Free The Lost Herondale by Cassandra Clare, Robin Wasserman Page B

the same melodies, the same words. Simon’s mother (who, it should be noted, had never left the tristate area, much less the country) had told her son that as long as he could always find people who spoke the language of his soul, he would never be alone.
    And she’d turned out to be right. As long as Simon could find people who spoke his language—the language of Dungeons & Dragons and World of Warcraft, the language of Star Trek and manga and indie rockers with songs like “Han Shot First” and “What the Frak”—he felt like he was among friends.
    These Shadowhunters in training, on the other hand? Most of them probably thought manga was some kind of demonic athlete’s foot. Simon was doing his best to educate them to the finer things in life, but guys like George Lovelace had about as much aptitude for twelve-sided dice as Simon did for . . . well, anything more physically complex than walking and chewing gum at the same time.
    As Jon had predicted, Simon was the last one left on the climbing wall. By the time the others had ascended, rung the tiny bell at the top, and rappelled to the ground again, he’d made it only ten meters off the ground. The last time that had happened, Scarsbury, who had an impressive flair for sadism, had made the entire class sit and watch as Simon painstakingly made his way to the top. This time, their trainer cut the torture session mercifully short.
    “Enough!” Scarsbury shouted, clapping his hands together. Simon wondered whether there was such a thing as a runed whistle. Maybe he could get Scarsbury one for Christmas. “Lewis, put us all out of our misery and get down from there. The rest of you, hit the weapons room, pick yourself out a sword, then pair up for scrimmage.” His iron grip closed over Simon’s shoulder. “Not so fast, hero. You stay behind.”
    Simon wondered whether this was it, the moment that his heroic past was finally overpowered by his hapless present, and he was about to be kicked out of school. But then Scarsbury called out several other names—among them Lovelace, Cartwright, Beauvale, Mendoza—most of them Shadowhunters, all of them the best students in the class, and Simon let himself relax, just a little. Whatever it was Scarsbury had to say, it couldn’t be that bad, not if he was also saying it to Jon Cartwright, gold medalist in sucking up.
    “Sit,” Scarsbury boomed.
    They sat.
    “You’re here because you’re the twenty most promising students in the class,” Scarsbury said, pausing to let the compliment settle over them. Most of the students beamed. Simon willed himself to disappear. More like the nineteen most promising students and the one still coasting on the achievements of his past self. He felt like he was eight years old again, overhearing his mother bully the Little League coach into letting him take a turn at bat. “We’ve got a Downworlder that broke the Law and needs taking care of,” Scarsbury continued, “and the powers that be have decided it’s the perfect opportunity for you boys to become men.”
    Marisol Rojas Garza, a scrawny thirteen-year-old mundane with a permanent I will kick your ass expression, cleared her throat loudly.
    “Er . . . men and women,” Scarsbury clarified, looking none too happy about it.
    Murmurs rippled across the students, excitement mixed with alarm. None of them had expected a real training mission this soon. Behind Simon, Jon faked a yawn. “Boring. I could kill a rogue Downworlder in my sleep.”
    Simon, who actually did kill rogue Downworlders in his sleep, along with the terrifying tentacled demons and Endarkened Shadowhunters and other bloodthirsty monsters that crawled through his nightmares, didn’t feel much like yawning. He felt more like throwing up.
    George raised his hand. “Uh, sir, some of us here are still”—he swallowed, and, not for the first time, Simon wondered whether he regretted admitting the truth about himself; the Academy was a much easier place