem. “Magnus?”

Simon could hear Magnus sigh as he stood up. Magnus was really tall. This, Simon had always known. Now he looked like he might hit the ceiling. He opened a door that Simon hadn’t noticed was there.

“Come through here,” Magnus said. “There are some things you need to see.”

Clary got up and went over to the door. Simon followed. Catarina caught his eye as he went. Everything was unsaid in this room. She didn’t quite approve of what was happening. Neither did Magnus.

Whatever was on the other side of the doorway was utterly dark, and Clary hesitated for a second.

“It’s fine,” Magnus said. “It’s just a bit cold in there. Sorry.”

Clary went in, and Simon followed a step behind. They were in a shadowy space, definitely cold. He turned, but could no longer see the door. It was just him and Clary. Clary’s hair shone bright red in the dark.

“We’re outside,” Clary said.

Sure enough. Simon blinked. His thoughts were a little slow and stretched. Of course they were outside.

“They maybe could have said we were going outside,” Simon said, shivering. “No one here believes in coats.”

“Turn around,” Clary said.

Simon turned. The door they had just come through—in fact, the entire building they had just come from—was gone. They were simply outdoors, surrounded by just a few trees. The sky above was a purple-gray parchment that seemed to be lit by a low haze of lights on the horizon, just out of sight. There was a web of brick paths all around, dotted with fenced-off areas of trees and urns that probably contained flowers in better weather and now stood as reminders of the season.

It was familiar, and yet, it was like nowhere Simon had ever been.

“We’re in Central Park,” Clary said. “I think . . .”

“What? We . . .”

But as soon as he said it, it became clear. The low metal fences that marked off the brick paths. But there were no benches, no trash cans, no people. There was no view of the skyline in any direction.

“Okay . . . ,” said Simon. “This is weird. Did Magnus just completely screw up? Can that happen? You guys just came from New York. Did he just open up the same Portal?”

“Maybe?” Clary said.

Simon took a deep breath of the New York air. It was bitterly cold and burned the inside of his nose, waking him up.

“They’ll realize in a second,” Clary said, shivering in the cold. “Magnus doesn’t make mistakes.”

“So maybe it wasn’t a mistake. Maybe we just got a free trip to New York. Or, I did. I’m going to assume that we go wherever we want until they come and get us. You know they have their ways. Might as well take advantage!”

This unexpected and utterly sudden trip home had completely reinvigorated Simon.

“Pizza,” he said. “Oh my God. They stir-fried pizza tonight. It was the worst. Maybe coffee. Maybe there’s time to get to Forbidden Planet? I just . . .”

He patted his pockets. Money. He had no money.

“You?” he asked.

Clary shook her head.

“In my bag. Back there.”

That didn’t matter. It was enough to be home. The suddenness of it only made it more wonderful. Now that he looked more carefully, Simon could see clearly the outlines of the skyscrapers that lined the south end of the park. They looked like the blocks he used to play with as a kid—just a series of rectangles of various sizes set side to side. Some had the faint glow of signs above them, but he couldn’t read the writing. He could, however, see the colors of the signs with an unusual clarity. One sign was a pink rose, a bright bloom. The next was the color of electricity. It wasn’t just the colors that were sharp. He could smell everything in the air. The metallic tang of the cold. The sea funk of the East River, blocks away. Even the jutting bits of bedrock that reached up and made the many tiny mountains of Central Park seemed to have an odor. There was no garbage, though, and no smells of food or traffic. This was elemental New York. This was the island itself.

“I feel a little weird,” Simon said. “Maybe I should have finished dinner. And now that I’ve just said that, I know there must be something wrong with me.”

“You need to eat,” Clary said, giving him a light punch. “You’re turning into a big muscle man.”

“You noticed?”

“It’s hard not to notice, Superman. You’re like the after photo on some commercial for home workout equipment.”

Simon blushed and looked away. It wasn’t snowing anymore. It was just dark and open, with many trees around. There was a bright bitterness to the cold.

“Where do you think we are?” Clary said. “I’m guessing about . . . midway?”

Simon knew it was possible to walk for some time in Central Park without really having a sense of where you are. The paths wind. The trees create a canopy. The land goes up and down in sharp inclines and declines.

“Over there,” he said, pointing at a low pattern of shadows. “It opens up over there. It’s the entrance to something. Let’s go that way and look.”

Clary rubbed her hands together and huddled against the cold. Simon wished he had a coat to offer her, almost more than he wished he had a coat to offer himself. Still, being cold in New York was better than being cold in the Academy. He had to admit, though, that Idris was more temperate. New York weather went to more extremes. This was the kind of cold that would give you frostbite if you stayed out in it too long. They probably needed to figure out where they were and get out of the park and into a building—any building. A store, a coffee shop, whatever they could find.

They walked toward the opening, which revealed itself to be a collection of elaborately carved stone plinths. There were several of these, in sets. Eventually they led to an equally elaborately carved staircase that bent on its way down to a wide terrace with a massive fountain. There was a lake just beyond, covered in ice.

“Bethesda Terrace,” Simon said, nodding. “That’s where we are. That’s in the Seventies, right?”

“Seventy-Second,” Clary said. “I’ve drawn it before.”

The terrace was just a large, ornamental area inside of the park and not really somewhere to be on a cold night—but it seemed to be the only place to be. If they walked toward it, at least they would know where they were, as opposed to wandering around in the trees and looping paths. They walked down the stairs together. Strangely, the fountain was going tonight. It was often turned off in the winter, and certainly when it was freezing cold. But the water flowed freely, and there was no ice on the water in the fountain base. The lights were on and all focused on the statue of the angel that stood in the middle of the fountain on top of two layered tiers and four tiny cherubs.

“Maybe Magnus did mess up,” she said.

Clary walked right up to the low edge of the fountain, sat down, and wrapped her arms around herself. Simon stared at the fountain. Funny, he thought, how they hadn’t noticed any lights a few minutes ago as they approached. Maybe they’d just come on. The angel of the Bethesda Fountain was one of the most famous statues in all of Central Park—wings extended, water pouring off her outstretched hands.

He turned his head back down to tell Clary to look at the statue, but Clary was gone. He spun around, a full rotation. She was nowhere in sight.

“Clary?” he called.

There were no real places to conceal yourself on the terrace, and he’d looked away for only a moment. He walked halfway around the base of the fountain, calling her name several times. He looked up at the statue again. Same statue, looking down benevolently, water still dripping from her hands.

Except the statue was facing him. And he’d walked to the other side. He should have been looking at the back of it. He took a few more steps. While he never saw anything move, with every step the statue was still facing him directly, her stone expression soft and blank and angelic.

Something clicked in Simon’s head.

“Pretty sure this isn’t real,” he said. “Pretty sure.”

The evidence now seemed ridiculously obvious. The geography of the park was subtly wrong. He considered the bright, glowing sky for a moment, which was now filled with bleached-white clouds the size of entire states. They slid along the firmament, as if watching his progress in an embarrassed drive-by fashion. He was certain he could smell the Atlantic Ocean, and the rocks and stones.

