The Whitechapel Fiend (6 page)

“Now we will play a new game,” Jessamine said.

The small girl turned toward Jessie, and Tessa caught sight of her face. It was pale and smooth, a child’s face, but her eyes were entirely black, with no whites to them at all. They looked like specks of ash.
“No. This game
.
”

“You must close your eyes. It is a very good game. We are going to hide.”

“Hide?”

“Yes. We shall play hide-and-seek. You must close your eyes.”

“I like to hide.”

“
But first you must seek. Close your eyes
.”

The demon child, a small girl, barely five years of age in appearance, closed her eyes. As she did, Will brought the seraph blade down on her and the room was splattered with ichor.

*    *    *

“And it was gone,” Tessa said. “The problem, of course, was that the rest of London couldn’t be told that it was over. Jack the Ripper had been conjured up out of thin air, and now there was no Jack the Ripper to put in the dock. There would be no capture, no trial, no public hanging. The killings simply stopped. We considered trying to stage something, but there was so much scrutiny by that point that we felt this might complicate matters. But as it turned out, we didn’t need to do anything. The public and the newspapers carried the story. New things were published every day, even though we knew there was nothing to report. It turned out people were willing to make up many theories of their own, and they’ve continued to do so since 1888. Everyone wants to catch the uncatchable killer. Everyone wants to be the hero of the story. And this has remained true in many cases since. In the absence of facts, the media will often make up stories of their own. It can save us a lot of work. In many ways, modern media is one of our greatest assets when it comes to covering up the truth. Do not discount mundanes. They weave their own stories, to make sense of their world. Some of you mundanes will help us make better sense of ours. Thank you for your attention this afternoon,” Tessa finished. “I wish you all the luck in the world as you continue your training. What you do is brave and important.”

“A round of applause for our esteemed guest,” Catarina said.

This was given, and Tessa stepped down and went over to a man, who kissed her lightly on the cheek. He was slender, and very elegant, dressed in black and white. His black hair had one single white streak in it, completing the dichromatic look.

Memories assailed Simon, some easy to access, some hidden behind the frustrating web of forgetfulness. Jem had been at Luke and Jocelyn’s wedding as well. The way that he smiled at Tessa, and she back at him, made it clear what their relationship was—they were in love, of the realest, truest kind.

Simon thought of Tessa’s story, of the Jem who had been a Silent Brother, and had been a part of her life so long ago. Silent Brothers did live a long time, and Simon’s foggy memory did recall something about one who had been returned to normal mortal life by heavenly fire. Which meant that Jem had lived in the Silent City for more than a hundred years, until his service was over. He had returned to life to live with his immortal love.

Now that was a complicated relationship. It made a little memory loss and former vampire status seem almost normal.

*    *    *

Dinner that night was a new culinary terror: Mexican food. There were roast chickens, or
pollo asado
, with the feathers still on, and square tortillas.

Jace didn’t appear. Simon didn’t have to look around for him, as the entire cafeteria was on alert. Had there been a sighting of his mighty blond head, Simon would have heard the intake of breath. Dinner was followed by two hours of mandatory study in the library. After all that, Simon and George returned to their room, only to find Jace standing by the door.

“Evening,” he said.

“Seriously,” Simon said. “How long have you been lurking here?”

“I wanted to talk to you.” Jace had his hands stuffed in his pockets and was leaning against the wall, looking like an advertisement for a fashion magazine. “Alone.”

“People will say we’re in love,” Simon said.

“You could come into our room,” George said. “If you want to talk. If it’s private, I can put earplugs in.”

“I’m not going in there,” Jace said, glancing in the open doorway. “That room is so damp you could probably hatch frogs on the walls.”

“Ah, that’ll be in my head now,” George said. “I hate frogs.”

“So what do you want?” Simon said.

Jace smiled lightly.

“George, go inside the room,” Simon said, a bit apologetically. “I’ll be right in.”

