Why not go to your Institute?
Raphael’s lips curled back from his fangs in a sneer. Nobody sneered like a vampire, and this vampire was particularly adept. “My Institute, as you call it, belongs to people who are . . . how do I put this tactfully . . . bigots and murderers.”
A faerie selling ribbons with glamour twined in them passed by, trailing blue and purple banners.
The way you put that was not particularly tactful, Brother Zachariah felt bound to point out.
“No,” said Raphael thoughtfully. “I am not gifted in that arena. New York has always been a place of heightened Downworlder activity. The lights of this city work on people as if we are all werewolves howling for an electric moon. A warlock tried to destroy the world here once, before my time. The leader of my clan made a disastrous experiment with drugs here, against my advice, and made the city her slaughter ground. The werewolves’ fatal struggles for leadership are far more frequent in New York than anywhere else. The Whitelaws of the New York Institute understood us, and we them. The Whitelaws died defending Downworlders from the people who now occupy their Institute. Of course the Clave did not consult us when they made us the punishment of the Lightwoods. We do not have any dealings with the New York Institute now.”
Raphael’s voice was uncompromising, and Brother Zachariah thought he should be concerned. Zachariah had fought in the Uprising, when a band of renegade youths rose up against their own leaders and against peace with Downworld. He had been told the story of Valentine’s Circle hunting werewolves in New York City, and the Whitelaws getting in their way, resulting in a tragedy that even that group of angry Downworlder-hating youths had not intended. He had not approved of the Lightwoods and Hodge Starkweather being banished to the New York Institute, but the word was that the Lightwoods had settled down with their three children and were truly remorseful for their past actions.
The pain and power struggles of the world seemed very far away, in the Silent City.
It had not occurred to Zachariah that the Downworlders would resent the Lightwoods so much they might decline their aid even when Shadowhunter help was truly needed. Perhaps it should have.
Downworlders and Shadowhunters have a long, complicated history full of pain, and much of the pain has been the fault of the Nephilim, Brother Zachariah admitted. Yet through the ages, they have found a way to work together. I know that when they followed Valentine Morgenstern, the Lightwoods did terrible things, but if they are truly repentant, could you not forgive them?
“Being a damned soul, I have no moral objection to the Lightwoods,” said Raphael in deeply moralistic tones. “I do have strong objections to my head being cut off. Given the least excuse, the Lightwoods would lay waste to my clan.”
The only woman Zachariah had ever loved was a warlock. He had seen her weep over the Circle and its effects. Brother Zachariah had no reason to support the Lightwoods, but everyone deserved a second chance if they wanted that chance enough.
And one of Robert Lightwood’s ancestors had been a woman called Cecily Herondale.
Say they would not, suggested Brother Zachariah. Would it not be preferable to reestablish relations with the Institute rather than hope to catch a Silent Brother at the Shadow Market?
“Of course it would,” said Raphael. “I fully recognize this is not an ideal situation. This is not the first stratagem I have been forced to employ when I required an audience with Shadowhunters. Five years ago I had coffee with a visiting Ashdown.”
He and his companion shared a shudder of distaste.
“I absolutely hate the Ashdowns,” remarked Lily. “They are so tedious. I believe that if I fed on one of them I would nod off halfway through.”
Raphael gave her a warning look.
“Not that I would ever dream of nonconsensually drinking the blood of any Shadowhunter, because it would violate the Accords!” Lily informed Brother Zachariah in a loud voice. “The Accords are deeply important to me.”
Raphael shut his eyes, a briefly pained expression crossing his face, but after an instant he opened them and nodded.
“So how about it, Brother Lipsmackariah, will you help us out?” Lily asked brightly.
A cold weight of disapproval made itself known from his silent brethren, like stones being pressed against his mind. Zachariah was allowed a great deal of latitude for a Silent Brother, but his frequent visits to the Shadow Markets and his annual meeting with a lady on Blackfriars Bridge were already testing the limits of what could be allowed.
If he began consorting with Downworlders on issues that could be handled perfectly well by an Institute, Brother Zachariah’s privileges were in danger of being suspended.
