Ghosts of the Shadow Market

by Cassandra Clare

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  Is that someone perhaps a Herondale?

  “Yes, and he’s wonderful.” The words slipped out accidentally, but there was an unexpected joy in saying them out loud. She’d never let herself do so before—not in front of someone else. Not even alone.

  That was the thing about Silent Brothers. Being with them wasn’t quite like being with someone else or like being alone. Confiding in a Silent Brother was like confiding in no one, she thought, because who was he going to tell?

  “Stephen Herondale,” she said, softly but firmly. “I’m in love with Stephen Herondale.”

  There was a jolt of power in saying the words, almost as if speaking her claim aloud made it a little more real.

  The love of a Herondale can be a great gift.

  “Yeah, it’s awesome,” she said, bitterly enough that even the Silent Brother noticed her tone.

  I have upset you.

  “No, it’s just . . . I said I love him. He barely knows I’m alive.”

  Ah.

  It was stupid, hoping for sympathy from a Silent Brother. Like hoping for sympathy from a rock. His face remained completely impassive. But the voice that spoke in her head was gentle. She let herself believe it was even a little kind.

  That must be difficult.

  If Céline had been another type of girl, the type with friends or sisters or a mother who spoke to her with anything but icy disdain, she might have told someone else about Stephen. She might have spent hours dissecting his tone, the way he sometimes seemed to flirt with her, the way he’d once touched her on the shoulder in gratitude when she lent him a dagger. Maybe talking about it would have blunted the pain of loving him; maybe she even would have talked herself out of loving him. Talking about Stephen might have become commonplace, like talking about the weather. Background noise.

  But Céline had no one to talk to. All she had were her secrets, and the longer she kept them, the more they hurt.

  “He’s never going to love me,” she said. “All I’ve ever wanted was to be near him, but now he’s right here, and I can’t have him, and in a way that’s even worse. I’m just . . . I just . . . it just hurts so much.”

  I sometimes think there is nothing more painful than love denied. To love someone you cannot have, to stand beside your heart’s desire and be unable to take them in your arms. A love that cannot be requited. I can think of nothing more painful than that.

  It was impossible that a Silent Brother could understand how she felt. And yet . . .

  He sounded as if he understood exactly how she felt.

  “I wish I could be more like you,” she admitted.

  In what sense?

  “You know, just shut off my feelings? Feel nothing. For anybody.”

  There was a long pause, and she wondered if she’d offended him. Was that even possible? Finally, his cool, steady voice spoke again.

  This is a wish you should dispense with. Feeling is what makes us human. Even the most difficult feelings. Perhaps especially those. Love, loss, longing—this is what it means to be truly alive.

  “But . . . you’re a Silent Brother. You’re not supposed to feel any of those things, right?”

  I . . . There was another long pause. I remember feeling them. That is sometimes as close as I can get.

  “And you’re still alive, as far as I can tell.”

  Sometimes that, too, is difficult to remember.

  If she didn’t know any better, she would think he had sighed.

  The Silent Brother she met on her first trip to the Shadow Market had been kind like this. When he bought her the crepe, he hadn’t asked her where her parents were or why she was wandering the crowds alone or why her eyes were red from crying. He only knelt and pinned his blind eyes on hers. The world is a hard thing to face alone, he said inside her mind. You do not have to.

  Then he did what Silent Brothers did best and fell silent. She knew, even as a child, that he was waiting for her to tell him what she needed. That if she asked for help, he might even offer it.

  No one could help her. Even as a child, she knew that, too. The Montclaires were a respected, powerful Shadowhunter family. Her parents had the ear of the Consul. If she told the Brother who she was, he would only bring her home. If she told him what waited for her there, what her parents were really like, he probably wouldn’t believe her. He might even tell her parents she was spreading lies about them. And there would be consequences.

  She’d thanked him for the crepe and skittered away.

  She’d endured so many years since then. After this summer, she would return to the Academy for her final year, and graduate; she would never have to live in her parents’ house again. She was almost free. She didn’t need anyone’s help.

