Angels Twice Descending (5 page)

You might almost call them a family.

*    *    *

And then it began.

One by one the mundanes were summoned to the dais, where their professors stood in a somber line, waiting to shake their hands and wish them luck.

One by one the mundanes approached the double circles traced on the dais and knelt in their center, surrounded by runes. Two Silent Brothers stood by just in case something went wrong. Each time a mundane took position, they bent over the runes and scratched in a new one to symbolize that student's name. Then they returned to the edges of the dais again, statue-still in parchment robes, watching. Waiting.

Simon waited too as one by one his friends brought their lips to the Mortal Cup. As a blinding flare of blue light encompassed them, then faded away.

One by one.

Gen Almodovar. Thomas Daltrey. Marisol Garza.

Each student drank.

Each student survived.

The wait was interminable.

Except that when the Consul called his name, it felt much too soon.

Simon's feet were cement blocks. He forced himself toward the dais, one step at a time, his heartbeat pulsing like a subwoofer, making his whole body tremble. The professors shook his hand, even Delaney Scarsbury, who murmured, “Always knew you had it in you, Lewis.” A blatant lie. Catarina Loss gripped his hand tightly and pulled him close, her brilliant white hair sweeping his shoulder as her lips brushed his ear. “Finish what you started, Daylighter. You have the power to change these people for the better. Don't waste it.”

Like most things Catarina said to him, it didn't quite make sense, but some part of him still understood it completely.

Simon knelt at the center of the circles and reminded himself to breathe.

The Consul stood over him, her traditional red robe brushing the floor. He kept his eyes on the runes, but he could sense Clary out there rooting for him; he could hear the echo of George's laughter; he could feel the ghost of Izzy's warm touch on his skin. At the center of these circles, surrounded by runes, waiting for the blood of the divine to run through his veins and change him in some unfathomable way, Simon felt profoundly alone—and yet, at the same time, less alone than he'd ever been in his life.

His family was here, holding him up.

They would not let him fall.

“Do you swear, Simon Lewis, to forsake the mundane world and follow the path of the Shadowhunter?” Consul Penhallow asked. Simon had met the Consul before, when she'd delivered a lecture at the Academy, and again at her daughter's wedding to Helen Blackthorn. On both occasions she had seemed like your basic mom: brisk, efficient, nice enough, and none too surprising. But now she seemed fearsome and powerful, less an individual than the walking repository of millennia of Shadowhunter tradition. “Will you take into yourself the blood of the Angel Raziel and honor that blood? Do you swear to serve the Clave, to follow the Law as set forth by the Covenant, and to obey the word of the Council? Will you defend that which is human and mortal, knowing that for your service, there will be no recompense and no thanks but honor?”

For Shadowhunters, swearing was a matter of life and death. If he made this promise, there was no turning back to the life he'd once had, to Simon Lewis, mundane nerd, aspiring rock star. There were no more options to consider. There was only his oath, and a lifetime's effort to fulfill it.

Simon knew if he looked up he could meet Isabelle's eyes, or Clary's, and draw strength from them. He could silently ask them if this was the right path, and they would reassure him.

But this choice couldn't belong to them. It had to be his, and his alone.

He closed his eyes.

“I swear.” His voice did not shake.

“Can you be a shield for the weak, a light in the dark, a truth among falsehoods, a tower in the flood, an eye to see when all others are blind?”

Simon imagined all the history behind these words, all the Consuls before Jia Penhallow stretching back for decades and centuries, holding this same Cup before one mundane after another. So many mortals, volunteering to join the fight. They had always seemed so brave to Simon, risking their lives—sacrificing their futures to a greater cause—not because they'd been
born
into a great battle between good and evil, but because they had
chosen
not to live on the sidelines, letting others fight for them.

It occurred to him, if they were brave for making the choice, maybe he was too.

But it didn't feel like bravery, not now.

It simply felt like taking the next step forward. That simple.