George ducked into their bedroom and shut the door behind him. Simon was now alone with Jace in a long corridor, which was a situation he felt like he’d been in before.

“Thank you,” Jace said, surprisingly directly. “You were right about Tessa.”

“She’s related to you?”

“I went to talk to her.” Jace looked shyly pleased, as if a small light inside him had been turned on. It was the sort of expression that would, Simon suspected, have slain adolescent girls in their tracks. “She’s my great-great-great-something-grandmother. She was married to Will Herondale. I’ve learned about him before. He was part of stopping a massive demon invasion into Britain. She and Will were the first Herondales to run the London Institute. I mean, it isn’t anything I didn’t know, historically, but it’s— Well, as far as I know, there isn’t anyone alive who shares blood with me. But Tessa does.”

Simon leaned back against the wall of the corridor. “Did you tell Clary?”

“Yeah, I was on the phone with her for a couple of hours. She said Tessa hinted at some of this stuff during Luke and Jocelyn’s wedding, but she didn’t come right out and say it. She didn’t want me to feel burdened.”

“Do you?” Simon said. “Feel burdened, that is.”

“No,” Jace said. “I feel like there’s someone else who understands what it means to be a Herondale. Both the good parts and the bad. I worried because of my father—that maybe being a Herondale meant I was weak. And then I learned more and thought maybe I was expected to be some kind of hero.”

“Yeah,” Simon said. “I know what that’s like.”

They shared a small moment of bizarre, companionable silence—the boy who’d forgotten everything about his history, and the boy who’d never known it.

Simon broke the silence. “Are you going to see her again? Tessa?”

“She says she’s going to take me and Clary on a tour of the Herondale house in Idris.”

“Did you meet Jem, too?”

“We’ve met before,” said Jace. “In the Basilias, in Idris. You don’t remember, but I—”

“Stopped him being a Silent Brother,” said Simon. “I do remember that.”

“We talked in Idris,” said Jace. “A lot of what he said makes more sense to me now.”

“So you’re happy,” Simon said.

“I’m happy,” said Jace. “I mean, I’ve been happy, really, since the Dark War ended. I’ve got Clary, and I’ve got my family. The only dark spot’s been you. Not remembering Clary, or Izzy. Or me.”

“So sorry to mess up your life with my inconvenient amnesia,” Simon muttered.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Jace said. “I meant I wish you remembered me because—” He sighed. “Forget it.”

“Look, Herondale, you owe me one now. Wait out here.”

“For how long?” Jace looked aggrieved.

“As long as it takes.” Simon ducked into his room and shut the door. George, who had been lying in bed studying, looked glum when Simon informed him that Jace was lurking in the hall.

“He’s making
me
nervous now,” George said. “Who’d want Jace Herondale following them around, being all mysterious and taciturn and blond. . . . Oh, right. Probably loads of people. Still, I wish he wouldn’t.”

Simon didn’t bother to lock the bedroom door, partially because there were no locks at Shadowhunter Academy, and partially because if Jace decided to come in and stand over Simon’s bed all night, he was going to do that, lock or no.

“He must want something?” George said, stripping off his rugby shirt and throwing it into the corner of the room. “Is this a test? Are we going to have to fight Jace in the middle of the night? Si, not to bag on our awesome demon-fighting prowess, but I do not think that is a fight we can win.”

“I don’t think so,” Simon said, dropping down onto his bed, which dropped much farther than it should have. That was definitely at least two springs breaking.

They got ready for bed. As usual, in the dark, they talked about the mold and the many zoological possibilities crawling around them in the dark. He heard George turn toward the wall, the signal that he was about to sleep and the nightly chat was over.

Simon was awake, hands behind his head, body still achingly sore from the fall out of the tree.

“Do you mind if I turn on a light?” he asked.

“Nae, go ahead. I can barely see it anyway.”

