The Fair Folk had been seen last on a moor in Devon. Simon was a bit excited to Portal there and hoped there would be time to see red postboxes and drink lager at an English pub.
Instead, the moor turned out to be a huge stretch of uneven field, rocks, and hills in the distance, no red postboxes or quaint pubs in sight. They were immediately given horses by the contact with the Sight who was waiting for them.
Lots of fields, lots of horses. Simon was not sure why they had bothered to leave the Academy, because this was an identical experience.
The first words George said as they were riding on the moor were: “I think it would be a good idea to split up.”
“Like in . . . a horror movie?” Simon asked.
Julie, Beatriz, and Jon gave him looks of irritated incomprehension. Marisol’s uncertain expression suggested she agreed with Simon, but she did not speak up and Simon didn’t want to be the one mutinying against his friend’s leadership. They would cover more moor if they split up. Maybe it was a great idea. More moor! How could it go wrong?
“I’ll be partners with Jon,” Marisol said instantly, a glint in her dark eyes. “I wish to continue our conversation from breakfast. I have many more things to say to him on the subject of video games.”
“I don’t want to hear any more about video games, Marisol!” snapped Jon, a Shadowhunter in a nightmare of torrential mundane information.
Marisol smiled. “I know.”
Marisol had only just turned fifteen. Simon was not sure how she had worked out that telling Jon every detail about the mundane world would be such effective psychological terrorism. Her evil had only grown in the year and change Simon had known her. Simon had to respect that.
“And Si and I will be together,” George said easily.
“Um,” said Simon.
Neither he nor George was a Shadowhunter yet, and though Catarina helped them see through glamours, no mundane . . . er, non-Shadowhunter . . . was as securely protected from faerie glamour as one of the Nephilim. But Simon didn’t want to question George’s authority or suggest he didn’t want to be partners. He was also scared of being partnered with Julie, and beaten about the head and face.
“Great,” Simon finished weakly. “Maybe we can split up but also stay . . . within hearing range of each other?”
“You want to split up but stay together?” Jon asked. “Do you not know what words mean?”
“Do you know what the words ‘World of Warcraft’ mean?” asked Marisol menacingly.
“Yes, I do,” said Jon. “All put together in that way, no, I do not, and I do not wish to.”
He urged his horse onward across the moor. Marisol followed in pursuit. Simon stared at the back of Jon’s head and worried he would go too far.
Except that they were meant to be splitting up. This was all right.
George gazed around at the remaining members of the team and appeared to come to a decision. “We’ll stay within hearing range of each other, and comb over the moors, and see if we can see the Fair Folk in any of the places they were reported lurking. Are you with me, team?”
“I’m with you to the end, if it doesn’t take too long! You know I’m going to Helen Blackthorn and Aline Penhallow’s wedding,” said Simon.
“Ugh, hate weddings,” said George sympathetically. “You have to wear a monkey suit and go sit around for ages while everybody secretly hates each other over some fight about the flower arrangements. Plus, bagpipes. I mean, I don’t know how Shadowhunter weddings go. Are there flowers? Are there bagpipes?”
“Can’t talk right now,” said Beatriz. “Picturing Jace Herondale in a tuxedo. In my head, he looks like a beautiful spy.”
“James Bond,” George contributed. “James Blond? I still don’t like monkey suits. But it doesn’t seem like you mind, Si.”
Simon lifted a hand from the reins to point proudly to himself, a maneuver that would’ve had him falling off his horse a year ago. “This monkey is going as Isabelle Lightwood’s date.”
Just saying the words suffused Simon with a sense of well-being. In such a wonderful world, how could anything go wrong?
He looked around at his team: the whole lot of them, wearing long-sleeved gear against the autumn chill, figures in black with bows strapped to their backs and their breath white plumes in the cold air, riding fast horses through the moors on a mission to protect humankind. His three friends by his side, and Jon and Marisol in the distance. George, so proud to be team leader. Marisol, scornful city kid, riding her horse with easy grace. Even Beatriz and Julie, even Jon, born Shadowhunters all, looked a little different to Simon, now that they were well into their second year at the Academy. Scarsbury had honed them, Catarina had lectured them, and even their fellow Academy students had changed them. Now the born Shadowhunters rode with mundanes and performed missions with them as a unit, and the so-called dregs could keep up.
The moor was rolling fields, tree line to their left all quivering leaves as if the trees were dancing in the slight breeze. The sunlight was pale and clear, shining on their heads and their black clothes alike. Simon found himself thinking, with affection and pride, that they looked like they might make real Shadowhunters after all.
He noticed that by silent mutual agreement, Beatriz and Julie were coaxing their mounts on faster. Simon squinted up into the distance, where he could just about still make out Jon and Marisol, and then squinted at Beatriz’s and Julie’s backs. He felt again that pang of uneasiness.
“Why are they all racing ahead?” Simon asked. “Um, not to tell you your job, but, brave team leader, maybe command them not to go too far.”
“Ah, give them a minute,” George said. “You know she kind of likes you.”
“What?” said Simon.
“Not that she’s going to do anything about it,” said George. “Nobody who likes you is going to do anything about it. On account of, nobody would enjoy having Isabelle Lightwood cut their head off.”
“Likes me?” Simon echoed. “Something about the way you’re talking suggests multiple people. Who like me.”
George shrugged. “Apparently you’re the type who grows on people. Don’t ask me. I thought girls liked abs.”
“I could have abs,” Simon told him. “I watched in the mirror once and I think I found an ab. I’m telling you, all this training is doing my body good.”
It wasn’t like Simon thought he was a hideous creature or anything. He’d now seen several demons who had tentacles coming out of their eyes, and he was fairly sure it did not revolt people merely to look upon him.
But he wasn’t Jace, who made girls’ heads spin around as if they were possessed. It made no sense that out of all the students in the Academy, Beatriz might like him.
George rolled his eyes. George did not truly understand the slow development of actual physical fitness. He’d probably been born with abs. Some were born with abs, some achieved abs, and some—like Simon—had abs thrust upon them by cruel instructors.