Ghosts of the Shadow Market

by Cassandra Clare

  Tessa, he said. Tessa, it’s me. I am here. I am not gone.

  “Jem,” she finally said. “Where have you been? It’s been so long since . . .”

  She pulled herself up and rubbed the tears from her cheeks. She still couldn’t say the words “since Will died.” Since that day she sat next to him on the bed and he drifted gently to sleep and never woke again. Jem had been there then, of course, but over the last three years she saw him less and less. They still met at Blackfriars Bridge, but otherwise he stayed away.

  I thought it best to keep away from you. I am a Silent Brother, he said, and his voice in her head was quiet. I am no use to you.

  “What do you mean?” Tessa asked helplessly. “It is always better for me to be with you.”

  Being what I am, how can I comfort you? asked Jem.

  “If you cannot,” said Tessa, “there is nobody in this world who can.”

  She had known that always. Magnus and Catarina had both tried to speak to her tactfully of immortal lives and other loves, but if she lived until the sun died, there would never be any other for her besides Will and Jem, those two twin souls, the only souls she had ever loved.

  I do not know what comfort a creature like me could bring, said Jem. If I could die to bring him back, I would, but he is gone, and with his loss the world seems even more lost to me. I fight for every drop of emotion I have, but at the same time, Tessa, I cannot see you lonely and not wish to be with you. I am not what I was. I did not want to cause you more pain.

  “The whole world seems to have gone mad,” she said, tears burning in her eyes. “Will is gone from me, and you are gone from me, or so I have long thought. And yet tonight, I realized—I could still lose you, Jem. I could lose the hope, the slim hope of the possibility that someday . . .”

  The words hung in the air. They were words they never spoke to each other aloud, not before Will died and not after. She had taken the part of her heart that loved Jem wildly, violently, and locked it up in a box: she had loved Will, and Jem had been her best friend, and they had never, ever spoken of what might happen if he were no longer a Silent Brother. If somehow the curse of that cold fate could be lifted. If his silence were gone, and he became human again, able to live and breathe and feel. Then what? What would they do?

  I know what you are thinking. His voice in her mind was soft. His skin under her hands was so warm. She knew it was fever, but she told herself it was not. She lifted her face and looked into his, the cruel runes shutting his beloved eyes forever, the unchanged planes of his countenance. I think of it too. What if it ended? What if it were possible for us? A future? What would we do?

  “I would seize that future,” she said. “I would go with you anywhere. Even if the world was burning, if the Silent Brothers hunted us to the ends of the earth, I would be happy, if I was with you.”

  She could not quite hear him in her head, but she could feel him: the edge of a jumble of emotions, his longing now as desperate as it had been when they had fallen together onto the carpet of the music room, the night she had begged him to marry her as soon as possible.

  He caught her in his arms. He was a Silent Brother, a Gregori, a Watcher, barely human. And yet he felt human enough—his lean chest hot against her skin as she tilted her face up. His lips met hers, soft and so sweet it made her ache. It had been so many, many years, but this was still the same.

  Almost the same. I am not what I was.

  Almost the fire of lost nights, the sound of his passionate music in her ears. She put her arms around his slim shoulders and clung to him fiercely. She could love enough for both of them. Any part of Jem was better than all of any other man alive.

  His musician’s hands drew over her face, over her hair, over her shoulders, as though he was seizing a last chance to memorize what he could never touch again. Even as she kissed him and insisted desperately to herself that it was possible, she knew it was not.

  Tessa, he said. Even when I cannot see, you are so beautiful.

  Then he grasped her shoulders in his beautiful hands and gently put her away from him.

  I am sorry, my darling, he told her. That was not fair of me, or well done. When I am with you, I want to forget what I am, but I cannot change it. A Silent Brother can have no wife, no love.