That inevitable.

“I can,” Simon answered.

“And when you are dead, will you give up your body to the Nephilim to be burned, that your ashes may be used to build the City of Bones?”

Even the thought of this didn't frighten him. It seemed suddenly like an honor, that his body would live on in usefulness after death, that from this time forward, the Shadowhunter world would have a claim on him, for eternity.

“I will,” Simon said.

“Then drink.”

Simon took the Cup into his hands. It was even heavier than it looked and curiously warm to the touch. Whatever was inside it didn't look much like blood, fortunately, but it didn't look like anything else he recognized either. If he didn't know better, Simon would have said the Cup was full of light. As he peered down at it, the strange liquid almost seemed to pulse with a soft glow, as if to say,
Go ahead, drink me.

He couldn't remember the first time he'd seen the Mortal Cup—that was one of the memories still lost to him—but he knew the role it had played in his life, knew that if it weren't for the Cup, he and Clary might never have discovered the existence of Shadowhunters in the first place. It had all begun with the Mortal Cup; it seemed fitting that it should all end here too.

Not
end
, Simon thought quickly. Hopefully not
end
.

It was said that the younger you were, the less likely drinking from the Cup was to kill you. Simon was, subjectively, nineteen, but he'd recently learned that by Shadowhunter rules, he was only eighteen. The months he'd spent as a vampire apparently didn't count. He could only hope the Cup understood that.

“Drink,” the Consul repeated quietly, a note of humanity creeping into her voice.

Simon raised the Cup to his lips.

He drank.

*    *    *

He is tangled in Isabelle's arms, he is curtained by Isabelle's hair, he is touching Isabelle's body, he is lost in Isabelle, in her smell and her taste and the silk of her skin.

He is onstage, the music pounding, the floor shaking, the audience cheering, his heart beating beating beating in time with the drumbeat.

He is laughing with Clary, dancing with Clary, eating with Clary, running through the streets of Brooklyn with Clary, they are children together, they are one half of a whole, they hold hands and squeeze tight and pledge never to let go.

He is going cold, stiff, the life draining out of him, he is below, in the dark, clawing his way to the light, fingernails scraping dirt, mouth filled with dirt, eyes clogged with dirt, he is straining, reaching, dragging himself up toward the sky, and when he reaches it, he opens his mouth wide but does not breathe, for he no longer needs to breathe, only to feed. And he is so very hungry.

He is sinking his teeth into the neck of an angel's child, he is drinking the light.

He is bearing a Mark, and it burns.

He is raising his face to meet the gaze of an angel, he is flayed by the fury of angel fire, and yet still, impudent and bloodless, he lives.

He is in a cage.

He is in hell.

He is bent over the broken body of a beautiful girl, he is praying to whatever god that will listen, please let her live, anything to let her live.

He is giving away that which is most precious to him, and he is doing so willingly, so that his friends will survive.

He is, again, with Isabelle, always with Isabelle, the holy flame of their love encompassing them both, and there is pain, and there is exquisite joy, and his veins burn with angel fire and he is the Simon he once was and the Simon he then became and the Simon he now will be, he endures and he is reborn, he is blood and flesh and a spark of the divine.

He is Nephilim.

*    *    *

Simon didn't see the flash of light he'd expected—he saw only the flood of memories, a tidal wave that threatened to drown him in the past. It wasn't simply a lifetime that passed before his eyes; it was an eternity, all the versions of himself that ever could have been, that ever would be. And then it was over. His mind stilled. His soul quieted. And his memories—the parts of himself he'd feared were lost forever—had come home.

He'd spent two years trying to convince himself that it was okay if he never remembered, that he could live with piecing together the fragments of his past, relying on others to tell him about the person he'd once been. But it had never felt right. The empty hole in his memory was like a missing limb; he'd learned to compensate, but he'd never stopped feeling the absence or its pain.

Now, finally, he was whole again.

