“I was not concerned you were going to be eaten by bears in the deep dark woods,” said Scarsbury, who did not look as if he had ever been concerned about anything in his life, ever.
“Of course you weren’t, that would be abs—”
“You had your dagger,” added Scarsbury casually, and walked away, leaving Simon to call after him.
“My—my bear-killing dagger? Do you really think me killing bears with a dagger is a plausible scenario? What information do you have about bears in these woods? I think it’s your responsibility as an educator to tell me if there are bears in the woods.”
“See you at javelin practice bright and early, Lewis,” said Scarsbury, and marched on without looking back.
“Are there bears in the woods?” Simon repeated to himself. “It’s a simple question. Why are Shadowhunters so bad at simple questions?”
* * *
The days passed in a blur of horrible violent activity. If it wasn’t javelin practice, Simon was getting thrown around a room (George was very apologetic later, but that did not help). If it wasn’t dagger work, it was more swordplay and humiliating defeat before the blades of tiny, evil trainee Shadowhunters. If it wasn’t swordplay, it was the obstacle course, and Simon refused to speak of the obstacle course. Julie and Jon were growing noticeably cool at mealtimes, and a few comments about mundies were passed.
At last Simon staggered wearily to the next exercise in futility and sharp objects, and Scarsbury placed a bow in his hands.
“I want everyone to try to hit the targets,” said Scarsbury. “And, Lewis, I want you to try not to hit any of the other trainees.”
Simon felt the weight of the bow in his hands. It had a nice balance, he thought, easy to lift and manipulate. He nocked the arrow, and felt the tautness of the string, ready to release, primed to let it fly along the path Simon wanted.
He drew his arm back, and it was that easy: bull’s-eye. He fired once more, and then again, arrows flying to find their targets, and his arms burned and his heart pounded with something like joy. He was glad to be able to feel his muscles working and his heart thumping. He was so glad to be alive again, and able to feel every moment of this.
Simon lowered his bow to find everybody staring at him.
“Can you do that again?” asked Scarsbury.
He’d learned to shoot arrows in summer camp, but standing here holding a bow, he remembered something else. He remembered breathing, his heart beating, Shadowhunters watching him. He’d still been human then, a mundane they all despised, but he’d killed a demon. He remembered: He’d seen something had to be done, and he’d done it.
A guy not so different from who he was now.
Simon felt a smile spread across his face, hurting his cheeks. “Yeah. I think I can.”
Julie and Jon were both much more friendly over dinner than they had been for the last few days. Simon told them about killing the demon, what he remembered, and Jon offered to teach him some swordplay tricks.
“I would really love to hear more about your adventures,” said Julie. “Whatever you can remember. Especially if they involve Jace Herondale. Do you know how he got that sexy scar on his throat?”
“Ah,” said Simon. “Actually . . . yes. Actually . . . that was me.”
Everybody stared at him.
“I might have bitten him. A tiny bit. It was more like a nibble, really.”
“Was he delicious?” asked Julie, after a thoughtful pause. “He looks like he would be delicious.”
“Um,” said Simon. “He’s not a juice box.”
Beatriz nodded earnestly. Both the girls seemed very interested in this discussion. Too interested. Their eyes were glazed.
“Did you maybe climb on top of him slowly and then lower your head to his tender, pulsing throat?” Beatriz said. “Could you feel the heat radiating off his body and into yours?”
“Did you lick his throat before you bit him?” Julie asked. “Oh, and did you get a chance to feel his biceps?” She shrugged. “I’m just curious about, you know, vampire techniques.”
“I imagine Simon was both gentle and commanding during his special moment with Jace,” said Beatriz dreamily. “I mean, it was special, wasn’t it?”
“No!” said Simon. “I can’t stress that enough. I’ve bitten several Shadowhunters. I bit Isabelle Lightwood and Alec Lightwood; biting Jace was not a tender and unique moment!”
“You bit Isabelle and Alec Lightwood?!” asked Julie, who was starting to sound freaked-out. “What did the Lightwoods ever do to you?”
“Wow,” said George. “I imagined the demon realms were fearsome and terrifying, but seems like it was pretty much nonstop nom nom nom.”
“That is not how it was!” Simon said.
“Can we stop talking about this?” Jon demanded, his voice sharp. “I’m sure you all did what you had to do, but the idea of Shadowhunters being prey for a Downworlder is disgusting.”
Simon did not love the way Jon said “Downworlder,” as if the words “Downworlder” and “disgusting” were more or less the same thing. But maybe it was natural for Jon to be disturbed. Simon could remember being disturbed about it himself. Simon hadn’t wanted to make his friends into his prey, either.
Today had gone pretty well. Simon didn’t want to ruin it. He decided he was in a good enough mood to let it go.
Simon felt better about the Academy until that night, when he woke from a doze to a deluge of memory.
The memories hit like that sometimes, not in sharp tiny jabs but in an insistent and terrible cascade. He had thought of his former roommate before. He’d known he’d had a friend, a roommate, named Jordan, and that Jordan had been killed. But he hadn’t recalled the feelings of it—the way Jordan had taken him in when his mother had barred her door, talking about Maia with Jordan, hearing Clary laugh that Jordan was cute, talking to Jordan, patient and kind and always seeing Simon as more than a job, more than a vampire. He remembered seeing Jordan and Jace snarl at each other and then play video games like idiots, and Jordan finding him sleeping in a garage, and Jordan looking at Maia with such regret.
And he remembered holding Jordan’s Praetor Lupus pendant in his hands, in Idris, after Jordan was dead. Simon had held that pendant again since then, once he had regained some of his memories, feeling the weight of it and wondering what the Latin motto meant.
He had known Jordan was his roommate, and known he was one of the many casualties of the war.
He had never truly felt the weight of it, until now.
The sheer weight of memory made him feel as if stones were being piled on his chest, crushing him. Simon couldn’t breathe. He erupted from his sheets, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his feet hitting the stone floor with a shock of cold.
“Wuzz—wuzzit?” mumbled George. “Did the possum come back?”
“Jordan’s dead,” Simon said bleakly, and put his face in his hands.
There was a silence.
George did not ask him who Jordan had been, or why he suddenly cared. Simon would not have known how to explain the tangle of grief and guilt in his chest: how he hated himself for forgetting Jordan, even though he could not have helped it, how this was like finding out Jordan was dead for the first time and like having a scarred-over wound reopened, both at once. There was a bitter taste in Simon’s mouth, like old, old blood.
George reached out and put a hand on Simon’s shoulder. He kept it there, grip firm, hand warm and steady, something to anchor Simon in the cold, dark night of memory.