  But the world was still a hard thing to face alone.

  And she was so, so lonely.

  “Maybe the pain of loving someone is a fact of life and all, but do you really think that, like, all pain is? You don’t think it would be better if you could just stop hurting?”

  Is something hurting you?

  “I . . .” She summoned her nerve. She could do it. She almost believed that. She could tell this stranger about the cold house. About the parents who seemed to notice her only when she did something wrong. About the consequences, when she did. “The thing is—”

  She broke off abruptly as the Silent Brother turned away. His closed eyes seemed to be tracking a man in a black trench coat hurrying toward him. The man stopped short when he caught sight of the Silent Brother. His face abruptly drained of color. Then he spun on his heel and hustled away. Most Downworlders were skittish around Shadowhunters these days—news of the Circle’s exploits had gotten around. But this looked almost personal.

  “Do you know that guy?”

  I apologize, I must attend to this.

  Silent Brothers did not display emotion, and, as far as Céline knew, they didn’t feel it. But if she didn’t know any better, she would say this Silent Brother was feeling something very deeply. Fear, maybe, or excitement—or that strange combination of the two that descended just before a fight.

  “Okay, I just—”

  But the Silent Brother was already gone. She was alone again. And thank the Angel for that, she thought. It had been careless, even toying with the idea of dredging her dark truths into the light. How foolish, how weak, wanting to be heard. Wanting to be truly seen by anyone, much less a man with his eyes fused shut. Her parents always said she was stupid and weak. Maybe they were right.

  * * *

  Brother Zachariah wove through the crowded Shadow Market, careful to keep a few feet of distance between him and his target. It was a strange game they were playing. The man, who went by the name of Jack Crow, certainly knew that Zachariah was following him. And Brother Zachariah could have picked up his speed and overtaken the man at any point. But for whatever reason, Crow didn’t want to stop, and Brother Zachariah didn’t want to make him. So Crow strode across the arena and into the dense warren of streets just beyond its gates.

  Brother Zachariah followed.

  He was sorry to have left the girl so abruptly. He felt a certain kinship with her. They’d both given a piece of their hearts to a Herondale. And they both loved someone they could not have.

  Of course, Brother Zachariah’s love was a pale imitation of the real, raw, human thing. He loved through a scrim, and every year it got harder to remember what lay beyond. To remember how it had felt to long for Tessa the way a living, breathing human longed. How it had felt to need her. Zachariah no longer truly needed anything. Not food, not sleep, not even, much as he sometimes tried to summon it in himself, Tessa. His love persisted, but it was blunted. The girl’s love had a jagged edge, and talking to her had helped him remember.

  She had wanted his help too, he could tell. The most human part of him was tempted to stay by her side. She’d seemed so fragile—and so determined to seem otherwise. It touched his heart. But Brother Zachariah’s heart wa
s encased in stone.

  He tried to tell himself otherwise. After all, the very fact of his presence here was evidence of his still-human heart. He’d been hunting for decades—because of Will, because of Tessa, because a part of him was still Jem, the Shadowhunter boy who had loved them both.

  Still loves them both, Brother Zachariah reminded himself. Present tense.

  The heron pendant had confirmed his suspicions. This was definitely the man he’d been seeking. Zachariah couldn’t let him get away.

  Crow ducked into a narrow cobblestone alley. Brother Zachariah followed, tense and alert. He sensed their slow-motion chase was nearing its end. And indeed, the alley was a dead end. Crow whirled around to face Zachariah, a knife in his hand. He was still young, barely into his twenties, with a proud face and a shock of blond hair.

  Brother Zachariah had a weapon and was quite good at using it. But he made no move to draw his staff. This man could never be a threat to him.

  “Okay, Shadowhunter, you wanted me, you got me,” Crow said, feet braced and knife ready, clearly expecting an attack.