He could not risk missing that meeting. Anything but that.
The Silent Brothers are forbidden to interfere with the affairs of the outside world. Whatever your problem is, said Brother Zachariah, I strongly urge you to consult with your Institute.
He bowed his head and began to turn away.
“My problem is werewolves smuggling yin fen into New York,” Raphael called after him. “Ever heard of yin fen?”
The bells and songs of the Shadow Market seemed to go quiet.
Brother Zachariah turned sharply back to the two vampires. Raphael Santiago stared at him with glittering eyes, which left Zachariah in no doubt that Raphael knew a good deal about the Silent Brother’s own history.
“Ah,” said the vampire. “I see you have.”
Zachariah usually tried to preserve memories of his mortal life, but now he had to make an effort to banish the intruding horror of waking up as a child with all he loved dead, and silver fire burning in his veins.
Where did you hear about the yin fen?
“I don’t intend to tell you,” said Raphael. “Nor do I intend to let that stuff be freely available in my city. A large quantity of yin fen is on its way to the city, on board a ship carrying cargo from Shanghai, Ho Chi Minh, Vienna, and Idris itself. The ship unloads at the New York Passenger Ship Terminal. Will you help me or not?”
Raphael had already mentioned the leader of his clan performing disastrous experiments with drugs. Zachariah’s guess was that many potential customers in Downworld were talking about the shipment of yin fen at the Market. The fact that a Downworlder with conservative views had heard about it was sheer luck.
I will help you, said Brother Zachariah. But we must consult with the New York Institute. If you wish, I can go with you to the Institute and explain matters. The Lightwoods will appreciate the information, and you offering it. This is an opportunity to improve relations between the Institute and all the Downworlders in New York.
Raphael did not look convinced, but after a moment he nodded.
“You will go with me?” he asked. “You will not fail? They would not listen to a vampire, but I suppose it is possible they will listen to a Silent Brother.”
I will do whatever I can, said Brother Zachariah.
Cunning crept into Raphael’s voice. “And if they don’t help me, if they or even the Clave refuse to believe me, then what will you do?”
Then I will still help you, said Brother Zachariah, ignoring the chill howl of his brethren in his mind and thinking of Tessa’s clear eyes.
He dreaded being forbidden to meet with Tessa this year, but when he did meet her, he wanted to face her with no stain upon him. He could not let any child suffer what he had suffered, not if he could prevent it.
Zachariah was not able to feel all he had felt when he was mortal, but Tessa could still feel. He could not let her be disappointed in him. She was the last star he had to steer by.
“I’ll come to the Institute with you,” Lily volunteered.
“You will do no such thing,” snapped Raphael. “It is not safe. Remember, the Circle attacked Magnus Bane.”
The ice in Raphael’s voice could have laid the whole of New York City under frost for a week in midsummer. He eyed Brother Zachariah with disfavor.
“Magnus invented your Porta
ls, not that he receives any credit for it from Shadowhunters. He is one of the most powerful warlocks in the world, and so tenderhearted he rushes to the aid of vicious killers. He is the best Downworld has to offer. If the Circle targeted him, they would cut down any one of us.”
“Would’ve been a damn shame,” Lily confirmed. “Magnus throws an amazing rager, too.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Raphael, casting a look of distaste on the joyful riot of the Market. “I do not enjoy people. Or gatherings.”
A werewolf wearing an enchanted papier-mâché full-moon head shoved past Raphael, shouting, “Awoooo!” Raphael turned to look at him, and the werewolf backed away with his hands up, mumbling, “Uh, sorry. My mistake.”
Despite slight fellow feeling with the werewolf, Brother Zachariah unbent a little at the vampire’s words regarding Magnus, evidence that he was not entirely awful.
I understand that you value Magnus highly. So do I. Once he aided someone very dear to—
“No, I don’t!” Raphael interrupted. “And I don’t care about your story. Don’t tell him I said any of that. I can have opinions on my colleagues. It does not mean I have personal feelings about them.”
“Hey, my man, great to see you,” said Ragnor Fell, passing by.
