The Red Scrolls of Magic Read online

  He let go, and the outside world returned to Magnus in a rush. Alec was abruptly gone, blended into the background.

  Magnus rolled up his bottle-green silk sleeves.

  He tried to banish the uneasy feeling that had crept over him when Alec said, This isn’t going to work.

  For the next half hour, Magnus wandered among the warlocks and faeries of the Shadow Market, trying to buy information. Now that Alec wasn’t around, he was able to blend in seamlessly. He tried to seem normal and carefree, and not under a cloud of suspicion or on a clock. He dropped by Les Changelings en Cage (a stall with anti-faerie charms run by a disgruntled warlock) and Le Tombeau des Loups (the Tomb of the Wolves, a stall selling anti-werewolf magics, obviously run by vampires). He petted various illicit and strange-looking creatures who he suspected would soon be potion ingredients.

  He stopped several times to watch various magical demonstrations given by warlocks from faraway places, out of professional curiosity. He purchased rare spell ingredients that were available only in the Shadow Markets of Europe. He was going to be able to make a pack of werewolves in Mexico very happy by providing them with a potion that would restore their leader’s lost sense of smell.

  He even acquired some new business, for when this pesky cult matter was wrapped up, of course. A fishing fleet in Amsterdam was having trouble with a school of mermaids luring their sailors overboard. He would be in touch.

  He did not, however, learn anything about the Crimson Hand.

  Magnus occasionally glanced behind him, searching for Alec. He never spotted him.

  It was during one of these occasional glances back that the feeling crept over Magnus, as it had on the walk after their balloon crash, that he was being watched by unfriendly eyes. There was a cold sense of threat, like bad weather coming.

  He murmured a spell to alert him if undue attention was being paid to him and brushed his ears with his hands. He immediately felt a tickling sensation in his left lobe, light, as if brushed with a feather. Passing glances, nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe it was only Alec watching.

  Magnus was passing a stall full of cloaks when he felt a stronger touch on his ear, two distinct flicks that nearly made him jump.

  “Real selkie fur,” said the stall owner hopefully. “Ethically sourced. Or how about this one? Fur from werewolves who wanted to be shaved for that sleek aerodynamic feeling.”

  “Lovely,” said Magnus, passing on.

  He turned down a side alley leading away from the main body of the market, and then again to a dead end. The flicking of his ear was still there, this time followed by a tug.

  His hands lit with magic, and he spoke to the empty air. “I’m flattered, but perhaps it’s best we drop the coyness and talk face-to-face.”

  No one answered.

  Magnus waited a few beats before letting the flames die in his hands. He walked back to the entrance of the alley. No sooner had he stepped back into civilization than he felt a hard yank on his ear. Someone was staring at him very intently.

  “Magnus Bane! I thought it was you.”

  Magnus turned toward the voice. “Johnny Rook! What are you doing in Paris?”

  Johnny Rook was one of the rare mundanes who had the ability to see the Shadow World. He was usually based at the Los Angeles Shadow Market.

  Magnus surveyed Johnny unenthusiastically. He wore a black trench coat and sunglasses (though it was night), with short Caesar-cut dirty blond hair and five o’clock scruff. There was something slightly off about his face: Magnus had heard a rumor that Johnny had hired faeries to permanently magically enhance his features, but if it was true, Magnus felt Johnny had wasted his money. The man was also known as Rook the Crook, and he was committed to his aesthetic.

  “About to ask the same of you,” said Johnny, avidly curious.

  “Vacation,” Magnus said noncommittally. “How is your son? Cat, is it?”

  “Kit. He’s a good boy. Growing like a sprout. Quick hands, very useful in my line of work.”

  “You have your child picking pockets?”

  “Some of that. Some passing on trifles like keys. Some sleight of hand. All sorts. He’s multitalented.”

  “Isn’t he about ten years old?” Magnus asked.

  Johnny shrugged. “He’s very advanced.”

  “Clearly.”

  “Looking for anything special at the Market? Perhaps I can be of service.”

  Magnus closed his eyes and counted to five slowly. Against his better judgment he said casually, “What do you know about the Crimson Hand?”