  Brother Zachariah studied his face, searching for something familiar. But there was nothing. Nothing but the pretense of brash courage. With his closed eyes, Zachariah could see beneath such facades. He could see fear.

  There was a rustling behind him. Then a woman’s voice.

  “You know what they say, Shadowhunter. Be careful what you wish for.”

  Brother Zachariah turned, slowly. Here was a surprise. A young woman—even younger than Crow—stood in the mouth of the alley. She was almost ethereally beautiful, with shining blond hair and the kind of ruby lips and cobalt eyes that had inspired millennia of bad poetry. She was smiling sweetly. She was aiming a crossbow directly at Brother Zachariah’s heart.

  He felt a jolt of fear. Not because of the knife or the crossbow; he had nothing to fear from these two. He would prefer not to fight at all, but if necessary he could disarm them harmlessly. They weren’t equipped to protect themselves. That was the problem.

  The fear stemmed from the realization that he had achieved his goal. This search was the one thing that still bound him to Tessa, to Will, to his former self. What if today he lost his only remaining tie to Jem Carstairs? What if this, today, was his last truly human act?

  “Come on, Shadowhunter,” the woman said, coming closer but keeping the crossbow steady. “Spit it out. If you’re very lucky, maybe we’ll let you live.”

  I don’t want to fight you. From their reaction, he could tell they hadn’t expected the voice in their head. These two knew enough to recognize a Shadowhunter—but apparently they didn’t know as much as they thought. I have been looking for you, Jack Crow.

  “Yeah, so I heard. Someone should have warned you, people who come looking for me tend to regret it.”

  I mean you no harm. I only want to deliver a message. It is about who you are and where you came from. You might find this difficult to believe, but—

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m a Shadowhunter too.” Crow shrugged. “Now tell me something I don’t know.”

  * * *

  “You here to buy or to shoplift?”

  Céline dropped the potion bottle. It shattered on the ground, releasing a puff of noxious blue smoke.

  After the Silent Brother had ditched her for the hot guy in the trench coat, the werewolf kid had shut down the booth. He glared at Céline until she accepted it was time to move on. So she’d meandered over to Dominique du Froid’s booth, trying to look innocuous. Which worked fine, until the warlock herself appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.

  “Or just here to cause havoc?” Dominique said in French.

  Céline cursed silently. She’d had one job, a humiliatingly easy one at that, and she’d still managed to fail. Stephen was nowhere in sight, and Robert was still rummaging through the warlock’s tent.

  “I was waiting for you to come back,” Céline said loudly and in English, so Robert would be sure to hear. “Thank goodness you finally did. I’m melting in this heat.” She said that last part even louder. It was a prearranged signal, just in case. Translation: get out, now. Hopefully she could keep the warlock distracted long enough that he could slip out unseen.

  Where was Stephen?

  “Bien sûr.” The warlock had a terrible accent, French by way of Southern California. Céline wondered if warlocks could surf. “And what is it you’re looking for, mademoiselle?”

  “A love potion.” It was the first thing that popped into her head. Maybe because she’d just spotted Stephen, hurrying toward them—while trying very much to look like he wasn’t hurrying. Céline wondered how Dominique had managed to give him the slip in the first place, and if she’d done so on purpose.

  “A love potion, eh?” The warlock followed her gaze and made an approving noise. “Not bad, though a little beefy for my taste. The better the body, the worse the mind, I always find. But maybe you prefer dumb and pretty. Chacun à son goût, eh?”

  “Um, oui, dumb and pretty, sure. So—” What was Robert doing back there, anyway? Céline hoped he’d managed to slip out without her seeing him, but she couldn’t take the risk. “Can you help me?”

  “Love is a little beyond my pay grade, chérie. Anyone around here who tells you different is lying. But I can offer you . . .”

  She fell silent as Stephen arrived, looking slightly harried. “Everything okay here?”