“Magnus!” Simon screamed. “Are you kidding me? Magnus! Jem! Catarina!”

No Magnus. No Jem. No Catarina. No Clary.

“Okay,” Simon said to himself. “You have been in worse situations than this. This is just weird. That’s all. Just weird. Just very, very weird. Weird’s okay. Weird’s normal.

“I am in some kind of dream. Something has happened. And I’m going to figure this out. What would I do if this were D and D?”

It was as good a question as any, except the answer had to do with rolling a D20, so maybe it wasn’t actually that helpful.

“Is this a trap? Why would they send us to a trap? It must be a game. It’s a puzzle. If she was in trouble, I’d know.”

That was interesting. He had the sudden and complete knowledge that if Clary were hurt, he would absolutely know it. He didn’t feel any hurt. He did feel an absence, a pull to locate her.

As this thought occurred to him, a very unusual thing happened—namely, the great stone angel of Bethesda Fountain flapped her wings and flew straight up into the night sky. As she flew, the base of the fountain remained connected to her feet and pulled up the fountain like it was a plant. The massive reservoir of the fountain became unmoored and started to pull toward the sky. The bricks and mortar tore, and a root network of pipes was revealed, and a raw hole in the earth that rapidly filled with water. The ice on the lake cracked all at once, and the entire terrace started to flood. Simon backed up toward the steps as the water spilled out. He retreated slowly, step by step, until the water evened. The lake now incorporated the terrace, eight steps high. The fountain and the angel were gone.

“That,” Simon said, “was weirder than normal.”

As he spoke, a sound seemed to tear the night in two. It was a chord, a pure, thundering harmonic that rattled the tympanic bones in his head and physically shook him to his knees. The clouds scattered, as if in fear, and the moon shone clear and full above him. It was a bright yellow, so bright he could barely look at it. He had to shield his eyes and look down.

There was a rowboat. This was not so mysterious—it had come loose from the boathouse, not far away. All of the boats were floating freely, excited to be out on their own for the evening. But this boat had come all the way over and bumped up next to where he was standing.

Also, unlike all of the other rowboats, this one was shaped like a swan.

“I take it I’m supposed to get in,” he said, flinching, in case the sky decided to make any more terrifying noises. There was no reply from the sky, so Simon grabbed the neck of the swan with both hands and carefully stepped inside and sat in the middle. The water couldn’t be very deep. He would certainly be able to stand in it if the boat capsized. But still—freezing night, flying fountain, magic boat, and missing Clary. No reason to add “falling into cold water” to the mix.

As soon as he was in it, the little swan boat bobbed off, as if it knew it had somewhere to be. It drifted into the lake, avoiding the other loose boats. Simon huddled in, wrapping his arms around himself as he took his cold, gentle journey on the lake. The surface was utterly smooth, reflecting the moon and clouds. Simon hadn’t ever done this before. The whole “boating in Central Park” thing seemed like it was meant for tourists. But in his recollection, the lake was fairly small and wide. He was surprised when it narrowed very suddenly and made itself into a channel under a thick canopy of trees. Once under the trees, there was absolutely no light at all for several minutes. Then everything lit up at once—rows of superbright bulbs lined the sides of the channel, and in front of him was a low tunnel with the words TUNNEL OF LOVE written around the arch in lights. Bright pink hearts bookended the word.

“You’re joking,” Simon said for what felt like the millionth time.

The air was now thick with the smell of popcorn and sea air, and there were sounds of fairground rides. The swan boat bumped, as if moving onto a track that would take it into the tunnel ride. Simon glided in. The light behind him faded, and the tunnel had a soft, blue glow. Some nondescript, classical-lite music played, full of violins. The boat settled into the track. The walls were painted in old-fashioned scenes of lovers—people sitting on porch swings kissing, women lounging on a depiction of a crescent moon, sweethearts leaning over an ice cream soda to kiss. The water was lit from underneath and glowed green, reflecting off the ceiling. Simon looked over the side of the boat to get a sense of how deep it was, or if there was something under him, but it looked shallow, like any normal water ride.

“This is a weird place to meet,” said a voice.

Simon turned to see that he was now sharing his little swan with Jace. Jace was standing at the front of the boat, leaning against the swan’s head. Being Jace, his balance was perfect, so the boat didn’t rock to the side.

“Okay,” Simon said, “this is really taking a turn I didn’t expect.”

Jace shrugged and looked around at the tunnel.

“I suppose these things had a use at one time,” he said. “It was probably risqué to take this ride. You’d get a whole four minutes of unsupervised necking.”

The word “necking” was bad. Hearing Jace say it was a new kind of bad.

“So,” Jace said, “do you want to talk or should I?”

“Talk about what?”

Jace indicated the tunnel around them, as if this was very obvious.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” Simon said. “Ever.”

“I’ve never heard anyone say that before,” Jace mused. “It was a unique experience.”

“Sorry.” Simon didn’t feel even a little guilty. “If I was into guys, I don’t think you’d make the top ten.”

Jace released the swan’s head and came to sit down by Simon’s side. “I remember how we met. Do you?”

“You’re playing a game of what do you remember with me?” Simon asked. “That’s classy.”

“It’s not a game. I saw you. You didn’t see me. But I saw. I saw it all.”

“This is fun,” Simon said. “You and me and the tunnel of what the hell are you talking about.”

“You need to try to remember this,” Jace said. “This is important. You need to remember how we met.”

Whatever this was—a dream, some kind of altered state—it was veering in a very odd direction.

“How is it everything is about you?” Simon said.

“This isn’t about me at all. This is about what I saw. This is about what you know. You can get there. You need to get this one back. You need this memory.”

“You’re asking me to remember somewhere I didn’t see you?”

“Exactly. Why wouldn’t you have seen me?”

“Because you were glamoured,” Simon said.

“But someone did see me.”

That had to be Clary. Obvious choice. But . . .

Now there was something rocking in the back of Simon’s mind. He had been somewhere with Clary, and Jace was there . . . except Jace wasn’t there.

That was both in his memory and in the present. Jace was gone. The boat trundled on, turning a corner and plunging back into the dark. There was a short decline and a burst of fog, then the ooOoOOOoOOoo of a cartoon ghost and the mocked-up entryway of some kind of gothic mansion. The ride had gone from lovers’ lane to haunted mansion. Simon rode along, through tableaux of the mansion’s rooms. In the library, ghosts dangled from wires and a skeleton popped out of a grandfather clock.

This fantasy, or whatever it was, seemed to be tapping into his memories of going to the Haunted Mansion at Disney World when he was a kid. And yet, as they moved from room to room, things looked more familiar—the cracking stone walls, the threadbare tapestries . . . the Haunted Mansion was turning into the Academy. There was a ghostly version of the cafeteria and the classrooms.

“Over here, Simon.”

It was Maia, waving from what looked like an elegant, wood-paneled office. There was a sign on the wall behind her, some kind of verse of poetry. Simon only caught a line of it: “as old and as true as the sky.” Maia wore an elegant suit, her hair clipped back, and gold bangle bracelets on her wrists. She looked sadly at Simon. “Are you really going to leave us?” she said. “Leave being a Downworlder? Become one of them?”

