Ghosts of the Shadow Market

by Cassandra Clare

  “I hate to say I told you so,” the woman said, “but . . .”

  “Who knew he’d be so willing to trust a warlock?”

  “Who knew anyone would believe you were the long-lost descendant of some noble Shadowhunter line?” she said, then laughed. “Oh wait, I knew. Admit it, deep down, you knew it would work. You just didn’t want it to.”

  “Of course I didn’t want it to.” He touched her cheek, impossibly gently. “I hate this. I hate leaving you here.” Céline realized with a slight shock that she recognized him. This was the man the Silent Brother had chased after at the Market.

  “It’s not for long. And it’s for the best, Jack, I promise.”

  “You’ll come find me in L.A. as soon as it’s taken care of? You swear?”

  “In the Shadow Market. At our old place. I swear. As soon as I can be sure the trail’s gone cold.” She kissed him, long and hard. When she pressed her hand to his cheek, Céline spotted the glint of a wedding band.

  “Rosemary—”

  “I don’t want you anywhere near these people. It’s not safe.”

  “But it’s safe for you?”

  “You know I’m right,” she said.

  The man hung his head and tucked his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. It looked expensive, except for the giant gaping hole torn through the left side. “Yeah.”

  “You ready?”

  He nodded, and she pulled a small bottle from her bag. “This better work the way it’s supposed to.” She handed it to her husband, who uncorked it, swallowed its contents, and tossed it into the river.

  A moment later, he clutched his hands to his face and began to scream.

  Céline panicked. It wasn’t her place to interfere, but she couldn’t just stand here and watch as this woman murdered her—

  “Jack, Jack, it’s okay, you’re okay.”

  She clung to him as the man moaned and shuddered, and, finally, slumped quietly into her arms. “I think it worked,” he said.

  When they backed away from each other, Céline gasped. Even in the dim light of the streetlights, she could see that his face had transformed. He had been a blond with sparkling green eyes and sharp, chiseled features, around the age of Stephen and nearly as handsome. Now he looked ten years older, his face carved with worry lines, his hair mud colored, his smile crooked.

  “Hideous,” the woman named Rosemary said approvingly. Then she kissed him again, just as desperately as before, as if nothing had changed. “Now go.”

  “You sure?”

  “As sure as I am that I love you.”

  The man fled into the night, his coat melting into the darkness.

  “And ditch the trench!” Rosemary called after him. “It’s too obvious!”

  “Never!” he shouted back, and then he was gone.

  Rosemary sagged against the bridge and buried her face in her hands. So she didn’t see the gargoyle behind her blink its eyes and swivel its stone snout in her direction.

  Céline suddenly remembered: the Pont des Arts had no gargoyles. This was a flesh-and-blood Achaieral demon, and it looked hungry.

  With a furious roar, the monstrous shadow peeled itself off the bridge and unfolded a set of huge, batlike wings that blotted out the night. It opened its jaw wide and bared razorlike teeth, then lunged straight for Rosemary’s throat. With shocking speed, Rosemary hefted a sword and slashed. The demon screeched in pain, raking its talons against the metal blade with enough force to knock it from the woman’s hands. Rosemary stumbled to the ground, and the demon seized its moment. It leaped onto her chest, immobilizing her beneath its massive wings, and hissed. Teeth neared flesh.

  “Sariel,” Céline whispered, and stabbed a seraph blade through the demon’s neck. It yowled with pain and whirled toward her, its innards bursting through its hide even as it tried, in its last remaining moments, to attack.

  Rosemary heaved her sword and sliced off the creature’s head, seconds before head and torso exploded into a cloud of dust. Satisfied, she collapsed backward, the wound in her shoulder bleeding freely.

  Céline could tell how much it hurt—and how determined the woman was to reveal no pain. She knelt by her side. Rosemary flinched away. “Let me see—I can help.”

  “I would never ask for help from a Shadowhunter,” the woman said bitterly.

  “You didn’t exactly ask. And you’re welcome.”

