The Lost Herondale

Marisol raised her hand. “Kill an innocent?”


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 scanned the classroom, which was filled with mundanes and Shadowhunters alike. “Would any of the . . . more informed students like to hazard a guess?”

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, planning to unleash its might on the people of Bavaria.

“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.”