The Lost Herondale

“Maybe that’s how it seems,” Julie said. “But if you’re going to be a Shadowhunter, you have to learn to see things how they are.”

She turned away then, and started to head for her room. He was dismissed.

“Julie?” he called softly after her. “Is that why Jon and Beatriz are at the Academy, too? Because of the people they lost in the war?”

“You’ll have to ask them,” she said, without turning back. “We all have our own story of the Dark War. All of us lost something. Some of us lost everything.”

*    *    *

The next day, their history lecturer, the warlock Catarina Loss, a

Simon’s heart stopped. The last guest lecturer to honor the students with her presence had been Isabelle Lightwood. And the “lecture” had consisted of a stern and humiliating warning that every female in a ten-mile radius should keep her grubby little hands off Simon’s hot bod.

Fortunately, the tall, dark-haired man who strode to the front of the classroom looked unlikely to have any interest in Simon or his bod.

“Lazlo Balogh,” he said, his tone implying that he should have needed no introduction—but that perhaps Catarina should have done him the honor of supplying one.

“Head of the Budapest Institute,” George whispered in Simon’s ear. In spite of his self-proclaimed laziness, George had memorized the name of every Institute head—not to mention every famous Shadowhunter in history—before arriving at the Academy.

“I have come to tell you a story,” Balogh said, eyebrows angling into a sharp, angry V. Between the pale skin, dark widow’s peak, and faint Hungarian accent, Balogh looked more like Dracula than anyone Simon had ever met.

He suspected Balogh wouldn’t have appreciated the comparison.

“Several of you in this classroom will soon face your first battle. I have come to inform you what is at stake.”

“We’re not the ones who need to be worrying about stakes,” Jon said, and snickered from the back row.

Balogh lasered a furious glare at him. “Jonathan Cartwright,” he said, his accent giving the syllables a sinister shadow. “Were I the son of your parents, I would hold my tongue in the presence of my betters.”

Jon went sheet white. Simon could feel the hatred radiating from him, and thought that it was likely Balogh had just made an enemy for life. Possibly everyone in the classroom had, too, because Jon wasn’t the type to appreciate an audience to his humiliation.

He opened his mouth, then shut it again in a thin, firm line. Balogh nodded, as if agreeing that, yes, it was right that he should shut up and burn with silent shame.

Balogh cleared his throat. “My question for you, children, is this. What is the worst thing a Shadowhunter can do?”

Marisol raised her hand. “Kill an i

Balogh looked like he’d smelled something bad. (Which—given that the classroom had a bit of a stinkbug infestation—wasn’t entirely unlikely.) “You’re a mundane,” he said.

She nodded fiercely. It was Simon’s favorite thing about the tough thirteen-year-old: She never once apologized for who or what she was. To the contrary, she seemed proud of it.

“There was a time when no mundane would have been allowed in Idris,” Balogh said. He glanced at Catarina, who was hovering at the edge of the classroom. “And no Downworlders, for that matter.”

“Things change,” Marisol said.

“Indeed.” He sca

Beatriz’s hand rose slowly. “My mother always said the worst thing a Shadowhunter could do was forget her duty, that she was here to serve and protect mankind.”

Simon caught Catarina’s lips quirking up into a half smile.

Balogh’s turned noticeably in the other direction. Then, apparently deciding that the Socratic method wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, he answered his own question. “The worst thing any Shadowhunter can do is betray his fellows in the heat of battle,” he intoned. “The worst thing any Shadowhunter can be is a coward.”

Simon couldn’t help but feel like Balogh was speaking directly to him—that Balogh had peered inside his head and knew exactly how reluctant Simon was to wield his weapon in battle conditions, against an actual living thing.

Well, not exactly living, he reminded himself. He’d fought demons before, he knew that, and he didn’t think he’d lost sleep over it. But demons were just monsters. Vampires were still people; vampires had souls. Vampires, unlike the creatures in his video games, could hurt and bleed and die—and they could also fight back. In English class the year before, Simon had read The Red Badge of Courage, a tedious novel about a Civil War soldier who’d gone AWOL in the heat of battle. The book, which at the time had seemed even more irrelevant than calculus, had put him to sleep, but one line had burrowed itself into his brain: “He was a craven loon.” Eric was in the class too, and for a few weeks they’d decided to call their band the Craven Loons, before forgetting all about it. But lately Simon couldn’t drive the phrase out of his head. “Loon” as in: nuts for ever thinking he could be a warrior or a hero. “Craven” as in: Spineless. Frightened. Timid. A big fat coward.

“The year was 1828,” Balogh declaimed. “This was before the Accords, mind you, before the Downworlders were brought into line and taught to be civilized.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Simon saw their history lecturer stiffen. It didn’t seem wise to offend a warlock, even one as seemingly unflappable as Catarina Loss, but Balogh continued unheeded.

“Europe was in chaos. Unruly revolutionaries were fomenting discord across the continent. And in the German states, a small cabal of warlocks took advantage of the political situation to visit the most unseemly miseries upon the local population. Some of you mundanes may be familiar with this time of tragedy and havoc from the tales told by the Brothers Grimm.” At the surprised look on several students’ faces, Balogh smiled for the first time. “Yes, Wilhelm and Jacob were in the thick of it. Remember, children, all the stories are true.”

As Simon tried to wrap his head around the idea that there might, somewhere in Germany, be a large bean stalk with an angry giant at the top, Balogh continued his story. He told the class of the small band of Shadowhunters that had been dispensed to “deal with” the warlocks. Of their journey into a dense German forest, its trees alive with dark magic, its birds and beasts enchanted to defend their territory against the forces of justice. In the dark heart of the forest, the warlocks had summoned a Greater Demon, pla

“Why?” one of the students asked.

“Warlocks don’t need a reason,” Balogh said, with another look at Catarina. “The summons of dark magic is always heeded by the weak and easily tempted.”

Catarina murmured something. Simon found himself hoping it was a curse.

“There were five Shadowhunters,” Balogh continued, “which was more than enough might to take on three warlocks. But the Greater Demon came as a surprise. Even then, right would have triumphed, were it not for the cowardice of the youngest of their party, a Shadowhunter named Tobias Herondale.”

A murmur rippled across the classroom. Every student, Shadowhunter and mundane alike, knew the name Herondale. It was Jace’s last name. It was the name of heroes.

“Yes, yes, you’ve all heard of the Herondales,” Balogh said impatiently. “And perhaps you’ve heard good things—of William Herondale, for instance, or his son James, or Jonathan Lightwood Herondale today. But even the strongest tree can have a weak branch. Tobias’s brother and his wife died noble deaths in battle before the decade was out. For some, that was enough to wipe away the stain on the name Herondale. But no amount of Herondale glory or sacrifice will make us forget what Tobias did—nor should it. Tobias was inexperienced and distracted, on the mission under duress. He had a pregnant wife at home, and labored under the delusion that this should excuse him from his duties. And when the demon launched its attack, Tobias Herondale, may his name be blackened for the rest of time, turned on his heel and ran away.” Then Balogh repeated that last, cracking his hand against the desk with each word. “Ran. Away.”