“Maia,” Simon said, a lump in his throat. He remembered only bits and pieces of his friendship with her—more than friendship, maybe? How brave she was, and how she’d been his friend when he’d desperately needed one.

“Please,” she said. “Don’t go.”

The boat moved swiftly past, to another room, a completely standard apartment living room, with some cheap furniture. It was Jordan’s apartment. Jordan stepped out of the bedroom doorway. There was a wound in his chest; his shirt was black with blood.

“Hey, roomie,” he said.

Simon’s heart felt like it stopped in his chest. He tried to speak, but before he could say a word, everything plunged into darkness. He felt the boat slide off its track with a soft bump, as if he had come to the end of the ride. Everything rushed forward. The tunnel opened out, and the boat lurched forward suddenly and began to speed up, as if carried on a current. Simon gripped the bench he sat on to hold himself steady.

He had been dumped out on a massive body of water, a river, very wide. Next to him the New York skyline was dark—the buildings eerily not illuminated—but he could make out their shapes. Not far up on the left side, he could see the silhouette of the Empire State Building. Ahead of him, maybe a mile or so up, there was a bridge spanning the river he was on. He could even make out the shadowy outline of an old-fashioned Pepsi-Cola sign on the right bank. That, he knew. That sign was near the base of the 59th Street Bridge to Queens.

“The East River,” he said to himself, casting a glance around.

The East River was not somewhere to be at night, in the cold, in a small rowboat shaped like a swan. The East River was dangerous, fast, and deep.

He felt something bump the back of his tiny swan, and turned expecting a trash barge or a freighter. Instead it was another swan-shaped boat. This one contained a young girl, maybe thirteen or fourteen, in a tattered prom dress. She had long blond hair drawn up in uneven pigtails, giving the impression of constant lopsidedness. She pulled her swan to the side of Simon’s and, seemingly without a care in the world, pulled up her skirt and stepped from one boat to the other. Simon instinctively reached one hand out to help her and one hand to steady himself. He was sure that the transfer would cause their little swan to topple, and while it did sway uncertainly as the weight distribution changed, somehow they stayed upright. The girl dropped herself next to Simon on the bench. The swan was designed for people to cozy up to each other, so she was pressed against his side.

“Hi!” she said happily. “You’re back!”

“I . . . am?”

There was something wrong with the girl’s face. She was too pale. There were deep circles all the way around her eyes, and her lips were faintly gray. Simon wasn’t sure who she was, but he got a very uneasy feeling.

“It’s been forever!” she said. “But you’re back. I knew you’d come back for me.”

“Who are you?”

She fun-punched him in the arm, like he’d told a great joke.

“Shut up,” she said. “You’re so funny. That’s why I love you.”

“You love me?”

“Shut up!” she said again. “You know I love you. It’s always been you and me. You and me forever.”

“I’m sorry,” Simon said. “I don’t remember.”

The girl looked around at the churning river and dark buildings as if this was all very wonderful and exactly where she wanted to be.

“It was all worth it,” she said. “You’re worth it.”

“Thanks?”

“I mean, they killed me for you. They dumped me in a trash can. But I don’t hold it against you.”

The chill was now inside of Simon as well as out.

“But you’re looking for her, aren’t you? She’s so annoying.”

“Clary?” Simon asked.

The girl waved her hand as if blowing away a cloud of unwanted cigarette smoke.

“You could be with me. Be my king. Be with Queen Maureen. Queen Maureen, queen of death! Queen of the night! I ruled over all of this!”

She swept her hand toward the skyline. While it seemed unlikely that this very young girl could have ruled over New York, there was something about the story that rang true. He knew this. It was his fault. He didn’t do anything exactly, but he could feel guilt—terrible, crushing guilt and responsibility.

“What if you could save me?” she asked, leaning into him. “Would you?”

“I . . .”

“What if you had to pick?” Maureen said, smiling at the thought. “We could play a game. You could pick. Me or her. I mean, you are the reason I died, so . . . you should pick me. Save me.”

The clouds, ever watchful when something interesting was going on, crowded back in. The wind kicked up and the river took on a heavy wake, rocking the boat from side to side.

“She’s in the water, you know,” Maureen said. “The water in the fountain that comes from the lake. The water in the lake that comes from the river. The water in the river that comes from the sea. She’s in the water, in the water, in the water . . .”

There was a tremendous pang in Simon’s chest, like someone had punched him right in the sternum. Just off to the side of the boat, something appeared, something like stone and seaweed. No. A face, and a crown of hair. It was Clary, floating on her back, eyes closed, hair leading the way. He reached out to her, but the water was going too fast and she was pulled upriver.

“You could make it all better!” Maureen shouted, jumping up. The boat rocked. “Who are you going to save, Daylighter?”

With that she dove off the other side of the boat. Simon grasped the long neck of the swan to hold his balance and scanned the waters. Clary had already floated twenty or more feet away, and Maureen was floating in the same manner, now quiet and seemingly asleep, at about half the distance.

There was not a lot of time to think. He wasn’t the strongest swimmer, and the undertow of the river would probably pull him down. The cold would render him numb and probably kill him first.

And he had two people to save.

“This isn’t real,” he said to himself. But the pain in his chest said otherwise. The pain was calling to him. He was also sure that, real or not, when he jumped in the river, it was going to hurt as much or more as anything he’d ever felt. The river was real enough.

What was real? What did he have to do? Was he supposed to swim past a young girl and leave her? If he ever made it that far.

“Hard choices,” said a voice behind him.

He didn’t have to turn to know it was Jace, balanced elegantly on the tail of the wooden swan.

“That’s what it’s all about. Hard choices. They never get easier.”

“You’re not helping,” Simon said, kicking off his shoes.

“So you’re going in?” Jace looked at the water and cringed. “Even I’d think twice about that. And I’m amazing.”

“Why do you have to get involved in everything?” Simon asked.

“I go where Clary goes.”

The two bodies drifted on.

“So do I,” Simon said. And he jumped off the right side of the boat, holding his nose. No diving. No need for theatrics. Jumping was enough, and at least it would keep him upright.

The pain of the water was even worse than he thought. It was like jumping through glass. The icy cold crackled all over his body, forcing all the air from his lungs. He reached for the boat but it drifted off, with Jace at the tail, waving. Simon’s clothes were pulling him under, but he had to fight. Hard as it was to move his arms, he stretched out to try to swim. His muscles contracted, unable to function at this temperature.

None of them could survive this. And this did not feel like a dream. Being in this water, which was pulling harder now, pulling him down—this was as good as being dead. But something crackled into his mind, some knowledge that had been well, well pushed away. He had known what it was like to be dead. He had had to claw his way out of the ground. He’d had soil in his eyes and in his mouth. The girl, Maureen, she was dead. Clary was not. He knew this because his own heart was still beating—erratically, but still beating.

Clary.

He reached out again and struggled with the water. One stroke.

Clary.

