“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’s 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.