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It was dark on the stairs. Simon put a hand to the wall to steady himself, and then snatched it back.
"Oh, disgusting!"
"Yes, most of the subterranean surfaces are coated in black slime," said Catarina, in a matter-of-fact tone. "Watch yourself."
"Thank you. Thanks for that warning."
"You're welcome," said Catarina, a hint of a laugh in her voice. For the first time, it occurred to Simon that Catarina might actually be nice. "You said--if you ever do become a Shadowhunter. Are you thinking about leaving?"
"Now that I've touched the slime, I am," Simon muttered. "No. I don't know what I want, except that I don't want to give up yet."
He almost reconsidered when Catarina led him to his room. It was much darker than the last room, though laid out in the same way. The wooden bedposts of the two narrow beds looked decayed, and in the corners of the room the black slime had grown almost viscous, turning into tiny black slime waterfalls.
"I don't remember hell all that well," Simon said. "But I think I recall it was nicer than this."
Catarina laughed, then shocked Simon by leaning in and giving him a peck on the cheek. "Good luck, Daylighter," she told him, laughing at his expression. "And whatever you do, don't use the bathrooms on this floor. Not on any floor, obviously, but especially on this one!"
Simon did not ask her to explain, because he was terrified. He sat down on his new bed, and then stood hastily back up at the resulting long creak and cloud of dust. Hey, at least this time he didn't have a roommate--he was king of this claustrophobic, slimy domain. He set his mind to unpacking. The wardrobe in this room was actually clean and empty, which was a definite improvement. Simon might go live in the wardrobe with his funny T-shirts.
He was long finished unpacking by the time George sauntered in, dragging his suitcase behind him and bearing his broken racket on his shoulder like a sword. "Hey, man."
"Hey," Simon said cautiously. "Er, what--what are you doing here?"
George dumped his suitcase and his racket on the slimy floor, and threw himself down on the bed. He stretched luxuriously, ignoring the ominous creak of the bed beneath him.
"The thing is, the advanced course is actually pretty hard," George said, as Simon started to smile. "And you may have heard: Lovelaces are quitters."
*
Simon was even more relieved to have George the next day, so they could sit together rather than at one of the tables of thirteen-year-old mundanes, who were all giving them the side-eye when they were not whispering brokenly about their phones.
The day brightened further when Beatriz plopped down at their new table as well.
"I'm not going to drop out of advanced training to follow you around like Curlytop here," Beatriz announced, "but we can still be friends, right?"
She pulled George's hair affectionately.
"Be careful," George said in a tired, humble voice. "I did not sleep in our small, slimy room. There is, I believe, a creature living in our walls. I hear it. Scuttling. I have to admit, I may not have made the brightest decision in following Simon. It's possible I'm not that bright. It's possible that looks are all I have."
"Actually . . . even though I'm not willing to follow you into boring classes and the endless disrespect of my classmates . . . I think it was a very cool thing you did, Simon," said Beatriz.
She smiled, teeth flashing white against her brown skin, and her smile was warm and admiring,--about the nicest thing Simon had seen all day.
"You're right, our morals are sound even though our walls are infested. And we'll still have some interesting classes, Si," George said. "Plus, don't worry, we still get sent on missions to fight demons and rogue Downworlders."
Simon choked on his soup. "I was not worrying about that. Are any of our teachers at all worried that sending out people with no superpowers to fight demons might prove just a teeny bit, not to put too fine a point on it, fatal?"
"They have to face trials of courage before they must face Ascension," said Beatriz. "Better for them to drop out because they are scared, or even because a demon ate their leg, than to have them try to Ascend without being suitable, and die in the attempt."
"That's a cool, cheerful, and normal thing to say," Simon said. "Shadowhunters are great at saying normal things."
"Well, I'm looking forward to the missions," said George. "And tomorrow a Shadowhunter is coming in to give a guest lecture on the lesser utilized weapons. I hope there'll be a practical demonstration."
"Not in a classroom," said Beatriz. "Think of what one heavy-duty crossbow could do to the walls."
That was all the warning Simon got before he clattered happily into class the next day, George on his heels, and found Dean Penhallow already there, talking with nervous good cheer. The classroom was very full--both the regular stream and the mundane stream were in attendance.
"--despite her tender years, a Shadowhunter of some renown and noted expertise with less used weapons such as the whip. May I welcome to Shadowhunter Academy our first guest lecturer: Isabelle Lightwood!"
Isabelle turned, sleek black hair flaring around her shoulders and black skirt flaring around her pale legs. She was wearing glittery plum lipstick, so dark it looked almost black. Her eyes did look black, but another small knife of memory pierced Simon, of course at the worst time possible: he remembered the colors of her eyes from close up, very dark brown, like brown velvet, so close to black as to make no difference, but with paler rings of color . . .
He stumbled over to his desk, and folded into his chair with a thump.
*
When the dean left, Isabelle turned and regarded her class with absolute contempt.
"I am not actually here to instruct any of you idiots," she told them, walking up and down the rows of desks. "If you want to use a whip, train with one, and if you lose an ear, don't be a big whiny baby."
Several of the boys nodded, as if hypnotized. Almost all the boys were watching Isabelle as if they were a nest of snakes intent on being charmed. Some of the girls were watching her that way too.
"I am here," Isabelle announced, finishing her prowl of the perimeter and turning to face them all again with snapping eyes, "to determine my relationship."
Simon goggled. She couldn't be talking about him. Could she?
"Do you see that man?" Isabelle asked, pointing at Simon. Apparently she was talking about him. "That's Simon Lewis, and he is my boyfriend. So if any of you think about trying to hurt him because he's a mundie or--may the Angel have mercy on your soul--pursuing him romantically, I will come after you, I will hunt you down, and I will crush you to powder."
"We're just bros," said George hastily.
Beatriz edged her desk away from Simon's.
Isabelle lowered her hand. The flush of excitement was receding from her face as well, as though she had come to say what she had said, and now that she was out of adrenaline she was actually processing what had come out of her mouth.
"I am going to go now," Isabelle announced. "Thank you for your attention. Class dismissed."
She turned and walked out of the room.
"I have to--" Simon began, rising from his desk on legs that felt a little unsteady. "I have to go."
"Yeah, you do," George said.
Simon went out the door, and ran down the stone corridors of the Academy. He knew Isabelle was fast, so he ran, faster than he'd ever run on the training grounds, and he caught up to her in the hall. She stopped in the dim light of the stained-glass window as he called her name.
"Isabelle!"
She stood waiting for him. Her lips parted and gleamed, like plums under a winter frost, ready to be tasted. Simon could see himself running up to her, catching her in his arms, and kissing her mouth, knowing what it had taken for her to do that--his brave, brilliant Isabelle--and carried away in a whirl of love and joy, but he saw it as if through a pane of glass, as if looking into another dimension, one he could see but not quite touch.
Simon felt a hot p
ang of grief through his whole body, not just through his chest, as if he had been struck by lightning. But he had to say it.
"I'm not your boyfriend, Isabelle," he called out.
She went white. Simon was horrified by how badly his words had come out.
"I mean, I can't be your boyfriend, Isabelle," he said. "I'm not him--that guy who was your boyfriend. That guy you want."
He almost said: I wish I could be. He had wished he could be. That was why he had come to the Academy, to learn how to be that guy they all wanted back. He'd wanted to be that way, be an awesome hero like in a game or a movie. He'd been so sure, at first, that was what he wanted.
