Bitter of Tongue Read Free

possessed. It made no sense that out of all the students in the Academy, Beatriz might like him .
    George rolled his eyes. George did not truly understand the slow development of actual physical fitness. He’d probably been born with abs. Some were born with abs, some achieved abs, and some—like Simon—had abs thrust upon them by cruel instructors.
    “Yes, Si, you’re a real killer.”
    “Feel this arm,” said Simon. “Rock hard! I don’t mean to brag, but it’s all bone. All bone.”
    “Si,” said George. “I don’t need to feel it. I believe in you, because that’s what bros do. And I’m happy for your mysterious popularity with the ladies, because that’s how bros are. But seriously, watch out for Jon, because I think he’s going to shank you one of these days. He does not get your indefinable but undeniable allure. He’s got abs to the chin and he thought he had the ladies of the Academy locked down.”
    Simon rode on, somewhat dazed.
    He’d been thinking that Isabelle’s affection for him was a stunning and inexplicable occurrence, like a lightning strike. (Gorgeous and courageous lightning whom he was lucky to be struck by!) Given current evidence, however, he was starting to believe it was time to reevaluate.
    He had been reliably informed that he’d dated Maia, the leader of the New York werewolf pack, though he’d received the impression that he had well and truly messed that one up. He’d heard rumors about a vampire queen who might have been interested. He’d even gathered, strange as it seemed, that there was a brief period of time when he and Clary had gone out. And now possibly Beatriz liked him.
    “Seriously, George, tell me the truth,” said Simon. “Am I beautiful?”
    George burst out laughing, his horse wheeling back a few easy paces in the sunlight.
    And Julie shouted: “Faerie!” and pointed. Simon looked toward a hooded and cloaked figure with a basket of fruit over one arm, emerging as if innocently from the mist behind a tree.
    “After it!” roared George, and his horse charged for the figure, Simon plunging after him.
    Marisol, far ahead, shouted: “Trap!” and then gave a scream of pain.
    Simon looked desperately toward the trees. The faerie, he saw, had reinforcements. They had been warned the Fair Folk were all more wary and desperate in the aftermath of the Cold Peace. They should have listened better and thought harder. They should have planned for this.
    Simon, George, Julie, and Beatriz were all riding hard, but they were too far from her. Marisol was swaying in her saddle, blood pouring down her arm: elfshot.
    “Marisol!” Jon Cartwright shouted. “ Marisol , to me!”
    She pulled the horse toward his. Jon stood on his horse and leaped onto hers, bow already in hand and firing arrows into the trees, standing on the horse’s back and thus shielding Marisol like a strange bow-shooting acrobat. Simon knew he’d never be able to do anything like that, ever, unless he Ascended.
    Julie and Beatriz turned their horses toward the trees where the concealed faeries were firing.
    “They have Marisol,” George panted. “We can still get the fruit seller.”
    “No, George,” Simon began, but George had already wheeled his horse toward the hooded figure, now disappearing behind the tree and the mist.
    There was a spear of sunlight shooting between the trunk and the branch of the tree, a dazzling white line between the crooked arc of tree limbs. It seemed to refract in Simon’s eyes, becoming broad and fair, like the path of moonlight on the sea. The hooded figure was slipping away, half-disappeared into the dazzle, and George’s horse was inches from danger, George’s hand reaching for the edge of the figure’s cloak, George heedless of the course he had placed himself upon.
    “No, George!” Simon shouted. “We are not going to trespass into Faerie!”
    He forced his own horse into George’s path, making George pull up, but he was so hell-bent on stopping