The Fiery Trial (3 page)

“Okay,” Simon said to himself. “You have been in worse situations than this. This is just weird. That’s all. Just weird. Just very, very weird. Weird’s okay. Weird’s normal.

“I am in some kind of dream. Something has happened. And I’m going to figure this out. What would I do if this were D and D?”

It was as good a question as any, except the answer had to do with rolling a D20, so maybe it wasn’t actually that helpful.

“Is this a trap? Why would they send us to a trap? It must be a game. It’s a puzzle. If she was in trouble, I’d know.”

That was interesting. He had the sudden and complete knowledge that if Clary were hurt, he would absolutely know it. He didn’t feel any hurt. He did feel an absence, a pull to locate her.

As this thought occurred to him, a very unusual thing happened—namely, the great stone angel of Bethesda Fountain flapped her wings and flew straight up into the night sky. As she flew, the base of the fountain remained connected to her feet and pulled up the fountain like it was a plant. The massive reservoir of the fountain became unmoored and started to pull toward the sky. The bricks and mortar tore, and a root network of pipes was revealed, and a raw hole in the earth that rapidly filled with water. The ice on the lake cracked all at once, and the entire terrace started to flood. Simon backed up toward the steps as the water spilled out. He retreated slowly, step by step, until the water evened. The lake now incorporated the terrace, eight steps high. The fountain and the angel were gone.

“That,” Simon said, “was weirder than normal.”

As he spoke, a sound seemed to tear the night in two. It was a chord, a pure, thundering harmonic that rattled the tympanic bones in his head and physically shook him to his knees. The clouds scattered, as if in fear, and the moon shone clear and full above him. It was a bright yellow, so bright he could barely look at it. He had to shield his eyes and look down.

There was a rowboat. This was not so mysterious—it had come loose from the boathouse, not far away. All of the boats were floating freely, excited to be out on their own for the evening. But this boat had come all the way over and bumped up next to where he was standing.

Also, unlike all of the other rowboats, this one was shaped like a swan.

“I take it I’m supposed to get in,” he said, flinching, in case the sky decided to make any more terrifying noises. There was no reply from the sky, so Simon grabbed the neck of the swan with both hands and carefully stepped inside and sat in the middle. The water couldn’t be very deep. He would certainly be able to stand in it if the boat capsized. But still—freezing night, flying fountain, magic boat, and missing Clary. No reason to add “falling into cold water” to the mix.

As soon as he was in it, the little swan boat bobbed off, as if it knew it had somewhere to be. It drifted into the lake, avoiding the other loose boats. Simon huddled in, wrapping his arms around himself as he took his cold, gentle journey on the lake. The surface was utterly smooth, reflecting the moon and clouds. Simon hadn’t ever done this before. The whole “boating in Central Park” thing seemed like it was meant for tourists. But in his recollection, the lake was fairly small and wide. He was surprised when it narrowed very suddenly and made itself into a channel under a thick canopy of trees. Once under the trees, there was absolutely no light at all for several minutes. Then everything lit up at once—rows of superbright bulbs lined the sides of the channel, and in front of him was a low tunnel with the words
TUNNEL OF LOVE
written around the arch in lights. Bright pink hearts bookended the word.

“You’re joking,” Simon said for what felt like the millionth time.

The air was now thick with the smell of popcorn and sea air, and there were sounds of fairground rides. The swan boat bumped, as if moving onto a track that would take it into the tunnel ride. Simon glided in. The light behind him faded, and the tunnel had a soft, blue glow. Some nondescript, classical-lite music played, full of violins. The boat settled into the track. The walls were painted in old-fashioned scenes of lovers—people sitting on porch swings kissing, women lounging on a depiction of a crescent moon, sweethearts leaning over an ice cream soda to kiss. The water was lit from underneath and glowed green, reflecting off the ceiling. Simon looked over the side of the boat to get a sense of how deep it was, or if there was something under him, but it looked shallow, like any normal water ride.

“This is a weird place to meet,” said a voice.

Simon turned to see that he was now sharing his little swan with Jace. Jace was standing at the front of the boat, leaning against the swan’s head. Being Jace, his balance was perfect, so the boat didn’t rock to the side.

