Not likely, Simon reminded himself. George was adopted, not a Lovelace by blood. And for Shadowhunters—presumably even the dead ones who haunted British gardens—everything came down to blood.
“Simon—” Isabelle pressed her lips to his cheek. “I know how much you . . . I know he was like your brother. I wish I could have known him better.”
Clary squeezed his hand. “Me too.”
Both of them, Simon was reminded, had also lost a brother.
And both of them cared about more than just bloodlines. Both understood that family could be a matter of choice—a matter of love. So did Alec and Magnus, who’d taken someone else’s child into their home and their hearts. So did the Lightwoods, who’d adopted Jace when he had no one else.
And so did Simon, who was now a Shadowhunter himself. Who could change what it meant to be a Shadowhunter just by making new choices. Better choices.
He understood now why he’d felt the need to come here, almost as if he’d been summoned. Not to say good-bye to George but to find a way to hold on to a piece of him.
“I think I know what I want my Shadowhunter name to be,” he said.
“Simon Lovelace,” Clary said, as always, knowing his mind as well as he did. “It has a certain ring to it.”
Isabelle’s lips quirked. “A sexy ring.”
Simon laughed and blinked away a tear. For one blurry-eyed moment, he thought he saw George grinning through the mist again, and then he was gone. George Lovelace was gone.
But Simon Lovelace was still here, and it was time to make that count.
“I’m ready,” he told Clary and Isabelle, the two wonders who had changed his life, the two warriors who would risk anything and everything for those they loved, the two girls who had become his heroes and his family. “Let’s go home.”