And he remembered holding Jordan’s Praetor Lupus pendant in his hands, in Idris, after Jordan was dead. Simon had held that pendant again since then, once he had regained some of his memories, feeling the weight of it and wondering what the Latin motto meant.
He had known Jordan was his roommate, and known he was one of the many casualties of the war.
He had never truly felt the weight of it, until now.
The sheer weight of memory made him feel as if stones were being piled on his chest, crushing him. Simon couldn’t breathe. He erupted from his sheets, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his feet hitting the stone floor with a shock of cold.
“Wuzz—wuzzit?” mumbled George. “Did the possum come back?”
“Jordan’s dead,” Simon said bleakly, and put his face in his hands.
There was a silence.
George did not ask him who Jordan had been, or why he suddenly cared. Simon would not have known how to explain the tangle of grief and guilt in his chest: how he hated himself for forgetting Jordan, even though he could not have helped it, how this was like finding out Jordan was dead for the first time and like having a scarred-over wound reopened, both at once. There was a bitter taste in Simon’s mouth, like old, old blood.
George reached out and put a hand on Simon’s shoulder. He kept it there, grip firm, hand warm and steady, something to anchor Simon in the cold, dark night of memory.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Simon was sorry too.
*
At dinner the next day, it was soup again. It had been soup for every meal for many days now. Simon did not remember a life before soup, and he despaired of ever achieving a life after soup. Simon wondered if the Shadowhunters had runes to protect against scurvy.
Their usual group was clustered around their usual table, chatting, when Jon said: “I wish we were being taught about demons by someone with less of an agenda, if you know what I mean.”
“Uh,” said Simon, who mostly sat through their classes on demons through the ages in deep relief that he was not being asked to move. “Don’t we all have the same . . . demon-hunting . . . agenda?”
“You know what I mean,” Jon said. “We’ve got to be taught about the past crimes of warlocks as well. We have to fight the Downworlders, too. It’s naive to pretend they’re all tame.”
“The Downworlders,” Simon repeated. The soup turned to ashes in his mouth, which was actually an improvement. “Like vampires?”
“No!” said Julie hastily. “Vampires are great. They have, you know, class. Compared to the other Downworlders. But if you’re talking about creatures like werewolves, Simon, you must see they’re not exactly our kind of people. If you can call them people at all.”
She said “werewolves” and Simon could not help but think of Jordan, flinching as if he’d been struck and unable to keep his mouth shut a moment longer.
Simon pushed his bowl of soup away and shoved his chair back.
“Don’t tell me about what I must, Julie,” he said coldly. “I must inform you there are werewolves worth a hundred of your and Jon’s Shadowhunter asses. I must say that I am sick to the teeth of you insulting mundanes and telling me I’m your special pet exception, as if I want to be the pet of people who bully kids younger and weaker than they are. And I must tell you, you’d better hope this Academy works out and mundanes like me Ascend, because from all I can see of you, the next generation of Shadowhunters is going to be nothing without us.”
He looked toward George, the way he looked to George to share jokes in class and over meals, to see if George agreed with him at all.
George was staring at his plate.
“Come on, man,” he muttered. “Don’t—don’t do this. They’ll make you move rooms. Just sit down, and everybody can apologize, and we can go on as we were.”
Simon took a deep breath, absorbed the disappointment, and said: “I don’t want things to go on as they were. I want things to change.”
He turned away from the table, from all of them, marched over to where the dean and Scarsbury were sitting, and announced at the top of his voice: “Dean Penhallow, I want to be placed in the stream for mundanes.”
“What?” Scarsbury exclaimed. “The dregs?”
The dean dropped her spoon into her soup with a noisy splash. “The mundane course, Mr. Scarsbury, if you please! Do not refer to our students in that manner. I’m glad you came to me with this, Simon,” she said after a moment of hesitation. “I understand you may be having difficulties with the course, given your mundane nature, but—”
“It’s not that I’m having difficulty,” said Simon. “It’s that I’d rather not associate with the elite Shadowhunter families. I just don’t think they’re my kind of people.”
His voice rang out against the stone ceiling. There were a lot of young kids staring at him. One was little Marisol, regarding him with a startled, thoughtful expression. Nobody said anything. They just looked.
“Okay, I’ve said all I had to say, I’m feeling bashful, and I’m gonna go now,” Simon said, and fled the room.
He almost walked right into Catarina Loss, who had been watching from the doorway.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“Don’t be,” Catarina said. “In fact, I’m going to come with you. I’ll help you pack.”
“What?” Simon asked, hurrying after her. “I actually have to move?”
“Yeah, they put the dregs in the underground level,” Catarina said.
“They put some kids in the dungeons, and nobody has ever pointed out that this is a disgusting system before now?”