“Okay,” Simon said, “this is really taking a turn I didn’t expect.”

Jace shrugged and looked around at the tunnel.

“I suppose these things had a use at one time,” he said. “It was probably risqué to take this ride. You’d get a whole four minutes of unsupervised
necking
.”

The word “necking” was bad. Hearing Jace say it was a new kind of bad.

“So,” Jace said, “do you want to talk or should I?”

“Talk about what?”

Jace indicated the tunnel around them, as if this was very obvious.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” Simon said. “Ever.”

“I’ve never heard anyone say that before,” Jace mused. “It was a unique experience.”

“Sorry.” Simon didn’t feel even a little guilty. “If I
was
into guys, I don’t think you’d make the top ten.”

Jace released the swan’s head and came to sit down by Simon’s side. “I remember how we met. Do you?”

“You’re playing a game of
what do you remember
with me?” Simon asked. “That’s classy.”

“It’s not a game. I saw you. You didn’t see me. But I saw. I saw it all.”

“This is fun,” Simon said. “You and me and the tunnel of what the hell are you talking about.”

“You need to try to remember this,” Jace said. “This is important. You need to remember how we met.”

Whatever this was—a dream, some kind of altered state—it was veering in a very odd direction.

“How is it everything is about you?” Simon said.

“This isn’t about me at all. This is about what I saw. This is about what you know. You can get there. You need to get this one back. You need this memory.”

“You’re asking me to remember somewhere I
didn’t see you
?”

“Exactly. Why wouldn’t you have seen me?”

“Because you were glamoured,” Simon said.

“But someone did see me.”

That had to be Clary. Obvious choice. But . . .

Now there was something rocking in the back of Simon’s mind. He had been somewhere with Clary, and Jace was there . . . except Jace wasn’t there.

That was both in his memory and in the present. Jace was gone. The boat trundled on, turning a corner and plunging back into the dark. There was a short decline and a burst of fog, then the
ooOoOOOoOOoo
of a cartoon ghost and the mocked-up entryway of some kind of gothic mansion. The ride had gone from lovers’ lane to haunted mansion. Simon rode along, through tableaux of the mansion’s rooms. In the library, ghosts dangled from wires and a skeleton popped out of a grandfather clock.

This fantasy, or whatever it was, seemed to be tapping into his memories of going to the Haunted Mansion at Disney World when he was a kid. And yet, as they moved from room to room, things looked more familiar—the cracking stone walls, the threadbare tapestries . . . the Haunted Mansion was turning into the Academy. There was a ghostly version of the cafeteria and the classrooms.

“Over here, Simon.”

It was Maia, waving from what looked like an elegant, wood-paneled office. There was a sign on the wall behind her, some kind of verse of poetry. Simon only caught a line of it:
“as old and as true as the sky.”
Maia wore an elegant suit, her hair clipped back, and gold bangle bracelets on her wrists. She looked sadly at Simon. “Are you really going to leave us?” she said. “Leave being a Downworlder? Become one of them?”

“Maia,” Simon said, a lump in his throat. He remembered only bits and pieces of his friendship with her—more than friendship, maybe? How brave she was, and how she’d been his friend when he’d desperately needed one.

“Please,” she said. “Don’t go.”

The boat moved swiftly past, to another room, a completely standard apartment living room, with some cheap furniture. It was Jordan’s apartment. Jordan stepped out of the bedroom doorway. There was a wound in his chest; his shirt was black with blood.

“Hey, roomie,” he said.

Simon’s heart felt like it stopped in his chest. He tried to speak, but before he could say a word, everything plunged into darkness. He felt the boat slide off its track with a soft bump, as if he had come to the end of the ride. Everything rushed forward. The tunnel opened out, and the boat lurched forward suddenly and began to speed up, as if carried on a current. Simon gripped the bench he sat on to hold himself steady.

He had been dumped out on a massive body of water, a river, very wide. Next to him the New York skyline was dark—the buildings eerily not illuminated—but he could make out their shapes. Not far up on the left side, he could see the silhouette of the Empire State Building. Ahead of him, maybe a mile or so up, there was a bridge spanning the river he was on. He could even make out the shadowy outline of an old-fashioned Pepsi-Cola sign on the right bank. That, he knew. That sign was near the base of the 59th Street Bridge to Queens.