Two strokes. Two strokes were ridiculous. The water was faster and stronger and his limbs were shaking and so heavy. He started to feel sleepy.

“You can’t give up now,” said Jace. The boat had circled around and was now on Simon’s right side, just out of reach. “Tell me what you know.”

Simon was not in the mood to be quizzed. The river and the earth itself were pulling him down.

“Tell me what you know,” Jace insisted.

“I . . . I . . .”

Simon couldn’t make words.

“Tell me!”

“C . . . C . . . Clar . . .”

“Clary. And what do you know about her?”

Simon definitely couldn’t speak anymore. But he knew the answer. He would go to her. Alive. Dead. Fighting the river. Even if his dead body drifted alongside hers, that would somehow have to be enough. The knowledge caused his body to warm, just a bit. He kicked against the water.

“There you go!” said Jace. “Now you’re getting it. Now, you go.”

Simon’s entire body shuddered violently. His face dipped below the surface for a moment and he took on water, which burned him from the inside. He pushed out again, spat it out.

One stroke. Two. Three. It wasn’t as futile now. He was swimming. Four. Five. He counted them off. Six. Seven.

“I know the feeling,” Jace said, drifting alongside him. “It’s hard to explain. They don’t make greeting cards for it.”

Eight. Nine.

The city began to light up. Starting at the ground level, the lights appeared, reaching up toward the sky.

“When you realize it,” Jace said, “you know that you can do anything, because you have to. Because it’s you. You’re one.”

Ten. Eleven.

No need to count now. Jace and the swan were lagging behind, and now he was alone, swimming on, his body pumping with adrenaline. He turned to look for Maureen, but she was gone. Clary, however, was still clearly visible, floating just ahead. Not floating.

Swimming. Toward him. She was doing exactly what he was doing, forcing her body on, shuddering, pushing through the water.

Simon powered through the last strokes and felt the touch of her hand. He would go—he would go with her. And she was smiling, her lips blue.

And then he felt the ground under him—some surface under the water, something just a foot or two down. Clary reacted at the same moment, and they both grabbed at each other and struggled to their feet. They were standing in the Bethesda Fountain, the angel statue looking down on them, pouring water on their heads.

“Y . . . you . . . ,” Clary said.

Simon didn’t try to speak. He embraced her, and they shuddered together before stepping carefully out of the fountain and lying down on the bricks of the terrace, heaving for breath. The moon was wide—too wide and too close.

Mentally, Simon told the moon to stop being so close and bright and that it should just generally shut up with the mooniness. He reached out and took Clary’s hand, which was already extended, waiting for his.

When he opened his eyes, he was not outside. He was on something fairly comfortable and plush. Simon reached around and felt a velvety surface under him. He sat up and realized he was on a sofa in the reception room. The tea set was there, in front of him. Magnus and Catarina were standing against the wall, conferring, and Jem sat in the chair between them and watched them both.

“Sit up slowly,” he said. “Take a few deep breaths.”

“What the hell?” Simon said.

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

“You had us drink water from Lake Lyn? Where’s Clary?”

“She is fine,” Jem said quietly. “Drink some water. You must be thirsty.”

A glass was already against Simon’s lips. Catarina was holding it.

“Are you joking?” Simon said. “You want me to drink that? After what just happened?”

“It’s fine,” Catarina said. She took a long sip from the glass and held it back in front of Simon’s mouth. He did have a crazy case of cottonmouth, actually. His tongue felt thick. He took the glass and drank it back in one go, then filled it again, and again from a pitcher on the table. Only after the third glass did he feel like he could speak again.

“Doesn’t that drive people insane?” he said, not bothering to disguise his anger in any way.

Jem sat calmly, his hands resting on his knees. Simon could see his age now, not in his face but behind his eyes. They were dark mirrors that reflected the passage of uncounted years.

“Had something gone wrong, you would have been with the Silent Brothers within the hour. I may not be a Silent Brother anymore, but I have previously treated those who have consumed the waters. Magnus prepared the tea because he has worked with both of your minds. Catarina, of course, is a nurse. You were always safe. I am sorry. None of us wanted to deceive you. This was done for your benefit.”

“Not an explanation,” Simon said. “I want to see Clary. I want to know what’s going on.”

“She’s fine,” Catarina said. “I’ll go check on how she’s doing. Don’t worry.”

She left, and Jem leaned forward in his chair.

“Before Clary comes in, I need to know: What did you see?”

“When you drugged me?”

“Simon, this is important. What did you see?”

“I was in New York. I . . . thought I was in New York. Did we go to New York? Did you open a Portal?”

Jem shook his head.

“You were in this room the entire time. Please. Tell me.”

“Clary and I were in Central Park, by the Bethesda Fountain. The angel in the fountain flew away and the fountain flooded, and Clary disappeared. Then some boat came and I was on a ‘tunnel of love’ ride with Jace, and he kept telling me to remember where we met, even though I didn’t see him.”

“Stop a moment,” Jem said. “What does that mean to you?”

“I have no idea. I just know he was saying that I had to remember.”

“Do you remember?”

“No,” Simon snapped. “I barely remember anything. I know I was probably with Clary. Clary could see him.”

“Go on,” Jem said. “What happened then?”

“I saw Maia, he said. “And I saw Jordan. He was covered in blood. Then this ride dumped me out on the East River, and some kid named Maureen said she died because of me and jumped in. Clary was floating on the water and I . . .”

He shuddered again, and Jem immediately stood and produced a blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders.

“Move closer to the fire,” Jem said, guiding him up and to a chair. When Simon had settled a bit and warmed, Jem encouraged him to continue.

“Maureen told me I had to decide which one of them to save. Jace showed up again and gave me some lecture about how all the choices were hard. I jumped in.”

“Who did you decide to save?” Jem asked.

“I hadn’t . . . decided . . . anything. I knew I had to jump. And I guess I knew Maureen was dead. She said she was dead. But Clary wasn’t. I just had to get to Clary. I got all of this energy all of a sudden and I could swim to her. And when I swam to her, I looked up and she was swimming to me.”

Jem sat back and tented his fingers together for a moment.

“I want to see Clary,” Simon said through chattering teeth. His body was warm—it had probably never been cold, really—but the river water still felt so real.

Catarina reappeared a moment later with Clary, who was also wrapped in a blanket. Jem immediately got up and offered her his chair. Clary’s eyes were wide and shining, and she looked to Simon in relief.

“Did it happen to you, too?” she said. “Whatever that was.”

“I think we both got it,” he replied. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m just . . . really cold. I thought I was in the river.”

Simon stopped shivering.

“You thought you were in the river?”

“I was trying to swim to you,” Clary said. “We were in Central Park, and you got sucked into the ground—like you were being buried alive. And Raphael came, and I was on his motorcycle, and we were flying over the river and I saw you. I jumped off . . .”

From behind Clary’s chair, Catarina nodded.

“I saw something kind of like that,” Simon said. “Not exactly, but . . . enough. And I reached you. You were swimming to me. Then we were back . . .”