  He shot Céline a concerned look. Her heart pounded; he was worried about her. She nodded. “Totally fine. We were just—”

  “Your friend here wanted me to sell her a potion to make you fall in love with her,” the warlock said. Céline thought she might drop dead on the spot. “I was about to tell her I could only offer her the next best thing.” She pulled what looked like a can of hair spray from beneath the booth and sprayed a puff of it in Stephen’s face. His expression went slack.

  “What did you do?” Céline cried. “And why did you say that?”

  “Oh, relax. Trust me, in this state, he won’t care what anyone says. Watch.”

  Stephen was staring at Céline like he’d never seen her before. He reached out a hand and touched her cheek, gently, his expression wondering. He looked at her like he was thinking, Could you be real?

  “Turns out your little blond friend here has a nasty case of demon pox,” Dominique told Stephen. Céline decided she was not, in fact, going to drop dead; she was going to murder the warlock.

  “Demon pox is so sexy,” Stephen said. “Will there be warts?” He batted his eyes at Céline. “You would look beautiful with warts.”

  “See?” the warlock said. “I fixed him for you.”

  “What did you do?”

  “It’s not obvious? I did what you asked for. Well, it’s a cheap approximation of what you asked for, but what else is the Shadow Market for?”

  Céline didn’t know what to say. She was furious on Stephen’s behalf.

  On her own behalf, she was . . . something else. Something she should not have been.

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re beautiful when you’re confused?” Stephen gushed. He gave her a moony grin. “Of course, you’re also beautiful when you’re angry, and when you’re sad, and when you’re happy, and when you’re laughing, and when you’re . . .”

  “What?”

  “When you’re kissing me,” he said. “But that one’s just a theory. Do you want to test it out?”

  “Stephen, I’m not sure you really know—”

  Then he was kissing her.

  Stephen Herondale was kissing her.

  Stephen Herondale’s lips were on her lips, his hands were on her waist, caressing her back, cupping her cheeks. Stephen Herondale’s fingers were threading through her hair.

  Stephen Herondale was holding her tight, tighter, as if he wanted more of her than he could have, as if he wanted all of her.

  She tried to hold herself at a distance. This was not real, she reminded herself. This was not him. But it felt real. It felt like
Stephen Herondale, warm in her arms, wanting her, and her resistance gave way.

  For one eternal moment, she was lost to bliss.

  “Enjoy it while you can. It’ll wear off in an hour or so.”

  Dominique du Froid’s voice yanked her back to reality—the reality in which Stephen was married to someone else. Céline forced herself to pull away. He let out a tiny whimper and looked like he was going to cry.

  “First taste is free. You want permanent, you have to pay,” the warlock said. “But I suppose I could give you the Shadowhunter discount.”

  Céline froze. “How did you know I was a Shadowhunter?”

  “With your grace and beauty, how could you be anything else?” Stephen said. Céline ignored him. Something was very wrong here. Her runes were covered; her clothing was convincingly mundane; her weapons were hidden. There was nothing to mark her true identity.

  “Or perhaps you’d like to buy two doses,” the warlock said. “One for this schmuck, and one for the schmuck behind the curtain. Not quite as handsome, of course, but those uptight ones can be a lot of fun once they let loose. . . .”

  Céline’s hand crept toward her hidden dagger.

  “You look surprised, Céline,” the warlock said. “Did you honestly think I didn’t know you three stooges were watching me? Did you think I would just leave my booth without a security system? I guess lover boy’s not the only thing dumb but pretty around here.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  The warlock threw back her head and laughed. Her molars gleamed with gold. “Every Downworlder in Paris knows about poor Céline Montclaire, wandering the city like a murderous little Éponine. We all feel a little sorry for you.”

  Céline lived with a steady, secret simmer of rage, but now she felt it boiling over.

  “I mean, I can’t afford to have Shadowhunters poking around in my business, so I’m still going to have to take care of you, but I’ll feel sorry for you as you die.”

  Céline drew her dagger just as a flock of Halphas demons exploded from the tent. The winged beasts swooped toward her and Stephen, razor-sharp talons extended, beaks open to unleash an unearthly screech.