“The East River,” he said to himself, casting a glance around.

The East River was not somewhere to be at night, in the cold, in a small rowboat shaped like a swan. The East River was dangerous, fast, and deep.

He felt something bump the back of his tiny swan, and turned expecting a trash barge or a freighter. Instead it was another swan-shaped boat. This one contained a young girl, maybe thirteen or fourteen, in a tattered prom dress. She had long blond hair drawn up in uneven pigtails, giving the impression of constant lopsidedness. She pulled her swan to the side of Simon’s and, seemingly without a care in the world, pulled up her skirt and stepped from one boat to the other. Simon instinctively reached one hand out to help her and one hand to steady himself. He was sure that the transfer would cause their little swan to topple, and while it did sway uncertainly as the weight distribution changed, somehow they stayed upright. The girl dropped herself next to Simon on the bench. The swan was designed for people to cozy up to each other, so she was pressed against his side.

“Hi!” she said happily. “You’re back!”

“I . . . am?”

There was something wrong with the girl’s face. She was too pale. There were deep circles all the way around her eyes, and her lips were faintly gray. Simon wasn’t sure who she was, but he got a very uneasy feeling.

“It’s been forever!” she said. “But you’re back. I knew you’d come back for me.”

“Who are you?”

She fun-punched him in the arm, like he’d told a great joke.

“Shut up,” she said. “You’re so funny. That’s why I love you.”

“You love me?”

“Shut up!” she said again. “You know I love you. It’s always been you and me. You and me forever.”

“I’m sorry,” Simon said. “I don’t remember.”

The girl looked around at the churning river and dark buildings as if this was all very wonderful and exactly where she wanted to be.

“It was all worth it,” she said. “You’re worth it.”

“Thanks?”

“I mean, they killed me for you. They dumped me in a trash can. But I don’t hold it against you.”

The chill was now inside of Simon as well as out.

“But you’re looking for her, aren’t you? She’s so annoying.”

“Clary?” Simon asked.

The girl waved her hand as if blowing away a cloud of unwanted cigarette smoke.

“You could be with me. Be my king. Be with Queen Maureen. Queen Maureen, queen of death! Queen of the night! I ruled over all of this!”

She swept her hand toward the skyline. While it seemed unlikely that this very young girl could have ruled over New York, there was something about the story that rang true. He knew this. It was his fault. He didn’t do anything exactly, but he could feel guilt—terrible, crushing guilt and responsibility.

“What if you could save me?” she asked, leaning into him. “Would you?”

“I . . .”

“What if you had to pick?” Maureen said, smiling at the thought. “We could play a game. You could pick. Me or her. I mean, you are the reason I died, so . . . you should pick me. Save me.”

The clouds, ever watchful when something interesting was going on, crowded back in. The wind kicked up and the river took on a heavy wake, rocking the boat from side to side.

“She’s in the water, you know,” Maureen said. “The water in the fountain that comes from the lake. The water in the lake that comes from the river. The water in the river that comes from the sea. She’s in the water, in the water, in the water . . .”

There was a tremendous pang in Simon’s chest, like someone had punched him right in the sternum. Just off to the side of the boat, something appeared, something like stone and seaweed. No. A face, and a crown of hair. It was Clary, floating on her back, eyes closed, hair leading the way. He reached out to her, but the water was going too fast and she was pulled upriver.

“You could make it all better!” Maureen shouted, jumping up. The boat rocked. “Who are you going to save, Daylighter?”

With that she dove off the other side of the boat. Simon grasped the long neck of the swan to hold his balance and scanned the waters. Clary had already floated twenty or more feet away, and Maureen was floating in the same manner, now quiet and seemingly asleep, at about half the distance.

There was not a lot of time to think. He wasn’t the strongest swimmer, and the undertow of the river would probably pull him down. The cold would render him numb and probably kill him first.

And he had two people to save.

“This isn’t real,” he said to himself. But the pain in his chest said otherwise. The pain was calling to him. He was also sure that, real or not, when he jumped in the river, it was going to hurt as much or more as anything he’d ever felt. The river was real
enough
.