He had, in his year at the Academy, learned to fight almost as well as any beginning Shadowhunter, and had a proficiency with every weapon she’d named. But he’d discovered that knowing how to use a weapon was very different from wanting to. In his pre-Shadowhunter life, Simon had delivered many passionate rants on the subject of gun control, and would have loved nothing more than for every weapon in the city to be dumped into the East River. Not that a gun was the same as a sword, and not that he didn’t love the feel of unleashing an arrow from his bow and watching it fly swiftly and surely into the heart of his target. But the way Isabelle loved her whip, the way Clary talked about her sword, like it was a member of the family . . . the Shadowhunter passion for deadly weapons still took some getting used to.
Diana’s Arrow, a weapons shop on Flintlock Street at the heart of Alicante, was full of more deadly objects than Simon had ever seen in one place—and that included the Academy weapons room, which could have supplied an army. But while the Academy arsenal was more like a storage closet, swords and daggers and arrows piled in haphazard stacks and crowded onto dangerously rickety shelves, Diana’s Arrow reminded Simon of a fancy jewelry store. The weapons were on proud display, shining blades fanned across velvet cases, the better to show off their metallic gleam.
“So, what kind of thing are you looking for?” The guy behind the counter had a spiky Mohawk and a faded Arcade Fire T-shirt and looked more suited to a comic-book counter than this one. Simon assumed this probably wasn’t Diana.
“How about a bow?” Izzy said. “Something really spectacular. Fit for a champion.”
“Maybe not that spectacular,” Simon said quickly. “Maybe something a little more . . . unobtrusive.”
“People often underestimate the importance of good battle style,” Isabelle said. “You want to intimidate the enemy before you even make a move.”
“You don’t think my intimidating wardrobe will do the job there?” Simon gestured at his own T-shirt, which featured an anime cat spewing green puke.
Isabelle gave him what sounded like a pity laugh, then turned back to not-Diana. “What have you got in daggers?” she asked. “Anything gold plated?”
“I’m not really a gold-plated kind of guy,” Simon said. “Or, uh, a dagger kind of guy.”
“We have some nice swords,” the guy said.
“You do look hot with a sword,” Isabelle said. “As I recall.”
“Maybe?” Simon tried to sound encouraging, but she must have heard the skepticism in his voice.
She turned on him. “It’s like you don’t even want a weapon.”
“Well . . .”
“So what are we doing here?” Isabelle snapped.
“You suggested it?”
Isabelle looked like she wanted to stomp her foot—or stomp his face. “Excuse me for trying to help you behave like a respectable Shadowhunter. Forget it. We can go.”
“No!” he said quickly. “That’s not what I meant.”
With Isabelle, it was never what he meant. Simon had always considered himself a man of words, as opposed to a man of deeds. Or of swords, for that matter. His mother liked to say he could talk her into almost anything. All he could do with Isabelle, it seemed, was talk himself out of a girlfriend.
“I’ll, ah, just give the two of you some space to look around,” the shopkeeper said, backing quickly away from the awkward. He disappeared into the back.
“I’m sorry,” Simon said. “Let’s stay, please. Of course I want your help picking something out.”
She sighed. “No, I’m sorry. Choosing your first weapon is a really personal thing. I get it. Take your time, look around. I’ll shut up.”
“I don’t want you to shut up,” he said.
But she shook her head and zipped her lips shut. Then raised three fingers in the air—Scout’s honor. Which didn’t seem like a Shadowhunter thing, and Simon wondered who had taught her to do that.
He wondered if it had been him.
Sometimes he hated before-Simon and all the things he’d shared with Isabelle, things today-Simon could never understand. It was weird and headache inducing, competing with yourself.
They browsed the store, taking in the options: polearms, athames, seraph blades, elaborately carved crossbows, chakhrams, throwing knives, a full display case of golden whips, over which Isabelle nearly began to drool.
The silence was oppressive. Simon had never had a good date—at least not that he could recall—but he was pretty sure they tended to involve some talking.
“Poor Helen,” he said, testing the heft and balance of a medieval-looking broadsword. At least this was one subject they were sure to agree on.
“I hate what they’re doing to her,” Isabelle said. She was stroking a deadly-looking silver kindjal as if it were a puppy. “How was it, in class? Was it as bad as I imagine?”
“Worse,” Simon admitted. “The look on her face, when she was telling the story of her parents . . .”
Isabelle’s grip tightened around the kindjal. “Why can’t they see how hideous it is to treat her like this? She’s not a faerie.”
“Well, that’s not really the point, is it?”
Isabelle laid the kindjal down carefully in its velvet case. “What do you mean?”
“Whether or not she’s a faerie. It’s beside the point.”
She fixed Simon with a fiery gaze. “Helen Blackthorn is a Shadowhunter,” she spit out. “Mark Blackthorn is a Shadowhunter. If we can’t agree on that, we have a problem.”
“Of course we agree on that.” It made him love her all the more, seeing how angry she got on behalf of her friends. Why couldn’t he just say that to her? Why was everything so hard? “They’re as much Shadowhunters as you are. I just mean that even if they weren’t, if we were talking about some actual faerie, it still wouldn’t be right to treat her like she’s the enemy, because of what she was, right?”
“Well . . .”
Simon was astonished. “What do you mean, ‘well . . .’?”
“I mean that maybe any faerie is potentially an enemy, Simon. Look what they did to us. Look how much misery they caused.”
“They didn’t all cause that misery—but they’re all paying for it.”
Isabelle sighed. “Look, I don’t like the Cold Peace any more than you do. And you’re right, not all faeries are the enemy. Obviously. Not all of them betrayed us, and it’s not fair that they should all be punished for that. You think I don’t know that?”
“Good,” Simon said.
“But—”
“I really don’t see how there can be a ‘but,’??” Simon cut in.
“But it’s not as simple as you’re trying to make it. The Seelie Queen did betray us. A legion of faeries did join Sebastian in the Dark War. A lot of good Shadowhunters got killed. You’ve got to see why that would leave people angry. And afraid.”
Stop talking, Simon told himself. His mother had once told him you should never discuss religion or politics on a date. He was never quite sure which one of those categories Clave policies fell into, but either way, this was like trying to defend J. J. Abrams to a hard-core Trekkie: hopeless.
But inexplicably, and despite the sincere wishes of his brain, Simon’s mouth kept moving. “I don’t care how angry or scared you get, it’s not right to punish all the faeries for a few faeries’ mistakes. Or to discriminate against people—”
“I’m not saying anyone should discriminate—”
“Actually, that’s exactly what you’re saying.”
“Oh, great, Simon. So the Seelie Queen and her minions screw us over and enable the death of hundreds of Shadowhunters, not to mention the ones they slaughtered themselves, and I’m the terrible person?”
“I didn’t say you were a terrible person.”
“You’re thinking it,” she said.
“Would you stop telling me what I think?” he barked, more harshly than he’d intended.
Her mouth snapped shut.
She took a deep breath.
He counted to ten.