  Tessa’s heart was pounding, her skin blazing like the fires all over London. She had not felt desire like this since Will. She knew she would never feel it for anyone else; only Will or Jem. “Don’t go away from me,” she whispered. “Don’t stop talking to me. Don’t retreat into silence. Will you tell me how you were injured?” she asked, grasping his hand. He drew it against his heart. She could feel it hammering through his rib cage. “Please. Jem, what were you doing?”

  Jem sighed.

  I was looking for lost Herondales, he said.

  “Lost Herondales?”

  This was from Catarina, who stood in the bedroom doorway, holding a tray with two cups of tea. The tray rattled in her hands, as shaken as Tessa felt. She had not even thought of Catarina’s presence.

  Catarina steadied her grip and quickly set the tray down on the dresser. Jem’s eyebrow quirked up.

  Yes, Jem said. Do you know something about them?

  Catarina was still visibly shaken. She didn’t answer.

  “Catarina?” Tessa asked.

  “You have heard of Tobias Herondale,” she said.

  Of course, Jem replied. His story is infamous. He ran from a battle and his fellow Shadowhunters were killed.

  “That is the story,” Catarina said. “The reality was that Tobias was under a spell, made to believe that his wife and unborn child were in danger. He ran to help them. His fear was for their safety, but nevertheless, he broke the Law. When he could not be found, the Clave punished Tobias’s wife in his stead. They killed her, but not before I helped her birth the child. I enchanted her so that it appeared she was still with child when she was executed. In reality, she had a son. His name was Ephraim.”

  She sighed and leaned against the wall, knotting her hands together.

  “I took Ephraim to America and raised him there. He never knew what he was or who he was. He was a happy boy, a good boy. He was my boy.”

  “You had a son?’ Tessa asked.

  “I never told you,” Catarina replied, looking down. “I should have. It’s just . . . it was so long ago now. But it was a wonderful period in my life. For a time, there was no chaos. There was no fighting. We were a family. I did only one thing to connect him to his secret heritage—I gave him a necklace in the shape of a heron. I couldn’t allow his Shadowhunter lineage to be blotted out completely. But, of course, he grew up. He had a family of his own. And his family had their own families. I stayed the same and gradually faded out of their lives. It is what we immortals must do. One of his descendants was a boy named Roland. He became a magician, and he was famous in Downworld. I tried to warn him away from using magic, but he wouldn’t listen. We had a terrible fight and parted badly. I tried to find him, but he was gone. I’ve never been able to find any trace of him. I drove him away when I tried to save him.”

  No, Jem said. That is not why he ran away. He married a woman who was a fugitive. Roland went into hiding to protect her.

  Catarina looked up at him.

  “What?” she said.

  I was in America a short while ago with an Iron Sister, he said, to retrieve some adamas. While there, we encountered a Shadow Market connected to a carnival. It was run by a Greater Demon. We confronted him, and he told us that there were Herondales lost in the world and that they were in danger and that they were very close by. He said that they were hiding from an enemy neither mortal nor demon. Also at this market, I saw a faerie woman with a mortal man. They had a child. The man was called Roland.

  Tessa was stunned by the rush of information coming from all sides, but she was caught by the thought of a man throwing away his whole life to run with the woman he loved, giving everything he had to shield her and counting it as
nothing. That sounded like a Herondale.

  “He was alive?” Catarina said. “Roland? At a carnival?”

  When I realized what was happening, I tried to track him down, but I was unable to find him. Please know that it was not you he was running from. The Greater Demon told me that they were being chased and that they were in great danger. Now I know that to be true. The faerie who came to me tonight—he meant to kill me. The forces looking for the Herondales are neither mortal nor demon—they are fey, and the fey mean to keep something secret.

  “So . . . I did not chase him away?” Catarina said. “All this time . . . Roland . . .”

  Catarina shook herself and regained her composure. She picked up the tea tray and brought it over to the bed, setting it on the edge.

  “Drink your tea,” she said. “I used the last of our ration of milk and the biscuits.”

  You know that Silent Brothers do not drink, Jem said.

  Catarina gave him a sad smile. “I thought you might still find comfort in holding the warm cup.”