Raphael paused to fist-bump the green warlock before Ragnor disappeared among the stalls and sounds and many-colored lights of the Market. Lily and Brother Zachariah regarded him.
“He’s another colleague!” Raphael protested.
I like Ragnor, said Brother Zachariah.
“Good for you,” snapped Raphael. “Revel in your hobby of liking and trusting everyone. It sounds as appealing to me as sunbathing.”
Zachariah felt he had become acquainted with another reason, besides Magnus’s evil vampire ex, why Magnus always seemed to develop a migraine when people mentioned the vampire clan of New York in his presence. Brother Zachariah, Lily, and Raphael strolled through the Market.
“Love charm for the handsomest Silent Brother?” asked the faerie woman for the fifth time, leering through her dandelion-clock hair. Sometimes one could wish the Shadow Market had not become quite so comfortable with him.
He remembered this woman, he thought, dimly recollecting her hurting a golden-haired child. It had been so long ago. He had cared very much at the time.
Lily snorted. “I hardly think Brother Beast-with-two-backs-ariah needs a love charm.”
Thank you, but no, Brother Zachariah told the faerie woman. I’m very flattered, though Brother Enoch is a fine figure of a man.
In Zachariah’s head, Brother Enoch was annoyed at being the subject of a joke.
“Or perhaps you and the lady would enjoy some phoenix tears for a night of burning pass—” She went suddenly silent, and the whole stall scuttled away across the bare concrete floor on little chicken feet. “Oops, never mind! Didn’t see you there, Raphael.”
Raphael’s thin eyebrows went up and down like a guillotine.
“More of a buzzkill than the Silent Brother,” murmured Lily. “Oh, the shame.”
Raphael looked smug. The gleam and whirl of the Shadow Market shone with pale radiance in Brother Zachariah’s eyes. He did not like the thought of yin fen spreading like silver wildfire in another city, killing fast as flame or slowly as choking smoke. If it was coming, he had to stop it. This trip to the Market had been useful after all. If he could not feel, he could act.
Perhaps tomorrow night the Lightwoods will earn your trust, said Brother Zachariah as he and the vampires stepped out into the mundane bustle of Canal Street.
Raphael said, “Unlikely.”
I have found it always better to hope than despair, said Brother Zachariah mildly. I will wait for you outside the Institute.
Behind them, enchanted lights shimmered and the sound of faerie music rang through the halls of the theater. A mundane woman turned to face the building. Glittering blue light fell in a strange beam across her unseeing eyes.
The two vampires were heading east, but partway up the street, Raphael turned back to where Brother Zachariah stood. In the night, away from Market lights, the vampire’s scar was white and his eyes were black. His eyes saw too much.
“Hope is for fools. I will meet you tomorrow night, but remember this, Silent Brother,” he said. “Hate like that does not fade. The work of the Circle is not done yet. The Morgenstern legacy will claim more victims. I do not intend to be one of them.”
Wait, said Brother Zachariah. Do you happen to know why the ship is unloading its cargo at the Passenger Ship Terminal?
Raphael shrugged. “I told you the ship was carrying cargo from Idris. I believe some Shadowhunter brat is on board.”
Brother Zachariah walked away from the Market alone, thinking of a child on a ship with deadly cargo, and the potential of more victims.
* * *
Isabelle Lightwood was not accustomed to feeling nervous about anything, but anyone might be apprehensive when faced with the prospect of a new addition to the family.
This was not like before Max was born, when Isabelle and Alec had laid bets on whether it would be a boy or a girl, and afterward Mom and Dad trusted them enough to let them take turns holding him, the smallest and tenderest bundle imaginable.
A boy older than Isabelle was being dumped on their doorstep and was supposed to live with them. Jonathan Wayland, the son of Dad’s parabatai, Michael Wayland. Far away in Idris, Michael Wayland had died, and Jonathan needed a home.
For herself, Isabelle was a little excited. She liked adventure and company. If Jonathan Wayland was as much fun and as good a fighter as Aline Penhallow, who came to visit sometimes with her mother, Isabelle would be glad to have him.
Except there was not just Isabelle to consider.
