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//-->Thank you for downloading this eBook.Find out about free book giveaways, exclusive content, and amazing sweepstakes! Plus get updates on your favorite books,authors, and more when you join the Simon & Schuster Teen mailing list.CLICKHERE TOLEARNMOREor visit us online to sign up ateBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com/teenThere was a time, not long ago, when Simon Lewis had been convinced that all gym teachers wereactually demons escaped from some hell dimension, nourishing themselves on the agonies ofuncoordinated youth.Little did he know he’d been almost right.Not that Shadowhunter Academy hadgymclass, not exactly. And his physical trainer, DelaneyScarsbury, wasn’t so much a demon as a Shadowhunter who probably thought lopping the heads off afew multiheaded hellbeasts comprised an ideal Saturday night—but as far as Simon was concerned,these were technicalities.“Lewis!” Scarsbury shouted, looming over Simon, who lay flat on the ground, trying to willhimself to do another push-up. “What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?”Scarsbury’s legs were as thick as tree trunks, and his biceps were no less depressingly huge. This,at least, was one difference between the Shadowhunter and Simon’s mundane gym teachers, most ofwhom could barely have bench-pressed a bag of potato chips. Also, none of Simon’s gym teachershad worn an eye patch or carried a sword carved with runes and blessed by angels.But in all the ways that counted, Scarsbury was exactly the same.“Everyone get a look at Lewis!” he called to the rest of the class, as Simon levered himself into ashaky plank position, willing himself not to do a belly flop into the dirt. Again. “Our hero here mightjust defeat his evil spaghetti arms after all.”Gratifyingly, only one person laughed. Simon recognized the distinctive snicker of Jon Cartwright,eldest son of a distinguished Shadowhunter family (as he’d be the first to tell you). Jon believed hewas born for greatness and seemed especially irritated that Simon—a hapless mundane—hadmanaged to get there first. Even if he could no longer remember doing it. Jon, of course, was the onewho’d started calling Simon “our hero.” And like all evil gym teachers before him, Scarsbury hadbeen only too happy to follow the popular kid’s lead.Shadowhunter Academy had two tracks, one for the Shadowhunter kids who’d grown up in thisworld and whose blood destined them for demon-fighting, and one for the mundanes, clueless, lackingin genetic destiny, and scrambling to catch up. They spent most of the day in separate classes, themundanes studying rudimentary martial arts and memorizing the finer points of the NephilimCovenant, the Shadowhunters focusing on more advanced skills: juggling throwing stars and studyingChthonian and Marking themselves up with runes of obnoxious superiority and who knew what else.(Simon was still hoping that somewhere in the Shadowhunter manual was the secret of the Vulcandeath grip. After all, as his instructors kept reminding them: All the stories are true.) But the twotracks began every day together: Every student, no matter how inexperienced or advanced, wasexpected to report to the training field at sunrise for a grueling hour of calisthenics.Divided we stand,Simon thought, his stubborn biceps refusing to bulge.United we do push-ups.When he’d told his mother he wanted to go to military school so he could toughen up, she’d givenhim a strange look. (Not as strange as if he’d said he wanted to go to demon-fighting school so hecould drink from the Mortal Cup, Ascend to the ranks of Shadowhunter, and just maybe get back thememories that had been stolen from him in a nearby hell dimension, but close.) The look said:Myson, Simon Lewis, wants to sign up for a life where you have to do a hundred push-ups beforebreakfast?He knew this, because he could read her pretty well—but also because once she’d regained theability to speak, she’d said, “My son, Simon Lewis, wants to sign up for a life where you have to do ahundred push-ups before breakfast?” Then she’d asked him teasingly if he was possessed by someevil creature, and he’d pretended to laugh, trying for once to ignore the tendrils of memory from thatother life, hisreallife. The one where he’d been turned into a vampire and his mother had called hima monster and barricaded him from the house. Sometimes, Simon thought he would do anything to getback the memories that had been taken from him—but there were moments when he wonderedwhether some things were better left forgotten.Scarsbury, more demanding than any drill sergeant, made his young charges dotwo hundredpush-ups every morning . . . but he did, at least, let them eat breakfast first.After the push-ups came the laps. After the laps came the lunges. And after the lunges—“After you, hero,” Jon sneered, offering Simon first shot at the climbing wall. “Maybe if we giveyou a head start, we won’t have to wait around so long for you to catch up.”Simon was too exhausted for a snarky comeback. And definitely too exhausted to claw his way upthe climbing wall, one impossibly distant handhold at a time. He made it up a few feet, at least, thenpaused to give his shrieking muscles a rest. One by one, the other students scrambled up past him,none of them seeming even slightly out of breath.“Be a hero, Simon,” Simon muttered bitterly, remembering the life Magnus Bane had dangledbefore him in their first meeting—or at least, the first one Simon could remember. “Have anadventure, Simon. How about, turn your life into one long agonizing gym class, Simon.”“Dude, you’re talking to yourself again.” George Lovelace, Simon’s roommate and only real friendat the Academy, hoisted himself up beside Simon. “You losing your grip?”“I’m talking to myself, not little green men,” Simon clarified. “Still sane, last I checked.”“No, I mean”—George nodded toward Simon’s sweaty fingers, which had gone pale with theeffort of holding his weight—“your grip.”“Oh. Yeah. I’m peachy,” Simon said. “Just giving you guys a head start. I figure in battleconditions, it’s always the red shirts who go in first, you know?”George’s brow furrowed. “Red shirts? But our gear is black.”“No,red shirts.Cannon fodder.Star Trek?Any of this ringing a . . .” Simon sighed at the blanklook on George’s face. George had grown up in an isolated rural pocket of Scotland, but it wasn’tlike he’d lived without Internet and cable TV The problem, as far as Simon could tell, was that the.Lovelaces watched nothing but soccer and used their Wi-Fi almost exclusively to monitor DundeeUnited stats and occasionally to buy sheep feed in bulk. “Forget it. I’m fine. See you at the top.” [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]