Ghosts of the Shadow Market

by Cassandra Clare

“You’re sounding a bit dire,” Anna said.

  “It’s true,” he replied. “Our greatest poet, and he died in poverty and obscurity, not so long ago. They threw him in jail because he loved another man. I do not think love can be wrong.”

  “No,” Anna said. She had always known that she loved women the way she was expected to love men. That she found women beautiful and desirable, while men were good friends, brothers-in-arms, but nothing more. She had never pretended otherwise, and her close friends all seemed to accept this about her as a known fact.

  But it was true that though Matthew and the others often joked with her about slaying the hearts of pretty girls, it was not something she and her mother had ever talked about. She recalled her mother touching her hair fondly in the carriage. What did Cecily truly think of her odd daughter?

  Not now, she told herself. She turned to the woman in the turban, who had been trying to get her attention. “Yes?”

  “My dear,” the woman said. “You must be sure to be here in a week’s time. The faithful will be rewarded, I promise you. The ancient ones, so long hidden from us, shall be revealed.”

  “Of course,” Anna said, blinking. “Yes. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  While she was simply making conversation, Anna found that she would like to return to this place. She had come here dressed as she was, and she had received only approbation. In fact, she was sure that one of the vampire girls was examining her with a look that was not entirely wholesome. And Leopolda, the beautiful warlock, had not taken her eyes from Anna. Had Anna’s mind and soul not been full of Ariadne . . .

  Well, it could only be left to the imagination.

  * * *

  As Matthew and Anna left the house that night, they did not notice a figure across the street, standing in the shadows.

  Jem recognized Matthew at once but was confused at first as to who was with him. The person resembled his parabatai, Will Herondale—not Will as he was now, but Will at seventeen, with his confident swagger and upturned chin. But that could not be. And the person was obviously not James, Will’s son.

  It took him several minutes to realize that the young man was not a young man at all. It was Anna Lightwood, Will’s niece. She had inherited the dark hair and the profile from the Herondale side of her family, and clearly, she had inherited her uncle’s swagger. For a moment Jem felt a pang in his heart. It was like seeing his friend as a young man again, as the two of them had been when they lived at the Institute together and fought side by side, as they had been when Tessa Gray first arrived at their door.

  Was it really so long ago?

  Jem shook the thought loose and focused on the present. Anna was in some sort of disguise, and she and Matthew had just been at a Downworlder gathering with a warlock he had come to observe. He had no idea what they were doing there.

  * * *

  A full week passed. A full week of Anna running for the post, looking from the window, walking partway to Cavendish Square before turning back. A lifetime. It was agony, and just as it was turning to acceptance, Anna was called downstairs early Friday morning to find Ariadne waiting for her in a yellow dress and a white hat.

  “Good morning,” Ariadne said. “Why aren’t you ready?”

  “Ready?” Anna said, her throat gone dry at the sudden appearance of Ariadne.

  “To train!”

  “I—”

  “Good morning, Ariadne!” Cecily Lightwood said, coming in with Alexander.

  “Oh!” Ariadne’s eyes lit up when she saw the baby. “Oh, I must hold him—I simply adore babies.”

  The appearance of Alexander bought Anna enough time to scramble upstairs, catch her breath, splash water on her face, and collect her gear. Five minutes later, Anna was seated next to Ariadne in the Bridgestock carriage, rumbling toward the Institute. They were alone now, close to each other in the warm carriage. The smell of Ariadne’s orange-blossom perfume wafted up and wrapped around Anna.

  “Did I disturb you?” Ariadne said. “I had simply hoped . . . that you might be free to train with me. . . .” She looked worried. “I hope I did not presume. Are you angry?”

  “No,” Anna replied. “I could never be angry with you.”

  Anna tried to make it sound light, but a husky note of truth rang through.

  “Good.” Ariadne looked radiantly pleased at that and crossed her hands on her lap. “I would hate to displease you.”

  When they arrived at the Institute, Anna changed much more quickly than Ariadne. She waited in the training room, nervously pacing, taking knives from the walls and throwing them to steady her nerves.

