All the trees seemed to be whispering about demons.
But Matthew was at his side, and both of them were armed. He could trust himself to kill a small, almost powerless demon, and if he could trust himself, he could trust Matthew more.
They waited, and walked, then waited. There was a rustle among the trees: It turned out to be a combination of wind and a single rabbit.
“Maybe the upper years forgot to lay out our demon buffet,” Matthew suggested. “It is a beautiful springtime day. At such times as these, one’s thoughts are filled with love and blossoms, not demons. Who am I to judge—”
Matthew was abruptly quiet. He clutched James’s arm, fingers tight, and James stared down at what Matthew had discovered in the heather.
It was Clive Cartwright, Alastair’s friend. He was dead.
His eyes were open, staring into nothing, and in one hand he was clutching an empty Pyxis box.
James grabbed Matthew’s arm and turned him in a circle, looking around, waiting. He could tell what had happened: Let’s give Demon Eyes a scare, a demon won’t hurt its own kind, let’s chase him away once and for all with a demon larger than he was expecting.
He could not tell what kind of demon it was, but that question was answered when the demon came toward them through the wild woods.
It was a Vetis demon, its shape almost human but not quite, dragging its gray, scaly body through the fallen leaves. James saw the eel-like heads on its arms lifting, like the heads of pointer dogs out hunting.
James slipped from skin to shadow without a thought, like plunging into water to rescue someone, as easy as that. He ran unseen at the Vetis demon and, raising his sword, cleaved one questing head from its arm. He turned to face the head on the other arm. He was going to call to Matthew, but when he glanced back he saw Matthew clearly, despite the sparkling grayness of the world. Matthew already had his bow out, strung and raised. He could see Matthew’s narrowed eyes, the determined focus that always lay behind the laughter, and remained when his laughter was stripped away.
Matthew shot the Vetis demon in the red-eyed, sharp-toothed face that sat atop its neck, just as James cut the other head from its remaining arm. The demon lurched, then fell over sideways, twitching.
And James raced through the trees, through the wind and the whispering, afraid of nothing, with Matthew running behind him. He found Alastair and his remaining friend, hiding behind a tree. He crept up to them, a shadow among the whirling shadows of wind-tossed trees, and held his sword to Alastair’s throat.
While James was touching the sword, nobody could see it. But Alastair felt the sharpness of the blade and gasped.
“We didn’t mean for any of this to happen!” cried Alastair’s friend, looking around wildly. Alastair was wise enough to stay quiet. “It was Clive’s idea—he said he would finally get you to leave—he only meant to scare you.”
“Who’s scared?” James whispered, and the whisper came from nowhere. He heard the older boys gasp in fear. “I’m not the one who’s scared. If you come after me again, I won’t be the one who suffers. Run!”
The pair that had once been a trio stumbled away. James pressed one hand around the hilt of his sword, against the bark of the tree, and willed himself back into a world of solidity and sunshine. He found Matthew looking at him. Matthew had known, all the time, exactly where he was.
“Jamie,” Matthew said, sounding unsettled but impressed. “That was terrifying.”
“It’s James, for the last time,” said James.
“No, I’m calling you Jamie for a little while, because you just displayed arcane power and calling you Jamie makes me feel better.”
James laughed, shakily, and that made Matthew smile. It did not occur to them until later that a student was dead, and the Shadowhunters feared and distrusted the demonic—that somebody would be blamed. James did not discover until the next day that his parents had been informed of everything that had transpired, and that he, James Herondale, was now officially expelled.
They kept him in the infirmary until his father came. They did not say this was because the infirmary had bars on its doors.
Esme came and gave James a hug, and promised to look him up when she Ascended.
Ragnor Fell entered, his tread heavy, and for a moment James thought he was going to be asked for his homework. Instead Ragnor stood over his bed and shook his horned head slowly from side to side.
“I waited for you to ask me for help,” Ragnor told him. “I thought perhaps you might make a warlock.”
“I never wanted to be anything but a Shadowhunter,” James said helplessly.
Ragnor said, sounding disgusted as usual: “You Shadowhunters never do.”
Christopher and Thomas visited. Christopher brought a fruit basket, under the mistaken impression that James was in the infirmary because he was unwell. Thomas apologized for Christopher several times.
James did not see Matthew, however, until his father arrived. Father did not come on a mission to charm the dean. His face was grim as he escorted James through the shining gray walls of the Academy, under the flaming colors of the stained-glass angel, for the last time. He stalked down stairs and through halls as if defying someone to insult James.
James knew nobody ever would, not in front of Father. They would whisper behind his back, whisper in James’s ear, his whole life long.
“You should have told us, Jamie,” said Father. “But Jem explained to us why you did not.”
“How is Mother?” James whispered.
“She cried when Jem told her, and said you were her sweet boy,” said Father. “I believe she may be planning to strangle you and then bake you a cake afterward.”
“I like cake,” James said at last.
All that suffering, all that nobly trying to spare her, and for what? James thought, as he walked out the door of the Academy. He had saved her only a month or two of pain. He hoped that did not mean he was a failure: He hoped Uncle Jem would still think it was worthwhile.
He saw Matthew standing in the courtyard, hands in his pockets, and brightened up. Matthew had come to say good-bye, after all. It did feel worthwhile to have stayed, after all, to have made a friend like this.
“Are you expelled?” Matthew asked, which James thought was slightly obtuse.
“Yes?” he said, indicating his father and his trunk.
“I thought you were,” said Matthew, nodding vigorously so his much-brushed hair went tumbling every which way. “So I had to act. But I wanted to make absolutely certain. You see, James, the thing is—”
“Isn’t that Alastair Carstairs?” asked Father, perking up.
Alastair did not meet James’s eyes as he slunk toward him. He definitely did not respond to Father’s beaming smile. He seemed very interested in the flagstones of the courtyard.
“I just wanted to say . . . sorry for everything,” he mumbled. “Good luck.”