“. . . in Central Park. By the fountain with the angel.”

Magnus had joined the group as well and stretched himself out on a sofa. “Bethesda Fountain,” he said. “Shadowhunters may have had something to do with building it. I’m just saying.”

“What does this all mean?” Simon asked. “What was this about?”

“The two of you are different,” Magnus said. “There are things in your backgrounds that mean that . . . things have to be done differently. For a start, both of you have had blocks put on your memories. Clary has an unusual amount of angel blood. And you, Simon, used to be a vampire.”

“We know that. But why did you have to drug us to do something symbolic?”

“It wasn’t symbolic. The parabatai test is the test of fire,” Catarina said. “You stand in rings of fire to make your bond. This . . . this is the test of water. The nature of the test requires that you have no knowledge of the test. Mentally preparing for the test can affect the outcome. This test wasn’t about Julian and Emma. It’s about the two of you. Think about what you both saw, what you both learned. Think about what you felt. Think about when you were both able to swim to each other when you had nothing left, when you should have died.”

Simon and Clary stared at each other. The fog began to lift.

“You took the water,” Jem said. “And you joined in the same place in your minds. You were able to find each other. You were linked. ‘And it came to pass that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul.’”

“Parabatai?” Simon said. “Wait, wait, wait. Are you trying to tell me this is about being parabatai? I can’t have a parabatai. I turned nineteen two months ago.”

“Not exactly,” Magnus said.

“What do you mean not exactly?”

“Simon,” Magnus said plainly, “you died. You were dead for nearly half a year. You may have been walking around, but you were not alive, not as a human. That time does not count. By Shadowhunter standards, you are still eighteen. And you have the whole year until your nineteenth birthday to find a parabatai.” He looked toward Clary. “Clary, as you know, is still within the age limit. There should be time for you to Ascend and then for you two to become parabatai immediately—if that’s what you want.”

“Some people are uniquely suited to be parabatai,” said Magnus. “Born to it, you might say. People think it’s about getting along, about always agreeing, being in sync. It’s not. It’s about being better together. Fighting better together. Alec and Jace haven’t always agreed, but they’ve always been better together.”

“It has been spoken of often to me,” Jem said in his soft voice, “how much the two of you were dedicated to each other. The manner in which you have always stood up for each other and put the other first. When a parabatai bond is true, when the friendship runs deep and honest, it can be . . . transcendent.” There was sadness in his eyes, a sadness so profound it was almost frightening. “We needed to find out if what had been observed about the two of you was true for your sake. You’re about to witness the ceremony. That can cause a powerful reaction in true parabatai. We had to know for sure that it was true and that you could withstand it. The test told us what we needed to know.”

Clary’s eyes had gone very wide. “Simon . . . ,” she whispered. Her voice was raspy.

“It’s a bit of a technicality,” Magnus added, “but Shadowhunters have no problems with technicalities. They love a technicality. Look at Jem. Jem is a technicality in the flesh. People don’t come back from being Silent Brothers, either, and there he is.”

Jem smiled at this, the sadness in his eyes receding.

“Parabatai,” Clary said again.

And in that moment, something settled over Simon. Something like a blanket on a cold day. Something completely reassuring.

“Parabatai,” he said.

A long moment settled between them, and in that moment, all was decided. There was no need to discuss it. You do not need to ask if your heart should beat, or if you should breathe. He and Clary were parabatai. All of Simon’s anger was gone. Now he knew. He had Clary, and she would have him. Forever. Their souls knit.

“How did you know?” Simon asked.

“It’s not that hard to see,” Magnus replied, and finally some of the usual levity was in his voice. “I’m also literally magic.”

“It’s pretty obvious,” Catarina added.

“Even I knew,” said Jem. “And I don’t know you very well. There’s always something about true parabatai. They don’t need to speak to communicate. I saw the two of you having entire conversations without saying a word. It was like that with my parabatai, Will. I never had to ask Will what he was thinking. In fact, it was usually better not to ask Will what he was thinking. . . .”

That got a smile from Magnus and Catarina both.

“But I see it between you. True parabatai are linked long before the ceremony takes place.”

“So we can . . . we can do the ceremony?” Clary asked.

“You can,” Jem said. “Not tonight. There will be some discussions in the Silent City about it, surely, as this is an unusual case.”

“All right,” Catarina said. “Now the nurse is taking over. That’s enough for tonight. You two need sleep. That water packs a punch. You’ll be fine in the morning, but you need to rest. Rest and hydrate. Come on.”

Simon went to stand and found that his legs had left him and had been replaced with a wobbly, leg-shaped substance. Catarina caught him up under the shoulder and helped him. Magnus helped Clary to her feet.

“There’s a room for you here tonight, Clary,” Catarina said. “In the morning we’ll have the dress gear brought to you both for Julian and Emma’s ceremony.”

“Wait,” Simon said as he was being ushered out. “Jace kept saying something about how I had to remember how he and I met. What does that mean?”

“That’s for you to figure out,” Jem said. “The visions caused by Lake Lyn can stir very powerful feelings.”

Simon nodded. His body was giving out. He allowed Catarina to help him back to his room.

“What happened to you?” George said as Catarina got him in the door.

“How long have I been gone?” Simon replied, dropping face-first onto his bed. It was a sign of his exhaustion that his terrible, sharp-springed bed felt good. It felt like a hundred down pillows heaped on the back of a bouncy castle.

“Maybe two hours,” George said. “You look terrible. What was it?”

“The food,” Simon mumbled. “It finally got me.”

And then he was asleep.

*   *   *

He felt surprisingly okay when he woke up. He woke before George, even. He got out of bed quietly and picked up his towel and things to go down to the bathrooms. On the ground outside the door, in a black box, was a set of formal gear. Formal Shadowhunter gear looked much like regular gear—it was just lighter in weight, somehow more deeply black, and cleaner than most gear. No tears. No ichor. Fancy duds. He put the box on his bed and quietly continued to the bathroom. No one was awake yet, so he had the whole moldy place to himself. It turned out if you woke up first, you could actually get a tiny bit of hot water, so he stood under the spray, pretended that it didn’t taste of rust, and let his body relax in the warmth. There was just enough light coming through the window high up on the wall that he could get what amounted to an almost even shave.

He walked through the empty halls of the Academy, which were softened by the early morning light. Nothing looked so severe this morning. It was almost cozy. He even found one of the hall fires burning, and he stood beside it to get warm before going outside for some air. He wasn’t surprised to find Clary there, already dressed, sitting on the top step, looking out of the mist that floated over the grounds at dawn.

“You woke up early too, huh?” she said.

He sat down next to her.

“Yup. Get up before the kitchen starts cooking. That’s the only way to escape it. I’m starving, though.”

Clary rummaged around in her bag for a moment and produced a bagel wrapped in several small deli napkins.

“Is that . . . ,” Simon said.

“You think I would come from New York empty-handed? No cream cheese, but, you know, it’s something. I know what you need.”

Simon held the bagel for a moment.

“It makes sense,” she said. “You and me. I feel like it’s always been true. It’s always what we were. You don’t . . . I know you don’t remember it all, but it’s always been you and me.”