He was more than whole, he realized, as the Consul said proudly, “You are Nephilim now. I name you Simon Shadowhunter, of the blood of Jonathan Shadowhunter, child of the Nephilim.” It was a placeholder name, until he chose a new one for himself. Moments before, that had seemed unthinkable, but now it simply felt true. He was the same person he'd always been . . . and yet. He wasn't Simon Lewis anymore. He was someone new.

“Arise.”

He felt . . . he didn't know how he felt, except stunned. Filled with joy and confusion and what felt like a flickering light, growing brighter by the second.

He felt strong.

He felt ready.

He felt like his abs were still pretty much only a two-pack, but he supposed even a magic cup could get you only so far.

The Consul cleared her throat. “Arise,” she said again. Then she lowered her voice to a whisper. “That means you stand up and give someone else a turn.”

Simon was still trying to shake off his joyous daze as he made his way back to the others. George was next, and as they passed each other, he gave Simon a surreptitious high five.

Simon wondered what George would see inside the light, if it would be as wondrous. He wondered whether, after the ceremony was over, they would compare notes—or if this was the kind of thing you were supposed to keep to yourself. He supposed there was probably some kind of Shadowhunter protocol to follow—the Shadowhunters had a protocol for everything.

We,
he corrected himself wryly.
We have a protocol for everything.

This would take some getting used to.

George was on his knees inside the circles, the Mortal Cup in his hands. It was strange, being a Shadowhunter while George was still a mundane, as if there was now an invisible divide between them.
This is the farthest apart we'll ever be,
Simon thought, and silently urged his roommate to hurry up and drink.

The Consul said the traditional words. George swore his oath of loyalty to the Shadowhunters without hesitation, drew in a deep breath, then jauntily raised the Mortal Cup as if giving a toast.
“Slàinte!”
he shouted, and as his friends broke into indulgent laughter, he took a slug.

Simon was still laughing when the screaming began.

The room fell dead silent, but inside Simon's mind, there was a siren of pain. An inhuman, unearthly scream.

George's scream.

On the dais, George and the Consul were engulfed in an impossible flash of blinding darkness. When it faded away, the Consul was on her feet, the Silent Brothers already by her side, all of them peering down at something horrible, something with the shape of a person, but not its face and not its skin. Something with black veins bulging through cracking flesh, something with the Mortal Cup still clenched in its rigid fist, some withered, writhing, crumbling creature with George's hair and George's sneakers, but in place of George's smile, a tortured, toothless rictus leaking something too black to be blood.
Not George,
Simon thought furiously as the thing stopped jerking and trembling and fell still. And somehow, in Simon's head, George screamed and screamed.

The chamber was a storm of motion—responsible adults hustling students out of the room, gasps and cries and shrieks—but Simon barely registered any of it. He was moving forward, toward the thing that couldn't be George, pressing toward the dais with Shadowhunter strength and Shadowhunter speed. Simon was going to save his roommate, because he was a Shadowhunter now, and that's what Shadowhunters do.

He didn't notice Catarina Loss come up behind him, not until her hands were on his shoulders, her grip light enough that he should have been able to break free—but he couldn't move.

“Let go of me!” Simon raged. The Silent Brothers were kneeling by the thing now, the body, but they weren't
doing
anything for it. They weren't helping. They were just staring fixedly at the spiderweb of inky veins spreading across flesh. “I have to help him!”

“No.” Catarina's hand feathered across his forehead and the screaming in his mind fell silent. She was still holding on; he still couldn't move. He was a Shadowhunter, but she was a warlock. He was helpless. “It's too late.”

Simon couldn't watch the black veins eat up skin or the hollow eyes melt into the skull. He focused on the sneakers. George's sneakers. One was untied, as it often was. Just that morning George had tripped over the laces, and Simon had caught him from falling. “The last time you'll save me,” George had said with another of his wistful sighs, and Simon had shot back, “Not likely.”