  Just training. Simple training.

  “You have a good arm,” Ariadne said.

  Ariadne was stunning in her dresses; the gear revealed something else. She was still feminine, with her long hair and lush curves, but unencumbered by pounds of fabric, she moved with grace and speed.

  “How would you like to begin?” Anna said. “Do you have a preferred weapon? Or should we do some climbing? Work on the beam?”

  “Whatever you think is best,” Ariadne replied.

  “Shall we start with blades?” Anna said, taking one from the wall.

  Whatever Ariadne had been doing in Idris, it did not involve much training. She had been accurate in that. When she threw, her arm was weak. Anna came up and guided her, forcing herself to maintain her composure as she took Ariadne’s hand in hers and guided the toss. Ariadne was surprisingly good at climbing, but once on the ceiling beam, she took a bad tumble. Anna jumped underneath and caught her neatly.

  “Oh, very impressive!” Ariadne said, smiling.

  Anna stood there for a moment, Ariadne in her arms, unsure of what to do. There was something in Ariadne’s gaze, in the way she was looking at Anna . . . as if mesmerized. . . .

  How did she ask? How did this happen with someone like Ariadne?

  It was too much.

  “A very good attempt,” Anna said, gently setting Ariadne on her feet. “Just . . . watch your footing.”

  “I think I’ve had enough of that for today,” Ariadne said. “How does one have fun in London?”

  Oh, so many ways.

  “Well,” Anna said. “There is the theater, and the zoo is—”

  “No.” Ariadne took hold of one of the pillars and gently spun around it. “Fun. Surely you know a place.”

  “Well,” Anna said, searching her mind frantically, “I know a place full of writers and poets. It is quite louche. It is in Soho and starts after midnight.”

  “Then I assume you will be taking me,” Ariadne said, eyes sparkling. “I will wait for you by my window at midnight tonight.”

  * * *

  The wait that evening was excruciating.

  Anna picked at her dinner and watched the clock across the room. Christopher was forming his carrots into a pyramid and working something out in his head. Her mother was feeding Alexander. Anna was counting her heartbeats. She had to try not to appear conspicuous. She spent some time in the family room with her baby brother; she picked up a book and cast an eye blankly over the pages. By nine she was able to stretch and say she was going to have a bath and retire.

  Back in her room, Anna waited until she heard the other members of the household go to bed before changing her clothes. She had taken the time to clean her outfit and mend it as best she could. When she dressed, she looked dapper and dangerous. She had decided now that this was how she would dress if she slipped out on adventures, even to meet Ariadne.

  She climbed from her window at eleven, sliding down a rope, which she tossed back inside. She could have jumped, but it had taken her some time to arrange her hair under the hat correctly. She walked to Fitzrovia, and this time she did not bother to avoid the pools of streetlight. She wanted to be seen. She straightened her back and widened her step. The more she walked, the more she felt herself slipping into the gait, the attitude. She tipped her hat to a lady passing in a carriage; the lady smiled and looked away shyly.
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  Anna knew now that she was never going to go back to wearing dresses. She had always loved the theater, always loved the idea of a performance. The first time she had worn her brother’s clothes it had been a performance, but with each time she did it again, it became more her reality. She was not a man and did not want to be—but why should men get to keep all the good pieces of masculinity for themselves because of an accident of birth? Why should she, Anna, not wear their clothes, and their power and confidence too?

  You have stolen fire from the gods.

  Anna’s swagger faded a bit as she turned the corner onto Cavendish Square. Would Ariadne accept her like this? It had felt so right a moment before, but now . . .

  She almost turned back, but then she forced herself on.

  The Bridgestock house was dark. Anna looked up, fearing that Ariadne had been teasing. But then she saw a flick of a curtain, and the sash window opened. Ariadne looked down at her.

  And she smiled.

  A rope sailed out of the window, and Ariadne slid down it, more gracefully than she had in training. She wore a light blue dress, which fluttered as she dropped.