  Johnny rolled his eyes. “Culties. Worship Asmodeus.”

  Magnus’s heart gave a hard, spiky thump. “Asmodeus?”

  Johnny glanced at him sharply.

  “Not a name you hear every day,” Magnus added, hoping that was enough explanation.

  It was a name Magnus had heard oftener than he liked. In what Magnus hoped was total coincidence, Asmodeus was the Prince of Hell who had fathered Magnus himself.

  Would he really have set up a cult in the name of his father? They were not exactly close. He couldn’t imagine having done so, even as a joke.

  Would he have to tell Alec that Asmodeus was his father? Alec had never asked who Magnus’s demon parent was and Magnus had no desire to tell him. Most warlocks were fathered or mothered by ordinary demons. It was Magnus’s bad luck that his father was one of Hell’s Nine Princes.

  “Asmodeus?” he said again to Johnny. “Are you sure?”

  Johnny shrugged. “I didn’t think it was some big secret. That’s just what I heard somewhere.”

  So it might not be true. There was no point telling Alec, Magnus thought, if it might not be true. Tessa hadn’t mentioned it, and she certainly would have if she’d thought the cult worshipped Magnus’s father.

  Magnus breathed a little more freely. Alas, Johnny had a sly look on his face that Magnus knew all too well.

  “I might know more,” Johnny said casually.

  Magnus snapped his fingers. A small yellow bubble shimmered up from his fingertips and expanded until it enveloped them. The background noise of the Shadow Market died, leaving the two of them in a sphere of complete silence.

  Magnus sighed heavily. He’d been here before. “What’s your price?”

  “The information is yours for the low, low price of a small favor, owed by you, to me, to be determined in the future.”

  Johnny gave him a big, encouraging grin. Magnus regarded him with what he hoped was a patrician air.

  “We all know where an unspecified favor ends,” he said. “I made a vague promise to help someone once and spent seven months under an enchantment, living in a dryad’s aquarium. I don’t want to talk about it,” he added quickly as Johnny started to speak. “No nonspecific favors owed!”

  “Okay,” said Johnny, “how about a specific favor, delivered now? You know of anything that would, say, divert the attention of the Nephilim away from something? Or someone?”

  “You doing something the Nephilim wouldn’t approve of?”

  “Obviously yes,” said Johnny, “but maybe more now than before.”

  “I can get you some ointment,” said Magnus. “It discourages attention away from the person coated in it.”

  “Ointment?” said Johnny.

  “It’s an ointment, yes,” said Magnus, a little impatient.

  “You don’t maybe have anything you can drink, or eat?”

  “No,” said Magnus. “It’s an ointment. That’s how it comes.”

  “I just hate being all greasy.”

  “Well, that’s the price you pay, I guess,” said Magnus, “for your constant criminal activities.”

  Johnny shrugged. “How much can I get?”

  “I guess that depends on how much you know,” said Magnus.

  Magnus was surprised Johnny hadn’t made a specific request; he usually tried to be in control of negotiations. For whatever reason, Johnny was desperate to get his hands on this stuff. It was not Magnu
s’s business why. It wasn’t a crime to avoid Shadowhunters. Magnus had met many Shadowhunters he’d prefer to avoid. They weren’t all as charming as Alec.

  “My information says the Crimson Hand recently left their headquarters in Venice,” said Magnus. “Any idea where they went?”

  “No,” said Johnny. “I do know that the Crimson Hand had a secret sanctum in the Venice headquarters where they kept their holy book. It’s called the Chamber.” Johnny’s smile got wider and toothier. “There’s a secret password to get inside. I’ll give it to you for ten bottles of the potion.”

  “It’s an ointment.”

  “Ten bottles of the ointment.”

  “One.”

  “Three.”

  “Done.” They shook hands. That was how you did business.

  “Okay. You find the stone head of the goat, and speak the word ‘Asmodeus.’ ”

  One of Magnus’s eyebrows rose. “The password to get into the lair of the Asmodeus-worshipping cult is ‘Asmodeus’?”