Her parents had been fighting over Jonathan Wayland ever since the news of Michael’s death came. Isabelle gathered Mom had not liked Michael Wayland. She was not sure Dad had liked him much either. Isabelle herself had never met Michael Wayland. She had never even known that Dad had a parabatai. Neither Mom nor Dad ever talked about when they were young, except that Mom had once said they made many mistakes. Isabelle sometimes wondered whether they had been mixed up in the same trouble as their tutor, Hodge. Her friend Aline said Hodge was a criminal.
Whatever her parents had or had not done, Isabelle did not think her mother wanted Jonathan Wayland to be a reminder of her mistakes in her own home.
Dad did not seem happy when he talked about his parabatai, but he did seem determined that Jonathan would come to live with them. Jonathan had nowhere else to go, Dad insisted, and he belonged with them. That was what being parabatai meant. Once when she was eavesdropping on them shouting, Isabelle heard Dad say, “I owe Michael this.”
Mom agreed to let Jonathan come for a trial period, but now that the shouting had died down, she was not really speaking to Dad. Isabelle was worried about both her parents, and especially her mom.
Isabelle also had to consider her brother.
Alec did not like new people. Whenever new Shadowhunters arrived from Idris, Alec would mysteriously slope off. Once Isabelle had found him lurking behind a large vase, claiming he got lost trying to find the training room.
Jonathan Wayland was taking a ship to New York. He should be in the Institute by the morning after next.
Isabelle was in the training room, practicing with a whip and pondering the problem of Jonathan Wayland, when she heard rushing footsteps, and Alec poked his head around the door. His blue eyes were sparkling.
“Isabelle!” he said. “Come quickly! There’s a Silent Brother meeting with Mom and Dad in the Sanctuary. And a vampire!”
Isabelle ran to her room to get out of her gear and into a dress. The Silent Brothers were fancy company, almost as if the Consul had come to visit.
By the time she got downstairs, Alec was already in the Sanctuary observing the proceedings, and her parents were deep in conversation with the Silent Brother. Isabelle heard her mom say something t
o the Silent Brother that sounded like “Yogurt! Unbelievable!”
Maybe not “yogurt.” Maybe it was a different word.
“On the ship with Michael’s son!” Dad said.
It couldn’t be “yogurt,” unless Jonathan Wayland had a very serious allergy to dairy.
The Silent Brother was a lot less scary than Isabelle had been expecting. His mouth and eyes weren’t stitched shut like they were on other Silent Brothers, only closed in a peaceful way that made it look like he was sleeping. In fact, from what Isabelle could see beneath the hood, he resembled one of the mundie singers she had seen in posters around the city. From the way Robert was nodding at him and Maryse was leaning toward him in her chair, Isabelle could see they were getting along.
The vampire was not conversing with their parents. He was leaning against one of the walls, arms crossed, and glaring at the floor. He did not seem as if he was interested in getting along with anyone. He looked like a kid, hardly older than they were, and he would have been almost as handsome as the Silent Brother if not for his sour expression. He was wearing a black leather jacket to go with his scowl. Isabelle wished she could see the fangs.
“Can I offer you a coffee?” Maryse said to the vampire in a cool, stilted tone.
“I do not drink . . . coffee,” said the vampire.
“Odd,” said Maryse. “I heard you had a delightful coffee with Catherine Ashdown.”
The vampire shrugged. Isabelle knew vampires were dead and soulless and all, but she did not see why they had to be rude.
She nudged Alec in the ribs. “Get a load of the vampire. Can you believe that?”
“I know!” Alec whispered back. “Isn’t he amazing?”
“What?” Isabelle said, grabbing Alec’s elbow.
Alec did not glance at her. He was studying the vampire. Isabelle started to get the same uneasy feeling that she got whenever she noticed Alec looking at the same posters of mundie singers that she did. Alec always got red and angry when she saw him looking. Isabelle sometimes thought it would be nice to talk about the singers, the way she’d heard mundie girls doing, but she knew Alec wouldn’t want to. Once Mom had asked them what they were looking at, and Alec had looked afraid.
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