  “Oh my,” she said, walking up to Anna. “You look . . . quite devastating.”

  Anna would not have traded the way Ariadne looked at her in that moment for a thousand pounds.

  They took a carriage to Soho. Though she and Ariadne were both glamoured to hide their Marks from mundanes, Anna enjoyed the look she got from the driver when he realized the handsome young gent in his cab was a handsome young lady. He doffed his cap as she and Ariadne alighted from the cab, muttering something about “young people these days.”

  They arrived at the house, but this time, when Anna knocked on the door, the person answering was less accommodating. He looked at Anna, then at Ariadne.

  “No Shadowhunters,” he said.

  “That was not your previous policy,” Anna said. She noticed that the windows were now covered by the heavy velvet curtains.

  “Go home, Shadowhunters,” he said. “I have made myself clear.”

  The door was slammed in their faces.

  “Now I am curious,” Ariadne said. “We must go in, don’t you think?”

  Ariadne certainly had a wicked streak in her that complemented her bubbly cheerfulness, a love of things that were just a bit . . . naughty. Anna felt she should encourage this impulse.

  There was no clear point of access on the flat front of the house, so they moved down to the end of the street and found a narrow alley backing the houses. This was bricked up to the third floor. There was, however, a drainpipe. Anna got a hold on this and made the climb. She could not reach the third-story windows from there, but she could get onto the roof. She looked down to see Ariadne climbing up after her, again showing more skill than she had in the training room. They managed to pry open an attic window. From there they crept down the winding stairs, Anna first, with Ariadne behind. Ariadne kept a hand on Anna’s waist, possibly for guidance as they walked, or . . .

  Anna would not think about it.

  They were burning a great deal of incense in the house tonight. It hummed through the hall and up the stairs, almost causing Anna to cough. It was not a pleasant smell—it was acrid and hard. She detected wormwood, mugwort, and something else—something with a metallic edge, like blood. The group was unusually quiet. There was only one voice, speaking low. A female voice with the Germanic accent. She heard the incantations.

  Anna knew a summoning when she heard one. She turned to Ariadne, who had a look of concern on her face.

  Anna reached for her seraph blade and murmured, “Adriel,” indicating to Ariadne that she would go ahead and look. Ariadne nodded. Anna crept down the hall. She pushed back a bit of the velvet curtain that closed off the main sitting room. Everyone there was turned toward the center of the room, so mostly she saw backs and the faint flicker of candlelight.

  Anna could make out the form of a circle drawn on the floor. The woman in the turban was just on the edge of it, her face tilted up in ecstasy. She wore a long black robe and held a book with a pentagram over her head. The book was bound in something odd. It looked like skin.

  Towering above all was the warlock Leopolda, her eyes closed and her arms raised. She held a curved dagger in her hands. She was chanting in a demonic language. Then she looked to the woman in the turban and nodded. The woman took a long step into the circle. Green flame flashed all around, making the mundanes murmur and back away. There were not, Anna noticed, many Downworlders present.

  “Come forth!” cried the woman. “Come forth, beautiful death. Come forth, creature, that we may worship you! Come forth!”

  There was a terrible smell, and the room filled with darkness. Anna knew she could no longer stand still.

  “Get out!” she yelled, pushing her way into the room. “All of you!”

  The group had no time to be surprised. A massive Ravener demon burst forth out of the darkness. The woman in the turban went down on her knees before it.

  “My lord,” she said. “My dark—”

  The Ravener whipped its tail around and easily severed the woman’s turbaned head from her neck. The assembled let up a collective scream, and there was a rush for the door. Anna had to fight her way toward the demon. The Ravener was making short work of the woman’s remains.

  Leopolda Stain simply looked on the scene with gentle amusement.

  It was hard to fight a demon in such close quarters without killing all the people as well. Anna shoved several mundanes aside and launched herself at the demon, her seraph blade raised. The demon made an angry screeching noise. This was because something had just struck out one of its eyes. Ariadne was next to her, holding an electrum whip and smiling.