  She wiped her eyes covertly and turned and left the room.

  You did not know of this? Jem said.

  “She never said,” Tessa replied. “So many problems are caused by unnecessary secrets.”

  Jem turned his face away and ran his finger along the edge of the teacup. She caught at his hand. If that was all she could have, she would hold on to it.

  “Why have you kept so far away?” Tessa said. “We have both been grieving Will. Why do so separately?”

  I am a Silent Brother, and Silent Brothers cannot—

  Jem cut himself off. Tessa clasped his hand to the point where she might have broken it.

  “You are Jem—my Jem. Always my Jem.”

  I am Brother Zachariah, Jem returned.

  “So be it!” said Tessa. “You are Brother Zachariah, and my Jem. You are a Silent Brother. That does not mean you are not dear to me as you always were, and you always will be. Do you think anything could separate us? Are either of us so weak as that? After all we have seen and all we have done? I spend every day grateful that you exist and are in the world. And as long as you live, we keep Will alive.”

  She saw the impact these words had on Jem. Being a Silent Brother meant destroying some parts of you that were human, burning them away, but Jem was still there.

  “We have so much time, Jem. You must promise me that we will not spend it apart. Do not keep away from me. Make me a part of this quest as well. I can help. You must be more careful.”

  I would not put you in danger, he said.

  At this Tessa laughed—a true, ringing laugh.

  “Danger?” she said. “Jem, I am immortal. And look outside. Look at the city burning. The only thing I am frightened of is being without those I love.”

  At last she felt the pressure of his fingers, holding her hand back.

  Outside, London burned. Inside, in this moment, all was well.

  * * *

  The morning came, cold and gray, with the smell of the still-burning fires in the air. London woke, shook itself off, picked up its brooms and buckets, and began the daily act of repair. The blackout curtains were opened to the morning air. People went to work. The buses ran, and the kettles boiled; the shops opened. Fear had not won. Death and fire and war had not won.

  Tessa had fallen asleep around dawn, sitting by Jem’s side, holding his hand, her head leaning on the wall. When she stirred awake, she found that the bed was empty. The blankets had been neatly pulled back up and the clothes were gone from the sill.

  “Jem,” Tessa said, frantic.

  Catarina was asleep in their little sitting room, her head basketed in her arms and resting on their kitchen table.

  “He is gone,” Tessa said. “Did you see him go?”

  “No,” Catarina said, rubbing her eyes.

  Tessa returned to the bedroom and looked around. Had it all been a dream? Had the war driven her mad? As she turned, she saw a folded note on the dresser that said TESSA. She opened it:

  My Tessa,

  There will be no separation between us. Where you are, I am. Where we are, Will is.

  Whatever else I may be, I remain always,

  Your Jem

  Brother Zachariah walked through London. The city was gray with night, its buildings reduced to broken remnants of what they had once been, until it seemed a city made of ash and bone. Perhaps all cities would become the Silent City, one day.

  He was able to conceal some things from his Brothers, even though they had ready access to his mind. They did not know all his secrets, but they knew enough. Tonight every voice in his mind was hushed, overwhelmed by what he had felt and what he had almost done.

  He was bitterly ashamed of what he had said this night. Tessa was still grieving Will. They shared that grief, and they loved each other. She did still love him. He believed that. But she could not feel what she had felt for him once. She had not, thank the Angel, lived as he had lived, in bones and silence and on memories of love. She’d had Will, and loved him so long, and now Will was lost. He worried that he had taken advantage of her misery. She might well cling to what was familiar in a world gone mad and strange.

  But she was so brave, his Tessa, carving out a new life now the old life was lost. She’d done it once already, as a girl coming from America. He had felt it as a bond between them long ago, that they had both come across the seas to find a new home. He had thought they could find a new home with each other.

  He knew now that had been a dream, but what had been dreams for him could be real for Tessa. She was immortal and valiant. She would live again in this new world, and build a whole new life. Perhaps she would love again, if she could find a man who would measure up to Will, though in almost a hundred years Zachariah had not known any who could. Tessa deserved the richest life and the greatest love imaginable.