“I remember enough,” he said. “I feel enough.”

He wanted to say more, but the enormity of it all—much of this was best left unsaid. For now, anyway. It was still so fresh in his mind, this feeling. This feeling of completeness.

So he ate the bagel. Always eat the bagel.

“Emma and Julian,” Simon said between bites. “They’re only fourteen.”

“Jace and Alec were fifteen.”

“Still, it seems . . . I mean, they’ve been through a lot. The attack on the L.A. Institute.”

“I know,” Clary said, nodding. “But bad stuff . . . it brings people together sometimes. They’ve had to grow up fast.”

A black horse-drawn carriage appeared on the edge of the road leading to the Academy. As it grew closer, Simon could see a figure in a plain, parchment-colored robe at the reins. When the carriage stopped and the figure turned to them, Simon could see the runes that sealed the man’s mouth. When the man spoke, it was not through normal words, but in a voice that landed right inside of Simon’s mind.

I am Brother Shadrach. I am here to take you to the ceremony. Please get inside.

“You know,” said Simon quietly as they got into the carriage, “there was probably a time when we would have considered this creepy.”

“I don’t remember that time anymore,” replied Clary.

“I guess we’re finally even on something we don’t remember.”

The carriage was simply appointed in black silk, black curtains, black everything, really. But it was well sprung and comfortable, as far as speeding horse carriages go. Brother Shadrach had no fear of speed, and soon the Academy was in the distance and Simon and Clary were looking at each other from across the carriage as they bounced along. Simon tried to talk a few times, but his voice juddered from the impact, the constant thud thud thud of the carriage making its way across Brocelind Plain. The roads in Idris were not the smooth highways Simon was used to. They were paved in stone, and there were no rest stops with bathrooms and Starbucks. There was no heat, but each had been provided with a heavy fur blanket. As a vegetarian, Simon didn’t really want to use it. As a person without much choice who was freezing, he did.

Simon also had no watch, no phone, nothing to tell the passing time except the rising of the late-autumn sun. He estimated that they rode an hour, maybe more. They entered the calming shade of the Brocelind Forest. The smell of the trees and leaves was almost intoxicating, and the sun came through in slashes and ribbons, illuminating Clary’s face and hair, her smile.

His parabatai.

They stopped not too far into the forest. The door opened, and Brother Shadrach was there.

We have arrived.

Somehow, it was worse when it stopped. Simon’s head and body still felt like they were shaking. Simon looked up and saw that they were near the base of a mountain. It stretched above the trees.

This way.

They followed Brother Shadrach down a barely marked track—a light trail where several feet had passed, leaving just the tiniest scar on the ground, a few inches wide. Through a thicket of trees against the mountainside, there was a doorway, about fifteen feet in height. It was wide at the base and narrower at the top. There was a bas-relief carving of an angel just above the lintel. Brother Shadrach took one of the rings on the door and knocked it hard, just once. The door opened, seemingly of its own accord.

They walked down a narrow passage with smooth marble walls, and descended a staircase made of stone. There were no rails, so he and Clary put their hands on either wall to keep from falling. Brother Shadrach, in his long robe, had no such fear of falling. He seemed to glide down. From there, they were in a larger space, which Simon at first thought was made of stones. After a moment he saw that the walls were mosaicked with bones—some chalky white, some gray, some ashy, and some a disturbing brownish color. Long bones formed arches and columns, and skulls, top side out, formed most of the walls. They were finally left in a room where the bone art was really ambitious—great circling patterns of skulls and bones gave the room shape. Above, smaller bones formed more delicate structures, such as chandeliers, which glowed with witchlights. It was like being shown the end of the world’s worst home-decorating show.

You will wait here.

Brother Shadrach exited the chamber, and Simon and Clary were left alone. One thing about the Silent City: It really lived up to its name. Simon had never been anywhere so utterly devoid of sound. Simon worried that if he spoke, the walls of bones would come down on his head and bury them both. They probably wouldn’t—that would be a major design flaw—but the sensation was strong.

After several moments the door opened again and Julian appeared alone. Julian Blackthorn may only have been fourteen, but he seemed older, even older than Simon. He had grown quite a bit, and now Simon could look him eye to eye. He had his family’s characteristic thick, curling dark-brown hair, and his face had a look of quiet seriousness. It was a seriousness that reminded Simon of the way his mother had looked when his father died, and she’d spent nights awake worrying about how to pay the mortgage and feed her children, how to raise them all by herself. No one wore this kind of expression by choice. The only sign that Julian wasn’t an adult was the way his dress gear fit a bit loose, and the way he was just a bit gangly.

“Julian!” Clary said, looking as if she was considering hugging him and then discarding the idea. He seemed too dignified to be squeezed. “Where’s Emma?”

“Talking to Brother Zachariah,” Julian said. “I mean Jem. She’s talking to Jem.”

Julian seemed deeply puzzled about this, but also didn’t look to be in the mood to be questioned further.

“So,” Clary said, “how do you feel?”

Julian simply nodded and looked around.

He hesitated. “I just want to . . . do it. I want to get it done.”

This seemed like a slightly odd response. Now that Simon was thinking about his own ceremony with Clary, the prospect seemed amazing. Something to be looked forward to. But Julian had been through a lot. He’d lost his parents, his older brother and sister. It was probably hard to go through something this major without them there.

It was hard to look at Julian and not remember that he had seen Julian’s brother Mark not that long ago—Mark, imprisoned and half-mad. That he had decided not to share this fact with Julian, because it would have been unbelievably cruel to do so. Simon still believed his decision had been the right one, but that didn’t mean it didn’t weigh like a stone in his soul.

“How’s L.A.?” he said, and immediately regretted it. How’s L.A.? How’s that place you live in where you saw your father murdered and your brother taken hostage forever by faeries? How’s that?

Julian’s mouth curled up at the corner. As if he sensed that Simon was feeling uncomfortable, and he felt sympathetic, but also thought it was funny.

Simon was used to that.

“Hot,” Julian said.

Which was fair enough.

“How’s your family?” Clary asked.

Julian’s face lit up, his eyes glowing like the surface of water. “Everyone is good. Ty’s really into detective stuff, Dru’s into horror—watching all sorts of mundane movies she’s not supposed to. But then she scares herself and has to sleep with the witchlight on. Livvy’s gotten really good with the sabre, and Tavvy—”

He broke off as Jem and Emma came down the stairs. Emma’s step seemed lighter. There was something about Emma that made Simon think of eternal summers on a beach—her sunbleached hair, her graceful way of moving, her winter tan. Along the inside of one of her arms was a vicious long scar.

She looked at once to Julian, who nodded before starting to pace around the room. Emma immediately wrapped Simon in a hug. Her arms, though smaller than his, wound around him like steel cables. She smelled like sea spray.

“Thank you for being here,” she said. “I wanted to write to you but they . . .” She looked at Jem for a moment. “They said they would tell you. Thank you, both of you.”