  “Very good aim,” Anna said as the angry demon wheeled around. It made a leap and broke through one of the front windows. Anna and Ariadne went right after it, Anna making the jump easily in her new clothes. Ariadne went through the door, but she was fast on her feet, snapping her whip in the air. Between them, they quickly made short work of the beast.

  There was a strange crackling noise. They turned to see that the demon had not come alone—a cluster of smaller Raveners poured through the broken window, their jaws dripping green liquid. Anna and Ariadne turned to face them, weapons drawn. A small Ravener jumped forward first. Ariadne sliced through it with her whip. Another sprang out, but as soon as it appeared, a staff swung through the air next to Anna, bashing its head in. She turned as it disappeared, to find herself looking at Brother Zachariah. She was well acquainted with her uncle’s former parabatai, though she had no idea what he was doing here.

  How many? he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said as another demon came forth from the house. “They’re coming from a circle inside the house. There are people hurt.”

  He nodded and indicated that he would proceed inside, while Anna and Ariadne fought outside. One of the creatures was about to descend on one of the fleeing mundanes. Anna jumped on its back, dodging its angrily swinging tail, and plunged her seraph blade into the back of its neck. The stunned mundane crab-crawled backward as the Ravener fell dead to the ground. She turned to look for Ariadne, who was laying waste to one of the Raveners, slicing her electrum whip through the air and then right through the demon’s legs. Anna was surprised—the only other electrum whip she had ever seen was owned by the Consul, Charlotte Fairchild.

  Ariadne and Anna stood back-to-back, fighting like parabatai might, their movements in sync. Though they were certainly not parabatai. It would be very wrong to feel about a parabatai the way Anna felt about Ariadne. There was no mistaking it, Anna thought, though it was an awkward revelation to have in the middle of a demon fight.

  She was definitely in love with Ariadne Bridgestock.

  * * *

  Jem entered the house through the open door, his staff at the ready. The room was quiet. There was a tremendous amount of blood on the floor, and the torn remains of a human.

 
“Herein!” said a voice. “I was hoping you would come.”

  Jem turned. Leopolda Stain was sitting on a large brocade chair, holding the head of a woman in her lap. Jem raised his staff.

  You have murdered innocent mundanes, Jem said.

  “They slew themselves,” Leopolda said. “They were playing with fire. They were burned. You know of such creatures. They believe they understand magic. They must come to understand its true nature. I do them a service. They will not call another demon. If I wanted to teach them a lesson, where’s the harm? There is hellfire in me, but I do not think I am your chief concern.”

  Jem was torn. His instinct was to strike her down for what she had done, and yet . . .

  “You hesitate, James Carstairs,” she said with a smile.

  My name is Brother Zachariah.

  “You were James Carstairs, the Shadowhunter who was addicted to yin fen. You were acquainted with Axel Mortmain, the one they called the Magister, I think?”

  At the sound of Mortmain’s name, Jem lowered his staff.

  “Ah,” Leopolda said with a smile. “You remember dear Axel.”

  You knew him?

  “Quite well,” she said. “I know many things. I know a warlock helps run the Institute here, yes? Named Tessa Herondale. She is a Shadowhunter, and she can bear no Marks. She is married to your parabatai.”

  Why are you asking me about Tessa? Jem said. It was as if cold fingers were touching his spine. He did not like this warlock. He did not like her interest in Tessa and Will.

  “Because you have been in the Shadow Market, asking many questions about her. About her father. Her demonic father.”

  She let the head roll from her lap.

  “As I said, I knew Mortmain,” she said. “Since you have been asking about him and how Tessa was created, news has trickled back to me—one of his only remaining friends. I believe you are curious about how Mortmain created Tessa. You seek the demon he summoned to be her father. If you put your weapon away, perhaps we can have a conversation.”

  Jem did not set down his staff.

  “She might not have been too curious about her demon father before”—Leopolda played with the gold netting in her hair—“but now that she has children . . . and those children show signs of their demon heritage . . . I imagine things are very different?”