They still said “turn on a light” like they were flicking a switch. They had candles at the Academy—nubby little candles that seemed to have been specially made to produce as little light as possible. Simon fumbled around on the small stand next to his bed and found his matches and lit his candle, which he pulled into the bed with him, balancing it on his lap in a way that was probably unsafe. One good thing about the floor of ultimate moisture was that it was unlikely to catch fire. He could still be burned, if the candle overturned in his lap, but it was the only way he would be able to see to write. He reached again for some paper and a pen. No texting here. No typing. Real pen to paper was required. He made a makeshift desk out of a book and began to write:

Dear Isabelle . . .

Should he start with “dear”? It was the way you started letters, but now that he saw it, it looked weird and old-fashioned and maybe too intimate.

He got a new piece of paper.

Isabelle . . .

Well, that looked stark. Like he was angry, just saying her name like that.

Another paper.

Izzy,

Nope. Definitely not. They were not at pet names yet. How the hell did you start a letter like this? Simon considered a casual “Hey . . .” or maybe just forgetting the salutation and getting right to the message. Texting was
so much easier
than this.

He picked up the paper that started with “Isabelle” again. It was the middle choice. He would have to go with that.

Isabelle,

I fell out of a tree today.

I’m thinking of you while I’m in my moldy bed.

I saw Jace today. He may develop food poisoning. Just wanted you to know.

I’m Batman.

I’m trying to figure out how to write this letter.

Okay. That was a possible start, and true.

Let me tell you something you already know—you’re amazing. You know it. I know it. Anyone can see that. Here’s the problem—I don’t know what I am. I have to figure out who I am before I can accept that I’m someone who deserves someone like you. It’s not something I can accept just because I’ve heard it. I need to know that guy. And I know I
am
that guy you loved—I just have to meet him.

I’m trying to figure out how that happens. I guess it happens here, in this school where they try to kill you every day. I think it takes time. I know things that take time are annoying. I know it’s hard. But I have to get there the hard way.

This letter is probably stupid. I don’t know if you’re still reading. I don’t know if you’re going to rip this up or slice it in half with your whip or what.

All of that came out in one solid flow. He tapped the pen against his forehead for a minute.

I’m going to give this to Jace to give to you. He’s been trailing me around all day like some kind of Jacey shadow. He’s either here to make sure I don’t die, or to make sure I die, or maybe because of you. Maybe you sent him.

I don’t know. He’s Jace. Who knows what he’s doing? I’m going to give this to him. He may read it before it gets to you. Jace, if you’re reading this, I’m pretty sure you’re going to get food poisoning.
Do not use the bathrooms.

It wasn’t romantic, but he decided to leave it in. It might make Isabelle laugh.

If you are reading this, Jace, stop now.

Izzy—I don’t know why you would wait for me, but if you do, I promise to make myself worth that wait. Or I’ll try. I can promise I am going to try.

—Simon

Simon opened the door and was not surprised to find Jace standing outside of it.

“Here,” Simon said, handing him the letter.

“Took you long enough,” Jace said.

“Now we’re even,” said Simon. “Go party in the Herondale house with your weird family.”

“I plan to,” said Jace, and smiled a sudden, strangely endearing smile. He had a chipped tooth. The smile made him seem like he was Simon’s age, and maybe they were friends after all. “Good night, Wiggles.”

“Wiggles?”

“Yes,
Wiggles
. Your nickname? It’s what you always made us call you. I almost forgot your name was Simon, I’m so used to calling you Wiggles.”

“
Wiggles?
What does that . . . even mean?”

“You would never explain,” Jace said with a shrug. “It was the big mystery about you. As I said, good night, Wiggles. I’ll take care of this.”

He held up the letter and used it to make a salute.

Simon shut the door. He knew most people on the hall had probably done everything they could to make sure they heard that exchange. He knew that in the morning he would be called Wiggles and there was nothing he would ever be able to do about it.

But it was a small price to pay to get a letter to Isabelle.

A new cover will be revealed each month as the Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy continue!