  The woman sighed, then examined her bloody wound. She touched it gingerly, winced. “As long as you’re here, you want to give me an iratze?”

  It was obvious the woman was no mundane. Even a mundane with the Sight couldn’t have fought the way she did. But that didn’t mean she could withstand an iratze. No one but a Shadowhunter could.

  “Look, I don’t really have the time to explain it, and I can’t exactly go to the hospital and tell them I got gnawed on by a demon, can I?”

  “If you know about iratzes, you know that only a Shadowhunter can bear a rune,” Céline said.

  “I know.” Rosemary met her gaze steadily.

  She didn’t bear the Voyance rune. But the way she had moved, the way she had fought . . .

  “Have you borne a rune before?” Céline asked hesitantly.

  Rosemary smirked. “What do you think?”

  “Who are you?”

  “No one you need to worry about. You going to help or not?”

  Céline drew her stele. Applying a rune to anyone who wasn’t a Shadowhunter meant probable death, certain agony. She took a deep breath, then carefully applied stele to skin.

  Rosemary let out a relieved sigh.

  “Are you going to tell me who sent a Shax demon after you?” Céline said. “And whether it was the same person who made sure an Achaieral demon was here to finish the job?”

  “No. You going to tell me why you’re wandering around in the middle of the night looking like someone just drowned your pet rock in the Seine?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, then. And thank you.”

  “That guy who was here with you before . . .”

  “You mean the one you didn’t see and won’t say anything about, ever, if you know what’s good for you?”

  “You love him, and he loves you, right?” Céline asked.

  “I guess he must, because there are some dangerous people out there looking for me,” Rosemary said. “And he’s done his best to make sure they think they’re looking for him instead.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “And you don’t have to. But yeah. He loves me. I love him. Why?”

  “I just . . .” She wanted to ask what that was like, how it felt. She wanted, also, to extend the conversation. She was afraid to be alone again, stranded on this bridge between the endless black of river and sky. “I just want to make sure you have someone to take care of you.”

  “We take care of each other. That’s how it works. Speaking of which . . .” She gave Céline an appraising look. “I’m in your debt now, for helping me out with the demon. And for keeping my secret.”

  “I didn’t say I would—”

  “You will. And I don’t believe in debts, so let me do you a favor.”

  “I don’t need anything,” Céline said, meaning, I don’t need anything anyone can give me.

  “I keep my eyes open, and I see what’s happening in the Shadowhunter world. You need more than you think you do. Most of all, you need to stay away from Valentine Morgenstern.”

  Céline stiffened. “What do you know about Valentine?”

  “I know that you’re just his type, young and impressionable, and I know that he can’t be trusted. I pay attention. You should too. He’s not telling you everything. I know that.” She looked over Céline’s shoulder, and her eyes widened. “Someone’s coming. You should get out of here.”

  Céline turned around. A Silent Brother was gliding along the Left Bank, nearing the edge of the bridge. There was no way of knowing if it was the same one she’d met in the Shadow Market, but she couldn’
t risk running into him again. Not after what she’d told him. It was too humiliating.

  “Remember,” Rosemary said. “Valentine is not to be trusted.”

  “And why should I trust you?”

  “No reason at all,” Rosemary said. Without another word, she strode down the bridge toward the Silent Brother.

  The sky was pinking. The endless night had finally given way to dawn.

  * * *

  I had expected to find your husband on this bridge. But even as he formed the words, Brother Zachariah sensed their untruth.

  He had trusted a man he knew could not be trusted. He had let his sympathies for the Herondale line, his desire to believe there remained some bond between the Carstairs and the Herondales—even though this man was barely a Herondale and Zachariah was barely a Carstairs—cloud his judgment. And now it was Jack Crow who might bear the consequences.

  “He’s not coming. And you’re never going to see him again, Shadowhunter, so I suggest you not bother to look.”

  I understand that the Shadowhunters have given your family every reason not to trust us, but—

  “Don’t take it personally. I don’t trust anyone,” she said. “It’s how I’ve managed to stay alive.”