  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed this,” Johnny said thoughtfully, “but cultists aren’t usually the brightest the mundane world has to offer.”

  “I have noticed that,” said Magnus. “I also need to know—who’s your source?”

  “I never said I would tell you that!” said Johnny.

  “But you will,” said Magnus, “because you want three jars of ointment, and because you are compulsively disloyal.”

  Johnny hesitated, but only for a moment. “Warlock called Mori Shu. He’s a former member of the Crimson Hand.”

  “What’s a warlock doing in a mundane cult? He should know better.”

  “Who knows? Word is, he offended the new leader and he’s on the run, looking for protection. He’d know more about the Crimson Hand than anyone who isn’t still in it. He was in Paris not long ago, but I hear he’s headed to Venice now. He’d tell you anything, if you helped him out.”

  Just when the Crimson Hand was leaving Venice, Mori Shu was headed there.

  “Thanks, Johnny. I’ll have the ointment sent to you in L.A. right when I get back from vacation.”

  The yellow bubble began to dissolve into gold flakes that drifted glitteringly into the breeze. As it went, Johnny grabbed hold of Magnus’s sleeve and hissed with unexpected intensity: “There have been a lot of faerie disappearances in Shadow Markets lately. Everybody’s on edge. People are saying the Crimson Hand is responsible. I hate the idea of people hunting down faeries. Stop them.” There was a look on Johnny’s face Magnus couldn’t remember seeing before, a mix of anger and fear.

  Then the cacophony of the Paris Shadow Market returned in a rush.

  “Now,” Magnus murmured. “Where is Alec?”

  “That your Shadowhunter?” Johnny said, grinning wickedly, all hint of his previous expression gone. “You do know how to make a stir in a public place, my friend.”

  “We’re not friends, Johnny,” said Magnus absently, scanning the crowd. Johnny barked a laugh.

  Alec appeared like a rabbit from a hat, out from behind the corner of a nearby stall. He looked as though he had been rolling in the mud.

  “Your Shadowhunter is filthy,” observed Johnny.

  “Well, he cleans up nice,” said Magnus.

  “I’m sure he’s a real special dreamboat, but by a total coincidence, I have an urgent appointment elsewhere. Until next time, High Warlock.”

  Johnny threw him a casual salute and vanished into the crowd. Magnus let him go. He was more concerned with the state of his boyfriend. He looked Alec up and down, taking in the mud caked over his clothes and liberally sprinkled in his black hair. Alec was carrying his bow close to his body, and his chest was rising and falling hard.

  “Hey, honey,” said Magnus. “What’s new?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  * * *

  Clash by Night

  FIVE MINUTES AFTER LEAVING MAGNUS’S side, Alec watched Magnus put his hand into a cage of sharp-clawed, poisonous, demonic monkeys. Alec gripped his seraph blade lightly but held back.

  He was in the Shadow Market. The rules were different here. He knew that.

  Fortunately, Magnus only patted one snarling creature with a careless ringed hand, then backed away from that stall and toward another that was being picketed by disgruntled werewolves.

  “Stop the oppression of werewolves by the undead!” said one werewolf woman, waving a DOWNWORLDER UNITY sign. Magnus took a pamphlet and gave the werewolf a smile, leaving her dazzled. Magnus had that effect on people. Alec recalled how the vampire blood merchant had looked at Magnus earlier. Before Alec met Magnus he used to sneak nervous glances at guys sometimes: at Jace, or Shadowhunters visiting the Institute, or mundanes in the busy New York streets. Now when Magnus was in a room, it was difficult for Alec to notice anybody but him. Did Magnus still notice men were handsome, or think women were beautiful? Alec felt a sharp prickle of nerves at the thought of how many people might be delighted if Alec did fail this relationship test.

  Alec pulled his hoodie a little lower and followed at a distance.

  Magnus then turned into an apothecary and began to shop for herbs. After that, he stopped and talked to a violet-haired faerie asking for gold to feed his pet basilisk. Next he went to the opposite stall and spent what felt like an hour haggling for what looked suspiciously like human hair.

