Read Online Born to Endless Night by Cassandra Clare, Sarah Rees Brennan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cassandra Clare, Sarah Rees Brennan
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Academy?”
“Seems like he met a bigger bully,” Magnus murmured.
He congratulated himself on the correct Cartwright guess. It was hard to be sure, with Shadowhunter families. Certain traits did seem to run in their family lines, inbred as they were, but there were always exceptions.
For instance, Magnus had always found the Lightwoods rather forgettable. He’d liked some of them—Anna Lightwood and her parade of brokenhearted young ladies, Christopher Lightwood and his explosions, and now Isabelle—but there had never been a Lightwood who touched his heart, as some Shadowhunters had: Will Herondale or Henry Branwell or ClaryFray.
Until the Lightwood who was unforgettable; until the Lightwood who had not only touched but taken his heart.
“Why are you smiling to yourself?” Catarina asked, her voice suspicious.
“I was just thinking that life is full of surprises,” said Magnus. “What happened to this Academy?”
The mundane girl could not bully the Cartwright boy unless the boy cared about what happened to her—unless he saw her as a person, and did not dismiss her the way Magnus had seen countless Nephilim dismiss mundanes and Downworlders, too.
Catarina hesitated. “Come with me,” she said. “There’s something I want to show you.”
She took his hand and led him out of the Academy cafeteria, her blue fingers intertwined with his blue-ringed hands. Magnus thought of the baby and found himself smiling again. He had always thought blue was the loveliest color.
“I’ve been sleeping in Ragnor’s old room,” Catarina said.
She mentioned their old friend briskly and practically, with no hint of feeling. Magnus held her hand a little tighter as they went up two flights of stairs and down through stone corridors. The walls bore tapestries illustrating Shadowhunters’ great deeds. There were holes in several of the tapestries, including one that left the Angel Raziel headless. Magnus feared sacrilegious mice had been at the tapestries.
Catarina opened a large, dark oak wood door and led him into a vaulted stone room where there were a few pictures on the walls Magnus recognized as Ragnor’s: a sketch of a monkey, a seascape with a pirate ship on it. The carved oak bed was covered in Catarina’s severe white hospital sheets, but the moth-eaten curtains were green velvet, and there was a green leather inlay on a desk placed under the room’s single large window.
There was a coin on it, a circle of copper turned dark with age, and two yellowed pieces of paper, turning up at the edges.
“I was going through the papers in Ragnor’s desk when I found this letter,” Catarina said. “It was the only really personal thing in the room. I thought you might like to read it.”
“I would,” said Magnus, and she put it into his hands.
Magnus unfolded the letter and looked at the spiky black writing set deep into the yellow surface, as if the writer had been annoyed by the page itself. He felt as if he were listening to a voice he had thought silenced forever.
To Ragnor Fell, preeminent educator at Shadowhunter Academy, and former High Warlock of London:
I am sorry but not surprised to hear the latest crop of Shadowhunter brats are just as unpromising as the last lot. The Nephilim, lacking imagination and intellectual curiosity? You astonish me.
I enclose a coin etched with a wreath, a symbol of education in the ancient world. I was told a faerie placed good luck on it, and you are certainly going to need luck reforming the Shadowhunters.
I am as ever impressed by your patience and dedication to your job, and your continuing optimism that your students can be taught. I wish I could have your bright outlook on life, but unfortunately I cannot help looking around at the world and noticing that we are surrounded by idiots. If I were teaching Nephilim children I imagine I would sometimes feel forced to speak to them sharply and occasionally feel forced to drain them entirely of blood.
(Note to any
“Seems like he met a bigger bully,” Magnus murmured.
He congratulated himself on the correct Cartwright guess. It was hard to be sure, with Shadowhunter families. Certain traits did seem to run in their family lines, inbred as they were, but there were always exceptions.
For instance, Magnus had always found the Lightwoods rather forgettable. He’d liked some of them—Anna Lightwood and her parade of brokenhearted young ladies, Christopher Lightwood and his explosions, and now Isabelle—but there had never been a Lightwood who touched his heart, as some Shadowhunters had: Will Herondale or Henry Branwell or ClaryFray.
Until the Lightwood who was unforgettable; until the Lightwood who had not only touched but taken his heart.
“Why are you smiling to yourself?” Catarina asked, her voice suspicious.
“I was just thinking that life is full of surprises,” said Magnus. “What happened to this Academy?”
The mundane girl could not bully the Cartwright boy unless the boy cared about what happened to her—unless he saw her as a person, and did not dismiss her the way Magnus had seen countless Nephilim dismiss mundanes and Downworlders, too.
Catarina hesitated. “Come with me,” she said. “There’s something I want to show you.”
She took his hand and led him out of the Academy cafeteria, her blue fingers intertwined with his blue-ringed hands. Magnus thought of the baby and found himself smiling again. He had always thought blue was the loveliest color.
“I’ve been sleeping in Ragnor’s old room,” Catarina said.
She mentioned their old friend briskly and practically, with no hint of feeling. Magnus held her hand a little tighter as they went up two flights of stairs and down through stone corridors. The walls bore tapestries illustrating Shadowhunters’ great deeds. There were holes in several of the tapestries, including one that left the Angel Raziel headless. Magnus feared sacrilegious mice had been at the tapestries.
Catarina opened a large, dark oak wood door and led him into a vaulted stone room where there were a few pictures on the walls Magnus recognized as Ragnor’s: a sketch of a monkey, a seascape with a pirate ship on it. The carved oak bed was covered in Catarina’s severe white hospital sheets, but the moth-eaten curtains were green velvet, and there was a green leather inlay on a desk placed under the room’s single large window.
There was a coin on it, a circle of copper turned dark with age, and two yellowed pieces of paper, turning up at the edges.
“I was going through the papers in Ragnor’s desk when I found this letter,” Catarina said. “It was the only really personal thing in the room. I thought you might like to read it.”
“I would,” said Magnus, and she put it into his hands.
Magnus unfolded the letter and looked at the spiky black writing set deep into the yellow surface, as if the writer had been annoyed by the page itself. He felt as if he were listening to a voice he had thought silenced forever.
To Ragnor Fell, preeminent educator at Shadowhunter Academy, and former High Warlock of London:
I am sorry but not surprised to hear the latest crop of Shadowhunter brats are just as unpromising as the last lot. The Nephilim, lacking imagination and intellectual curiosity? You astonish me.
I enclose a coin etched with a wreath, a symbol of education in the ancient world. I was told a faerie placed good luck on it, and you are certainly going to need luck reforming the Shadowhunters.
I am as ever impressed by your patience and dedication to your job, and your continuing optimism that your students can be taught. I wish I could have your bright outlook on life, but unfortunately I cannot help looking around at the world and noticing that we are surrounded by idiots. If I were teaching Nephilim children I imagine I would sometimes feel forced to speak to them sharply and occasionally feel forced to drain them entirely of blood.
(Note to any
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