Julian ran his hand along the smooth marble wall. He seemed to have trouble looking over at Emma. Emma went to him, and Jem followed, speaking to them both for a moment. Clary and Simon stood back and watched them. Something about the way Emma and Julian were acting wasn’t quite what Simon expected. Sure, they would be nervous but . . .

No, it was something else.

Clary tugged on Simon’s sleeve, indicating that he should lean down so she could whisper to him.

“They look so”—Clary broke off her sentence and cocked her head slightly to the side—“young.”

There was a hint in her voice that this was not a completely satisfactory statement. Something about this was off. But Simon had no time to figure out what. Jem, Emma, and Julian joined them again.

“I will accompany you into the chamber,” Jem said. “Clary will walk with Emma. Simon will walk with Julian. Do you feel ready to continue?”

Both Emma and Julian visibly swallowed hard and got very wide-eyed, but both managed to say yes.

“Then we will proceed. Please follow me.”

More corridors, but the bone gave way to more white marble, and then marble that had the appearance of gold. They arrived at a great set of doors, which were opened by Brother Shadrach. The room they led to was the largest yet, with a towering, domed ceiling. There were marbles of all colors—white, black, pink, gold, silver. Every surface was utterly smooth. The room was occupied by a ring of Silent Brothers, maybe twenty in all, who parted to allow them in. The light in the room was dim and came from golden sconces and flickering candlelight. The air was thick with incense.

“Simon Lewis and Julian Blackthorn.” Jem’s voice resonated—for a moment Simon almost thought he heard it inside his mind, the way he had once heard Brother Zachariah’s. It still held a depth to it that seemed richer than human. “Cross to the other side of the circle, where they have made a space for you. When you get there, remain there. You will be told what to do.”

Simon looked to Julian, who had turned the color of copier paper. Despite looking like he might faint, Julian walked firmly across the room, and Simon followed. Clary and Emma took their places on the opposite side. Jem joined the circle of Silent Brothers, who all stepped back as one, widening the circle. Now the four of them were at the center.

Suddenly, two rings of white and gold fire appeared out of the floor, the flames rising just a few inches, but burning bright and hot.

Emma Carstairs. Step forward.

The voices rang in Simon’s head—it was all of the Brothers speaking as one. Emma looked to Clary, then took a single step into one of the rings. She fixed her eyes on Julian and smiled widely.

Julian Blackthorn. Step forward.

Julian stepped into the other ring. His step was quicker, but he kept his head down.

Witnesses, you will stand on the wings of the angel.

This took Simon a moment to work out. He finally saw that at the top of the circle, carved roughly into the floor, was another figure of an angel with outstretched wings. He took his place on one, and Clary the other. This brought him a little closer to the ring of fire. He felt the heat of it creep pleasantly over his cold feet. From this vantage point, he could see Emma and Julian’s expressions.

What was he seeing? It was something he knew.

We begin the Fiery Trial. Emma Carstairs, Julian Blackthorn, enter the center ring. In this ring, you will be bound.

A central ring appeared, joining the two. A Venn diagram of fire. As soon as Emma and Julian were in it, the center ring burned higher, reaching waist height.

Something flickered between Julian and Emma at that moment. It was so quick that Simon couldn’t tell which direction it had come from, but he’d seen it out of the corner of one of his eyes. Some look, something about the way one of them stood, something—but it was a look or a stance or something that he had seen before.

The fire flashed higher. It was up to their shoulders now.

You will now recite the oath.

Emma and Julian began speaking as one, their voices both with a small tremble as they recited the ancient Biblical words.

“Whither thou goest, I will go . . .”

*   *   *

Simon was hit with a bolt of anxiety. What had he just seen? Why was it so familiar? Why did it put him on edge? He studied Emma and Julian again, as best as he could over the fire. They looked like two nervous kids about to do something very serious, while standing in a flaming circle.

There it was again. So quick. The direction was obscured by the flickering at the top of the ring. What the hell was it? Maybe this was precisely what witnesses were supposed to do. Maybe they were supposed to watch for this kind of thing. No. Jem said it was a formality. A formality. Maybe he should have asked this question before standing next to the giant ring of fire.

“Where thou diest, I will die, and there will I be buried . . .”

Shadowhunter rituals, always cheery.

“The Angel do so to me, and more also . . .”

Julian tripped on the words “do so to me.” He cleared his throat and finished the statement a second after Emma.

Something clicked in Simon’s mind. He remembered Jace, suddenly, in his hallucination, saying something about the first time they’d met. And then the memory flashed across his mind like one of those banners trailing off the back of the little planes that flew above the beach off Long Island . . .

He was sitting with Clary in Java Jones. They were watching Eric read poetry. Simon had decided this was the moment—he was going to tell her. He had to tell her. He had gotten them both coffees and the cups were hot. His fingers were burned. He had to blow on them, which was not a smooth move.

He could feel the burning. The feeling that he had to speak.

Eric was reading some poem that contained the words “nefarious loins.” Nefarious loins, nefarious loins . . . the words danced in his head. He had to speak.

“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” he said.

Clary made some remark about his band name, and he had to get her back on point.

“It’s about what we were talking about before. About me not having a girlfriend.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Ask Jaida Jones out. She’s nice, and she likes you.”

“I don’t want to ask Jaida Jones out.”

“Why not? You don’t like smart girls? Still seeking a rockin’ bod?”

Was she blind? How could she not see? What exactly did he have to do? He had to keep it together. Also, “seeking a rockin’ bod”?

But the more he tried, the more oblivious she seemed. And then she became fixated on a green sofa. It was like that sofa contained everything in the world. Here he was, trying to declare his lifelong love, and Clary had fallen for the furniture. But it was more than that. Something was wrong.

“What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong? Clary, what’s wrong?”

“I’ll be right back,” she said. And with that, she put down the coffee and ran away. He watched her through the window, and somehow he knew that this moment was over, forever. And then he saw . . .

The ring of fire had extinguished. It was over. The oath was made, and Emma and Julian stood before them all. Julian had a rune on his collarbone, and Emma on her upper arm.

Clary was tugging his arm. He looked over at her and blinked a few times.

You okay? her expression said.

His memory had chosen quite a moment to return.

*   *   *

After the ceremony, they returned to Alicante, where they were taken to the Blackthorn manor to change their clothes. Emma and Julian were taken by the staff to rooms on the main floor. Clary and Simon were led up the grand staircase.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to change into,” Simon said. “I didn’t get a lot of advance notice.”

“I brought you a suit from home,” Clary said. “I borrowed it.”

“Not from Jace.”

“From Eric.”

“Eric has a suit? Do you promise it wasn’t, like, his dead grandfather’s?”

“I can’t promise anything, but I do think it will fit.”

Simon was shown to a small, fussy bedroom on the second floor, overstuffed with furniture and crowded in by flocked wallpaper and the penetrating stares of some long-deceased Blackthorns who had taken up residence in the form of severe portraits. The suit bag was on the bed. Eric did have a suit—a plain black one. A shirt had also been provided, along with a silver-blue tie and some dress shoes. The suit was an inch or two too short. The shirt was too tight—Simon’s daily training had made him into one of these people who burst through a dress shirt. The shoes didn’t fit at all, so he wore the soft black shoes that were part of the formal gear. The tie fit fine. Ties were good for this.