  Alec trusted that Magnus knew what he was doing. Magnus exuded confidence with such little effort. He seemed always in control of every situation, even when he wasn’t. It was one of the things Alec admired most about him.

  Alec crept down the adjacent street when Magnus went on the move again. He was far enough back not to arouse suspicion, but only five bounding steps away. He watched not only his boyfriend but everyone around him, from the group of dryads trying to lure Magnus to their tent to the scrawny young pickpocket with a crown of thorns on her head, not-so-innocently trailing Magnus.

  When the girl made her move, Alec did as well, catching her sticky fingers just before they slid into Magnus’s pocket. Alec swooped in and yanked her in between two stalls so quickly no one noticed.

  The faerie girl twisted away from him so violently that one of his gloves slipped off, and she saw his runes. The pale green flush drained out of her skin, leaving her gray.

  “Je suis désolée,” she whispered, and on Alec’s look of incomprehension: “I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me. I promise I won’t do it again.”

  The girl was so thin Alec could encircle her wrist with his thumb and forefinger. Faeries were seldom the age they appeared, but she looked as young as his brother, Max, who had been killed in the war. Shadowhunters are warriors, his father said. We lose, and we fight on.

  Max had been too young to fight. He would never learn now. Alec always worried about his sister and his parabatai, who were both reckless and fearless. He had always been so desperate to protect them. It had never occurred to him that he had to be on guard to shield Max. He had failed his little brother.

  Max had been almost as skinny. He used to stare up at him, just as this girl was doing, his eyes big behind his glasses.

  Alec struggled to breathe for an instant and looked away. The girl did not try to seize this opportunity to slip from his slackened grasp. When he glanced back at her, she was still staring at him.

  “Um, Shadowhunter?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

  Alec shook himself out of the daze. Shadowhunters fight on, his father’s voice said in his head.

  “I’m fine,” he told the girl, his own voice a little hoarse. “What’s your name?”

  “Rose,” she said.

  “Are you hungry, Rose?”

  The girl’s lip trembled. She tried to run away, but he grabbed her shirt. She slapped his arm and seemed to be about to bite him when she saw the fistful of euros in his hand.

  Alec handed them to her. “Go buy some food.” No sooner had he opened his palm than the euros disappeared. She did not thank him, only nodded and scampered away.
“And stop stealing,” he called after her.

  Now he was out of the money he’d brought with him. As he’d left the New York Institute, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, to begin this trip, his mother had chased him out and pressed money into his hands, even though he’d tried to refuse it.

  “Go be happy,” she had said.

  Alec wondered whether he’d been scammed by the faerie girl. She might be hundreds of years old, and faeries were well-known for their love of scamming mortals. But he decided to believe that she was what she seemed—a scared, hungry kid—and it made him feel happy to have helped. So the money was well spent.

  His father had not liked it when Alec announced he was leaving the Institute to go on a trip with Magnus.

  “What has he told you about us?” Robert Lightwood had asked, pacing Alec’s room like a distressed cat.

  His parents had once been followers of Valentine, the evil Shadowhunter who had started the recent war. Alec imagined Magnus could tell him some stories about them if he wanted.

  “Nothing,” Alec had replied angrily. “He’s not like that.”

  “And what has he told you about himself?” Robert asked. When Alec was silent, Robert added, “Nothing as well, I imagine.”

  Alec did not know what expression he wore in that moment, how afraid he might have looked, but his father’s face softened.

  “Look, son, you can’t think there’s any future in this,” he said. “Not with a Downworlder, or a man. I—I understand you feel like you have to be true to yourself, but sometimes it’s best to be wise and take a different path even if you feel—feel tempted. I don’t want your life to be more difficult than it has to be. You’re so young, and you don’t know what the world is really like. I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

  Alec stared at him.

  “What about lying is supposed to make me so happy? I wasn’t happy before. I’m happy now.”

  “How can you be?”

  “Telling the truth makes me happy,” Alec said. “Magnus makes me happy. I don’t care if it’s difficult.”

  There had been so much sorrow and worry on his father’s face. Alec had been scared his whole life of putting that expression on his face. He’d tried so hard to avoid it.