The Evil We Love (Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy, #5)

It was a lame party, the kind that even Simon had to admit might have been livened up by a demon or two. The decorations—a few sad streamers, a couple underinflated helium balloons, and a hand-drawn poster that (mis)spelled out “CONGRATULATONS”—looked as if they’d been grudgingly thrown together at the last minute by a bunch of fifth graders in detention. The refreshment table was crowded with whatever food had been left over at the end of the semester, including stale croissants, a casserole dish filled with orange Jell-O, a vat of stew, and several plates heaped with unidentifiable meat products. As electricity didn’t work in Idris and no one had thought to hire a band, there was no music, but a handful of faculty members had taken it upon themselves to improvise a barbershop quartet. (This, in Simon’s mind, didn’t qualify as music.) Isabelle’s posse of demon summoners had been let off with a stern warning, and even allowed to attend the party, but none of them seemed much in the mood for revelry—or, understandably, for Simon.

He was lingering alone by the punch bowl—which smelled enough like fish to preclude him actually pouring himself any punch—when Isabelle joined him.

“Avoiding your friends?” she asked.

“Friends?” He laughed. “I think you mean ‘people who hate my guts.’ Yeah, I tend to avoid those.”

“They don’t hate you. They’re embarrassed, because you were right and they were stupid. They’ll get over it. You always do.”

“Maybe.” It didn’t seem likely, but then, not much that had happened this year fell into the category of “likely.”

“So, I guess, thanks for sticking around for that whole thing with my dad,” Isabelle said.

“You didn’t exactly give me much of a choice,” he pointed out.

Isabelle laughed, almost fondly. “You really have no idea how a social encounter is supposed to work, do you? I say ‘thank you’; you say ‘you’re welcome.’”

“Like, if I said, thank you for fooling all my friends into thinking you were a wild-and-crazy demon summoner so that they could get in trouble with the dean, you would say . . . ?”

“You’re welcome for teaching them all a valuable lesson.” She grinned. “One that, apparently, you didn’t need to learn.”

“Yeah. About that.” Even though it had all been a test—even though, apparently, Isabelle had wanted him to report her, he still felt guilty. “I’m sorry I didn’t figure out what you were doing. Trust you.”

“It was a game, Simon. You weren’t supposed to trust me.”

“But I shouldn’t have fallen for it. Of all people—”

“You can’t be expected to know me.” There was an impossible gentleness in Isabelle’s voice. “I do understand that, Simon. I know things have been . . . difficult between us, but I’m not deluded. I may not like reality, but I can’t deny it.”

There were so many things he wanted to say to her.

And yet, right at this high-pressure moment, his mind was blank.

The uncomfortable silence sat heavily between them. Isabelle shifted her weight. “Well, if that’s all, then . . .”

“Back to your date with Jon?” Simon couldn’t help himself. “Or . . . was that just part of the game?”

He hoped she wouldn’t catch the pathetic note of hope in his voice.

“That was a different game, Simon. Keep up. Did it ever occur to you I just enjoy torturing you?” There was that wicked smile again, and Simon felt like it had the power to light him on fire; he felt like he was already burning.

“So, you and he, you never—”

“Jon’s not exactly my type.”

The next silence was slightly more comfortable. The kind of silence, Simon thought, where you gazed googly-eyed at someone until the tension could only be broken with a kiss.

Just lean in, he told himself, because even though he couldn’t actually remember ever making the first move on a girl like this, he’d obviously done so in the past. Which meant he had it in him. Somewhere. Stop being such a coward and freaking LEAN IN.

He was still mustering up his courage when the moment passed. She stepped back. “So . . . what was in that letter, anyway?”

He had it memorized. He could recite it to her right now, tell her that she was amazing, that even if his brain didn’t remember loving her, his soul was permanently molded to fit hers, like some kind of Isabelle-shaped cookie cutter had stamped his heart. But writing something down was different from saying it out loud—in public, no less.

He shrugged. “I don’t really remember. Just apologizing for yelling at you that time. And that other time. I guess.”

“Oh.”

Did she look disappointed? Relieved? Irritated? Simon searched her face for clues, but it was impervious.

“Well . . . apology accepted. And stop staring at me like I have a bug on my nose.”

“Sorry. Again.”

“And . . . I guess . . . I’m sorry I returned it without reading it.”