  Tessa deserved more than a being who could never truly be a man again, who could not love her with a whole heart. Even though he loved her with all the broken fragments of heart he had left, it was not enough. She deserved more than he had to offer.

  He should never have reached for her that way.

  Nevertheless, there was a selfish joy within him, a warmth that he could carry even into the deathlike coldness of the City of Bones. She had kissed him and clung to him. For one shining night, he had held her in his arms again.

  Tessa, Tessa, Tessa, he thought. She could never be his again, but he was hers forever. That was enough to live on.

  * * *

  That evening, Catarina and Tessa walked in the direction of St. Bart’s.

  “A bacon sandwich,” Catarina said. “Piled so high you can barely hold it. And thick with so much butter the bacon slides off the bread. That’s what I’m having first. How about you?”

  Tessa smiled and shone her torch down the pavement, stepping over a bit of rubble. Around them, there were shells of buildings. Everything around had been reduced to charred brick and ash. But already London was picking up, pushing the debris back. The dark was like an embrace. All of London was under a blanket together, holding each other close.

  “An ice cream,” Tessa said. “With strawberries. Loads and loads of strawberries.”

  “Oh, I like that,” Catarina said. “I’m changing mine.”

  A man walking toward them tipped his hat.

  “Evening, Sisters,” he said. “You see that?”

  He gestured up at St. Paul’s Cathedral, the great building that had sat guarding over London for hundreds of years.

  “They wanted to take it down last night, but they didn’t, did they?” The man smiled. “No, they didn’t. They can’t break us. You have a good evening, Sisters. You keep well.”

  The man walked on, and Tessa looked up at the cathedral. Everything around it was gone, but it had been saved—impossibly, improbably saved from thousands of bombs. London would not let it die, and it had lived.

  She touched the jade pendant around her neck.

  The W
icked Ones

  By Cassandra Clare and Robin Wasserman

  Paris, 1989

  It was said among the Shadowhunters that one could not know true beauty until one had seen the gleaming towers of Alicante. It was said that no city on earth could rival its wonders. It was said that no Shadowhunter could feel truly at home anywhere else.

  If anyone had asked Céline Montclaire her opinion on the subject, she would have said: obviously these Shadowhunters had never been to Paris.

  She would have rhapsodized about gothic spires spearing the clouds, cobblestone streets shimmering with rain, sunlight dancing on the Seine, and, bien sûr, the infinite varieties of cheese. She would have pointed out that Paris had been home to Baudelaire and Rimbaud, Monet and Gauguin, Descartes and Voltaire, that this was the city that had birthed a new way of speaking, seeing, thinking, being—drawing even the most mundane of mundanes a little closer to the angels.

  In every way, Paris was la ville lumière. The City of Light. If you ask me, Céline would have said, nothing could be more beautiful than that.

  But no one ever asked. As a general rule, no one asked Céline Montclaire’s opinion on anything.

  Until now.

  “You sure there’s not some kind of rune to keep these foul beasts away?” Stephen Herondale said as a thunderous flutter of wings descended. He ducked, whacked blindly at his feathered foe.

  The flock of pigeons quickly passed, without dealing any mortal blows. Céline waved off a couple of stragglers, and Stephen breathed a sigh of relief.

  “My hero,” he said.

  Céline felt her cheeks warm alarmingly. She had a terrible blushing problem. Especially when she was in the presence of Stephen Herondale. “The great Herondale warrior afraid of pigeons?” she teased, hoping he wouldn’t hear the quaver in her voice.

  “Not afraid. Simply exhibiting a prudent amount of caution in the face of a potentially demonic creature.”

  “Demon pigeons?”

  “I look upon them with great suspicion,” Stephen said with as much dignity as a pigeon-phobe could muster. He tapped the longsword hanging by his hip. “And this great warrior stands at the ready to do what needs be done.”