  She was stubborn and rude, and Brother Zachariah couldn’t help but like her.

  “I mean, if I was going to trust someone, it wouldn’t be a cult of violent fundamentalists who get a kick out of executing their own . . . but like I said, I don’t trust anyone.”

  Except Jack Crow.

  “That’s not his name anymore.”

  Whatever name he chooses, he will always be a Herondale.

  She laughed, and when she did, her face took on a strangely familiar cast. Familiar in the way that Jack Crow’s had never been. “You don’t know nearly as much as you think you do, Shadowhunter.”

  Brother Zachariah reached into his robe and pulled out the heron necklace he’d bought from the Shadow Market. The necklace, he remembered, that Crow had sold without his wife’s permission or knowledge. As a man might do if it were not truly his to sell. The pendant glittered in the dawn light. Zachariah marked her surprise and offered the chain.

  She opened her palm and allowed him to place the pendant gently in her possession. Something deep in her seemed to settle as her hand wrapped around the heron charm—as if she had lost some essential piece of her soul, and now it was returned to her.

  “A pigeon?” She raised her eyebrows.

  A heron. Perhaps you recognize it?

  “Why would I?”

  Because I purchased it from your husband.

  Her lips were pressed together in a thin, tight line. Her hand had formed a fist around the chain. It was clear the child at the booth had spoken the truth: she didn’t know the pendant had been for sale.

  “Then why give it to me?”

  She could pretend a lack of interest, but Zachariah wondered what she would say if he asked for it back. He suspected he would have a fight on his hands.

  Because I have a feeling it belongs to you—and to your family.

  She stiffened, and Brother Zachariah marked the minute twitch of her hand, as if instinctively reaching for a weapon. She had sharp instincts, but also self-control—and arrogance, grace, and loyalty, and the capacity for great love, and a laugh that could light up the sky.

  He had come to Paris looking for the lost Herondale.

  And he had found her.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  You are the Herondale. Not your husband. You. The lost heir to a noble line of warriors.

  “I’m nobody,” she snapped. “Nobody of interest to you, at least.”

  I could reach into your mind and confirm the truth.

  She flinched. Zachariah didn’t have to read her mind to understand her panic, or her welling self-doubt as she scrambled to figure out how he had seen through the ruse.

  But I would not trespass on your secrets. I want only to help you.

  “My parents told me everything I need to know about the Shadowhunters,” she said, and Brother Zachariah understood this was as close to an admission as he was going to get. “Your precious little Clave. Your Law.” She spit out that last word like it was poison.

  I am not here as a representative of the Clave. They have no idea I’ve come to you—or even that you exist. I have my own reasons for finding you, for wanting to protect you.

  “And they are?”

  I would not trespass on your secrets, and I would ask that you not trespass on mine. Know only that I owe a great debt to your family. The bonds holding me to the Herondales run deeper than blood.

  “Well, that’s nice of you and all, but no one asked you to pay any debts,” Rosemary said. “Jack and I are doing just fine, taking care of each other, and that’s what we’ll keep doing.”

  It was clever of you to make it seem as if your husband was the one I sought, but—

  “It was clever of Jack. People underestimate him. And they pay for it.”

  —but, if I could penetrate your ruse, others who seek you may as well. And they are more dangerous than you know.

  “These ‘others’ you talk about butchered my parents.” Rosemary’s face betrayed no expression. “Jack and I have been on the run for years. Trust me, I know exactly how dangerous this is. And I know exactly how dangerous it is to trust a stranger, even a stranger with psychic ninja powers and a deeply weird fashion sense.”

  One of the things Brother Zachariah had learned in the Silent Brotherhood was the power of acceptance. Sometimes it was stronger to recognize an unwinnable fight and accept defeat—the better to begin laying groundwork for the next battle.

  Though this was not a battle, he reminded himself. You could not war for a person’s trust; you could only earn it.

