Free The Whitechapel Fiend by Cassandra Clare, Maureen Johnson Page B

many questions their physical trainer had put to them over the last few months, this was one of the most logical and direct and yet confusing. Everyone could clearly see the tree. It was the only tree in this particular patch of field. It was tall, slightly tilted to the left.
    Mornings with Scarsbury sounded like the name of a call-in radio show for cranks, but it was, in reality, just physical punishment designed to condition and train them to fight. And to be fair, Simon was more in shape now than he had been when he arrived.
    “Do you see this tree?”
    The question had been so weirdly obvious that no one had replied. Now they all mumbled a yes, they saw the tree.
    “Here is what you are going to do,” Scarsbury said. “You are going to climb this tree, walk along that branch”—he pointed to one heavy main branch, maybe fifteen feet from the ground—“and jump off.”
    “No, I’m not,” Simon muttered. Similar sounds of discontent rumbled around the class. No one seemed excited about the prospect of climbing up a tree and then deliberately falling out of it.
    “Morning,” said a familiar voice.
    Simon turned to see Jace Herondale behind him, all smiles. He looked relaxed and rested and utterly comfortable in his gear. Shadowhunters could draw runes for warmth. They didn’t need hypoallergenic down-substitute puffy coats. Jace wasn’t wearing a hat, either, which allowed his perfectly tousled golden hair to wave attractively in the breeze. He was keeping back and had not yet been noticed by the others, who were still listening to Scarsbury yelling over the wind while pointing at the tree.
    “How did you get roped into this?” Simon asked, blowing into his hands to warm them.
    Jace shrugged. “Just lending a graceful and athletic hand,” he said. “It would be remiss of me to deny the newest generation of Shadowhunters a glimpse of what they could become if they were very, very, very lucky.”
    Simon closed his eyes for a moment. “You’re doing this to impress Clary,” he said. “Also checking up on me.”
    “By the Angel, he’s gone telepathic,” Jace said, pretending to stagger back. “Basically, everyone’s pitching in since all your teachers ran away. I’m assisting with training. Like it or not.”
    “Hmm,” said Simon. “Not.”
    “Come on now,” Jace said, clapping him on the arm. “You used to love doing this.”
    “Did I?”
    “Maybe,” Jace said. “You didn’t scream. Wait. No. Yes, you did. My mistake. But it’s easy. This is just a training exercise.”
    “The last training exercise involved killing a vampire. In the training exercise before that, I watched someone get an arrow in the knee.”
    “I’ve seen worse. Come on. This is a fun exercise.”
    “There is no fun here,” Simon said. “This is not Fun Academy. I should know. I was in a band once called Fun Academy.”
    “To assist you this morning,” Scarsbury yelled, “we have an expert and highly physically able Shadowhunter—Jace Lightwood Herondale.”
    There was an audible gasp and titters of nervous laughter as every head turned in Jace’s direction. There were suddenly a lot of female sighs from the class, and some male ones, too. It reminded Simon of standing in line for a rock concert—at any moment, he felt, the crowd might burst into a squeeing noise most unbecoming to future demon hunters.
    Jace smiled wider and stepped forward to lead the group. Scarsbury nodded his greeting and stepped back, arms folded. Jace eyed the tree for a moment and then leaned casually against it.
    “The trick to falling is not to fall,” Jace said.
    “Wonderful,” Simon said under his breath.
    “You are not falling. You are choosing to descend using the most direct means possible. You remain in control of your decent. A Shadowhunter doesn’t fall—a Shadowhunter drops. You’ve been trained in the basic mechanics of how to do this . . .”
    Simon recalled Scarsbury shouting a few things over the wind