Angels Twice Descending (Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy, #10)

She smiled, exhaustion painted across her face. “In the morning,” she echoed. “Welcome home, Simon.”


“Thanks, Mom,” he said, and miraculously managed to do so without getting choked up. He waited for her to disappear behind her bedroom door, waited for her soft snores to begin. Then he scribbled a note apologizing for having to leave so abruptly. Without saying good-bye.

His sister snored, too—though, like their mother, she denied it. He could, if he stayed very silent, hear her all the way in the kitchen. He could wake her up, if he wanted, and he could probably even tell her the truth, or some version of it. Rebecca could be trusted—not just to keep his secrets, but to understand them. He could do what he’d come here to do, what he was supposed to do, say good-bye to her and tell her to love and protect their mother enough for both of them.

“No.” He’d spoken softly, but the word seemed to echo in the empty kitchen.

The Law was hard, but it was also riven with loopholes. Hadn’t Clary taught him that? There were Shadowhunters who found a way to keep their mundane loved ones in their lives—Simon himself was proof. Maybe that was why Clary had brought him here tonight—not to say good-bye, but to realize that he couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

This isn’t forever, Simon promised his mother and sister as he slipped out the door. He promised himself it wasn’t cowardly, leaving without saying anything. It was a silent promise—that this wasn’t the end. That he’d find a way. And despite the fact that there was no one to appreciate his flawless Schwarzenegger accent, he swore his oath aloud: “I’ll be back.”

*

Clary had said to give her a call when he was ready to head back to the Academy, but he wasn’t ready yet. It was strange: In another day, there’d be nothing keeping him from returning to New York for good. After his Ascension, he’d be a Shadowhunter for real. No more school, no more training missions, no more long days and nights in Idris missing his morning coffee. He hadn’t given much thought to what would happen next, but he knew he’d come home to the city and stay in the Institute, at least temporarily. There was no reason to feel so homesick for New York when he was this close to being back for good.

Except he wasn’t quite sure who he’d be when he came back. When he Ascended. If he Ascended, if nothing terrible happened when he took his drink from the Mortal Cup.

What would it mean to become a Shadowhunter, really? He’d be stronger and swifter, he knew that much. He’d be able to bear runes on his skin, see through glamours without a warlock’s help. He knew plenty about what he’d be able to do—but he didn’t know anything about how it would feel. About who he’d be when he was a Shadowhunter. It’s not that he thought one drink from a magic cup would instantly turn him into an egomaniacal, preternaturally handsome, wildly reckless snob like . . . well, like almost all the Shadowhunters he knew and loved. Nor did he expect that turning into a Shadowhunter would make him automatically disdain D&D, Star Trek, and all technology and pop culture invented after the nineteenth century. But who could know for sure?

And it wasn’t just the confusing transformation from human to angel-warrior. He’d been assured that, in all likelihood, if he survived Ascension, he would get back all his memories. All those memories of the original Simon, the “real” Simon, the one he’d worked so hard to persuade people would be gone forever, would come flooding back into his brain. He supposed this should make him happy, but Simon found he felt rather territorial of his brain as it was now. What if that Simon—the Simon who’d saved the world, the Simon whom Isabelle had first fallen in love with—didn’t much like this Simon that he’d become? What if he drank from the Cup and lost himself all over again?

It gave him a headache, thinking of himself as so many different people.

He wanted one last night in the city as just this one: Simon Lewis, myopic, manga-loving mundane.