  Your heron necklace now has an enchantment on it. If you encounter trouble you cannot face on your own, you need only summon me, and I will come.

  “If you think you can track us through this thing—”

  Your husband suggested that the only way to earn trust is by offering it. I will not try to find you if you prefer not to be found. But with this pendant, you can always find me. I trust you will summon me for help, if and when you need it. Please trust that I will always answer.

  “And who are you, exactly?”

  You may call me Brother Zachariah.

  “I could, but if I end up in this hypothetical situation where I need my life saved by some bloodthirsty monk, I’d rather know his actual name.”

  I was once . . . It had been so long. He almost didn’t feel entitled to the name. But there was a deep, nearly human pleasure in allowing himself to claim it. I was once known as James Carstairs. Jem.

  “So who will you summon when you encounter trouble you can’t face on your own, Jem?” She fastened the pendant around her neck, and Zachariah felt a sliver of relief. At least he’d accomplished that much.

  I don’t anticipate that.

  “Then you’re not paying attention.”

  She touched him on the shoulder then, unexpectedly, and with unexpected gentleness.

  “Thank you for trying,” she said. “It’s a start.”

  Then he was watching her walk away.

  Brother Zachariah watched the water stream beneath the bridge. He thought about that other bridge, in another city, where once a year he returned to remember the man he’d once been and the dreams that man had once had.

  At the far end of the Pont des Arts, a young street musician opened a violin case and raised the instrument to his chin. For a moment, Zachariah thought he was imagining it—that he had conjured up a fantasy of his former self. But as he drew closer—because he could not stay away—he realized the musician was a girl. She was young, no more than fourteen or fifteen, her hair swept up beneath a newsboy cap, a neat, old-fashioned bow tie at the collar of her white blouse.

  She bowed the strings and began to play a haunting melody. Brother Zachariah recognized it: a Bart�
�k violin concerto that had been written well after Jem Carstairs had put down his violin.

  Silent Brothers played no music. They didn’t listen to music either, not in the ordinary way. But even with their senses sealed off to mortal pleasures, they still heard.

  Jem heard.

  He was glamoured; the musician must have assumed she was alone. There was no audience for her music, no possibility of payment. She wasn’t playing for spare change but for her own pleasure. She faced the water, the sky. This was a song to welcome the sun.

  Distantly, he remembered the soft pressure of the chin rest. He remembered his fingertips capering across the strings. He remembered the dance of the bow.

  He remembered how, sometimes, it had felt like the music was playing him.

  There was no music in the Silent City; there was no sun, no dawn. There was only dark. There was only quiet.

  Paris was a city that luxuriated in the senses—food, wine, art, romance. Everywhere was a reminder of what he’d lost, the pleasures of a world no longer his. He had learned to live with the loss. It was harder, when he immersed himself in the world like this, but it was bearable.

  This was something else, though.

  The nothing he felt, as he listened to the melody, watched the bow waltz up and down the strings—the great hollow it opened inside him, echoing only with the past? That made him feel utterly, dismally inhuman.

  The longing he felt, to truly hear, to want, to feel? That made him feel almost alive.

  Come home, the Brothers whispered in his mind. It is time.

  Over the years, as he’d gained more control, Brother Zachariah had learned how to isolate himself from the voices of his Brothers when need be. It was a strange thing, the Brotherhood. Most assumed it was a lonely, solitary life—and it was, indeed, solitary. But he was never truly alone. The Brotherhood was always there, on the edge of his awareness, watching, waiting. Brother Zachariah needed only extend a hand, and the Brotherhood would reclaim him.

  Soon, he promised them. But not yet. I have more business here.

  He was more Silent Brother than not. But he was still less Silent Brother than the others. It was a strange, liminal space, one that allowed him a modicum of privacy—and a desire for it that his Brothers had long since abandoned. Zachariah shut himself off from them for the moment. He felt a deep regret over his failure here, but it was good, it was human, to feel regret, and he wanted to savor it, all on his own.