He sat on the bed for a moment and let himself think about all that had happened. He closed his eyes and fought the urge to sleep. He felt himself wobbling and dropping off when there was a soft knock on the door. He snorted as he came back from the microsleep.

“Sure,” he said, which wasn’t what he meant to say. “Yeah. I mean, come in.”

Clary entered wearing a green dress that perfectly complemented her hair, her skin, every part of her. And Simon had a revelation. If he still felt romantic attraction toward Clary, seeing her at that moment might have caused him to start sweating and stammering. Now he saw someone he loved, who looked beautiful, and was his friend. And that was all.

“Listen,” she said, shutting the door, “back at the ceremony, you looked . . . weird. If you don’t want to do it . . . The parabatai thing. It was a shock and I don’t want you to be . . .”

“What? No. No.”

Instinctively he reached for her hand. She squeezed it hard.

“Okay,” she said. “But something happened in there. I saw it.”

“In the hallucination I had, from the lake water, I saw Jace, and he kept telling me to remember how we met,” he said. “So I was trying to remember. And then right in the middle of the ceremony, I got the memory back. It just kind of . . . downloaded.”

Clary frowned, her nose wrinkling in confusion. “The memory of how you met Jace? Wasn’t it at the Institute?”

“Yes and no. The memory was really about us, you and me. We were in the coffee shop, Java Jones. You were naming all of these girls I could date and I was . . . I was trying to tell you that you were the one I liked.”

“Yeah,” Clary said, looking down.

“And then you ran out. Just like that.”

“Jace was there. You couldn’t see him.”

“That’s what I thought.” Simon studied her face. “You ran out while I was telling you how I felt. Which is okay. We were never meant to be . . . like that. I think that’s what my subconscious, in the annoying form of Jace, wanted me to know. Because I think we are meant to be together. Parabatai can’t like each other like that. That’s why it was important for me to remember. I had to remember that I felt like that. I had to know it was different now. Not in a bad way. In the right way.”

“Yes,” Clary said. She had gotten a little teary-eyed. “In the right way.”

Simon nodded once. It was too big to reply to in words. It was everything. It was all the love he saw in Jem’s eyes when he talked about Will, and the love in Alec’s face when he looked at Jace, even when Jace was being annoying, and a clear memory he had of Jace holding Alec while he was wounded and the desperation in Jace’s eyes, that terror that comes only from thinking you might lose someone you can’t live without.

It was Emma and Julian, looking at each other.

Someone was calling for them from downstairs. Clary brushed away a tear and got up and smoothed her already smooth dress.

“This is like a wedding,” she said. “I feel like they’re going to tell us we have to go pose for the photographer in a minute.”

Clary hooked her arm through his.

“One thing,” he said, remembering Maia, and Jordan. “Even when I’m a Shadowhunter, I’m still going to be a little bit a Downworlder. I’m never going to turn my back on them. That’s the kind of Nephilim I want to be.”

“I wouldn’t have expected anything else,” Clary said.

Downstairs, the two new parabatai were examining each other from across the room. Emma stood on one side, wearing a brown dress covered in twining gold flowers. Julian stood on the other, twitching inside his gray suit.

“You look amazing,” Clary said to them both, and they looked down shyly.

At the Accords Hall, Jace was waiting for them on the front step, looking like Jace in a suit. Jace in a suit was unbearable. He gave Clary a look up and down.

“That dress is . . .”

He had to clear his throat. Simon enjoyed his discomfiture. Not much ever threw Jace, but Clary had always been able to throw him like a Wiffle ball on a windy day. His eyes were practically cartoon hearts.

“It’s very nice,” he said. “So how was the ceremony? What did you think?”

“Definitely more fire than a bar mitzvah,” Simon said. “More fire than a barbecue. I’m going to go with Formal Event with the Most Fire.”

Jace nodded.

“They were amazing,” Clary said. “And . . .”

She looked to Simon.

“We have news,” she said.

Jace cocked his head in interest.

“Later,” she said, smiling. “I think everyone is waiting for us to sit down.”

“Then we need to get Emma and Julian over here.”

Emma and Julian were lurking in the corner of the room, heads close, but with an awkward gap between their bodies.

“I’m going to go talk to them,” Jace said, nodding at Julian and Emma. “Give them a few words of manly, thoughtful advice.”

As soon as Jace walked away, Clary started to speak, but they were immediately joined by Magnus and Alec. Magnus was about to start guest teaching at the Academy and they wanted to know how bad the food was. Julian’s younger brothers and sisters—Ty, Livvy, Drusilla, and Octavian—were clustered together around the table with the appetizers. Simon glanced over his shoulder and saw Jace unloading Jacely advice onto the new parabatai. There was the delicious smell of roasting meat. Large platters of it were being placed on the tables now, along with vegetables and potatoes and breads and cheeses. The wine was being poured. It was time to celebrate. It was nice, Simon thought, in the midst of all the terrible things that could happen and sometimes did happen, there was also this. There was a lot of love.

As Simon turned back, he saw Julian hurrying out of the hall. Jace returned, his arm around Emma’s shoulders.

“Everything okay?” Clary asked.

“Everything’s fine. Julian needed air. This ceremony, it’s intense. So many people. You need to eat.”

This was to Emma, who smiled, but kept looking over at the door her parabatai had just gone through. Then she turned and saw Ty running across the Hall with a tray containing an entire wheel of cheese.

“Oh,” she said, “yeah, that’s bad. He can actually eat that entire cheese, but then he’ll throw up. I’d better get that or this will end badly for Jules.”

She ran after Ty.

“They have a lot on their hands,” Jace said, watching her go. “Good thing they have each other. They always will. That’s what parabatai is about.” He smiled at Alec, who grinned back at him in a way that lit up his whole face.

“About that parabatai business,” Clary said. “We might as well tell you the news. . . .”

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 35 million copies in print worldwide and have been translated into more than thirty-five languages. Cassandra lives in western Massachusetts. Visit her at CassandraClare.com. Learn more about the world of the Shadowhunters at Shadowhunters.com.

Maureen Johnson is the New York Times bestselling author of ten YA adult novels, including 13 Little Blue Envelopes, The Name of the Star and The Madness Underneath. Maureen was named one of Time magazine’s top 140 people to follow on Twitter. Visit her at MaureenJohnsonBooks.com or follow her on Twitter at @MaureenJohnson.

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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

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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

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City of Ashes

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City of Glass

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City of Fallen Angels

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City of Lost Souls

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Clockwork Angel

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Nothing But Shadows

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MARGARET K. McELDERRY BOOKS

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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.

Cover photo-illustration copyright © 2015 by Cliff Nielsen

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Contents

The Fiery Trial

'Lady Midnight' Excerpt

About the Authors

Table of Contents

The Fiery Trial

'Lady Midnight' Excerpt

About the Authors

Copyright