“Is it?” asked Catarina. “Do tell me more about the Shadowhunters, and their occasional tendency to be unfair. I will find it fascinating and surprising. Their excuse is that the lower levels are easier to defend, for the kids who cannot fight as well as their fellow students.”
She strode into Simon’s room and looked around for his things.
“I actually haven’t unpacked very much,” Simon said. “I was afraid of the possum in the wardrobe.”
“The what?”
“George and I found it very mysterious too,” Simon told her earnestly, picking up his bag and stuffing in the few things he had left lying out. He wouldn’t want to forget his lady gear.
“Well,” Catarina said. “Whatever about possums. The point I want to make is . . . I may have gotten you wrong, Simon.”
Simon blinked. “Oh?”
Catarina smiled at him. It was astonishing, like a blue sunrise. “I was not looking forward to coming to teach here. Shadowhunters and Downworlders do not get along, and I try to keep myself more separated from the Nephilim even than most others of my kind. But I had a dear friend called Ragnor Fell, who used to live in Idris and taught in the Academy for decades before it was closed. He never had the greatest opinion of Shadowhunters, but he was fond of this place. I—lost him recently, and I knew this place could not operate without teachers. I wanted to do something in memory of him, even though I hated the idea of teaching a pack of arrogant Nephilim brats. But I loved my friend more than I hate Shadowhunters.”
Simon nodded. He thought of his remembrance of Jordan, thought of how it hurt to even look at Isabelle and Clary. Without memory, they were lost. And nobody wanted someone they loved to be lost.
“So I may have been a little cranky about coming,” Catarina admitted. “I may have been a little cranky about you, because—from all I know, you didn’t think much of being a vampire. And now you’re cured, what a miracle, and the Shadowhunters are so quick to pull you into the fold. You truly get to be one of them, what you always wanted. You had the stain of being one of us wiped away.”
“I didn’t . . . ,” Simon said, and swallowed. “I can’t remember it all. So it’s like defending the actions of someone else sometimes.”
“Must be frustrating.”
Simon laughed. “You have no idea. I don’t—I didn’t want to be a vampire, I don’t think. I wouldn’t want to be made one again. Being stuck at age sixteen when all my friends and my family would’ve grown up without me; having the urge to—to hurt people? I didn’t want any of that. But—look, I don’t remember much, but I remember enough. I remember I was a person back then, just as much as I am now. Becoming a Shadowhunter won’t change that, if I ever do become a Shadowhunter. I’ve forgotten enough. I will not forget that.”
He lifted his bag onto his shoulder, and gestured for Catarina to lead the way to his new room. She did, descending down stone steps Simon had figured were to the basement. He had not figured they kept kids in the basement.
It was dark on the stairs. Simon put a hand to the wall to steady himself, and then snatched it back.
“Oh, disgusting!”
“Yes, most of the subterranean surfaces are coated in black slime,” said Catarina, in a matter-of-fact tone. “Watch yourself.”
“Thank you. Thanks for that warning.”
“You’re welcome,” said Catarina, a hint of a laugh in her voice. For the first time, it occurred to Simon that Catarina might actually be nice. “You said—if you ever do become a Shadowhunter. Are you thinking about leaving?”
“Now that I’ve touched the slime, I am,” Simon muttered. “No. I don’t know what I want, except that I don’t want to give up yet.”
He almost reconsidered when Catarina led him to his room. It was much darker than the last room, though laid out in the same way. The wooden bedposts of the two narrow beds looked decayed, and in the corners of the room the black slime had grown almost viscous, turning into tiny black slime waterfalls.
“I don’t remember hell all that well,” Simon said. “But I think I recall it was nicer than this.”
Catarina laughed, then shocked Simon by leaning in and giving him a peck on the cheek. “Good luck, Daylighter,” she told him, laughing at his expression. “And whatever you do, don’t use the bathrooms on this floor. Not on any floor, obviously, but especially on this one!”
Simon did not ask her to explain, because he was terrified. He sat down on his new bed, and then stood hastily back up at the resulting long creak and cloud of dust. Hey, at least this time he didn’t have a roommate—he was king of this claustrophobic, slimy domain. He set his mind to unpacking. The wardrobe in this room was actually clean and empty, which was a definite improvement. Simon might go live in the wardrobe with his funny T-shirts.
He was long finished unpacking by the time George sauntered in, dragging his suitcase behind him and bearing his broken racket on his shoulder like a sword. “Hey, man.”
“Hey,” Simon said cautiously. “Er, what—what are you doing here?”
George dumped his suitcase and his racket on the slimy floor, and threw himself down on the bed. He stretched luxuriously, ignoring the ominous creak of the bed beneath him.
“The thing is, the advanced course is actually pretty hard,” George said, as Simon started to smile. “And you may have heard: Lovelaces are quitters.”