Son of the Dawn

by Cassandra Clare

  Brother Zachariah had to fight his way to them. There were even more werewolves than he had guessed. Across their heads, he could see Raphael and Lily, leaping as if they were insubstantial as shadows, teeth shining in the moonlight.

  He could see the werewolves' teeth too. Zachariah knocked one werewolf over the side of the ship and knocked out another one's teeth in the same swing, then had to dodge a swipe of claws that almost sent Zachariah over himself. There were so many of them.

  It was with vague surprise that Zachariah thought this could be the end. There should have been something more than surprise to the idea, but all he knew was the hollowness he had felt walking through the Market and the sound of his brothers' voices, colder than the sea. He did not care about these vampires. He did not care about himself.

  The roar of a werewolf sounded in his ear, and behind it came the crash of a wave. Brother Zachariah's arms ached from wielding the staff. It should all have ended a long time ago, anyway. He could scarcely remember a reason why he fought.

  Across the deck a werewolf, almost fully shifted, whirled a clawed fist directly at Lily's heart. She already had her hands locked around another werewolf's neck. She did not have a chance to defend herself.

  A door swung open, and a Shadowhunter woman ran out into the path of the werewolves. She was not ready. A wolf tore her throat out, and as Zachariah tried to get to her, a werewolf slammed against his back. The staff fell from his nerveless fingers. A second werewolf piled onto him, claws digging into his shoulders, bearing him down to his knees. Another climbed on, and Zachariah's head slammed onto the wood. The dark rose before him. His brothers' voices could be gone, along with the crash of the sea and all the light of the world that no longer touched him.

  The dead woman's eyes stared into his face, a last empty gleam before the dark consumed all. It seemed as if he were as empty as she. Why had he ever fought?

  Only he remembered. He would not allow himself to forget.

  Tessa, he thought. Will.

  Despair was never stronger than the thought of them. He could not betray them by giving up.

  They are Will and Tessa, and you were Ke Jian Ming. You were James Carstairs. You were Jem.

  Jem drew a dagger from his belt. He fought to his feet, backhanding a werewolf through the open cabin door. He looked to Lily.

  Raphael was standing in front of her. His arm was flung out to shield her, his blood a macabre scarlet splash across the deck. Human blood was black at night, but vampire blood never looked anything but red. Lily screamed his name.

  Brother Zachariah needed his staff. It was rolling across the wood of the deck, silver in the moonlight and rattling like bones. Its carving leaped out, shadow dark against the silver, as the staff rolled to the feet of a boy who had just stepped out into this space of chaos and blood.

  The boy who must be Jonathan Wayland stared around him, at Brother Zachariah, at the wolves, at the woman with her throat ripped out. A werewolf woman was bearing down on him. The boy was too young to even bear warriors' runes.

  Brother Zachariah knew he was not going to be fast enough.

  The boy turned his head, hair bright gold in the silver moonshine, and picked up Zachariah's staff. Small and slim, the most fragile of barriers possible against darkness, he charged at the snarling teeth and bared claws. He struck her down.

  Two more went for the boy, but Zachariah killed one, and the boy spun and struck the other. When he twisted in the air, Zachariah thought not of shadows, as he had with the vampires, but of light.

  When the boy landed on the deck, feet spread wide and staff twirling between his hands, he was laughing. It was not a child's sweet laugh, but a wild exuberant sound that rang out stronger than sea or sky or silent voices. He sounded young, and defiant, and joyful, and a little mad.

  Brother Zachariah had thought earlier in the night that he did not hear laughter often. It had been an achingly long time since he heard a laugh like that.

  He stabbed another werewolf running for the boy, and another, throwing his body between the boy and the wolves. One got past his guard and swiped at the boy, and Zachariah heard him make a small sound between his locked teeth.

  Are you all right? he asked.

  "Yes!" the boy shouted. Brother Zachariah could hear him panting at his back.

  Never fear, said Brother Zachariah. I am fighting with you.

  Zachariah's blood ran colder than the sea, and his heart hammered until he heard Robert Lightwood and Lily coming to their aid.

  Once the remaining werewolves were subdued, Robert took Jonathan with him to the bridge. Zachariah turned his attention to the vampires. Raphael had taken off his leather jacket. Lily had ripped part of her shirt off and was tying the material around his arm. She was crying.

  "Raphael," she said. "Raphael, you shouldn't have done it."

  "Sustained a wound that will heal in a night in preference to losing a valuable member of the clan?" Raphael asked. "I acted to benefit myself. I generally do."

  "You'd better," Lily muttered, wiping tears savagely with the back of her hand. "What would I do if something happened to you?"

  "Something practical, I hope," said Raphael. "Please salvage material from one of the many dead werewolves next time. And stop embarrassing the clan in front of Shadowhunters."

  Lily followed Raphael's line of vision, over her shoulder to Brother Zachariah. There was blood smudged and mixed with her blurred eyeliner, but she gave him a cheeky fanged smile.

  "Maybe I wanted to rip my shirt for Brother Let-him-see-my-rack-ariah."

  Raphael lifted his eyes to heaven. Since he was not looking at her, Lily could look at him. She did. Brother Zachariah saw her lift a hand, her fingernails painted red and gold, and almost touch his curly hair. Her hand moved as if she might stroke the shadows over his head, then curled into a fist. She did not permit herself the luxury.

  Raphael motioned her away and got to his feet.

  "Let's go find the yin fen."

  It was not difficult to locate. It was in a large box in a cabin belowdecks. Lily and Brother Zachariah carried the box up between them, Lily clearly ready to make a scene if Raphael tried to help.

  Even after all these years, seeing the glimmer of yin fen in the moonlight made Zachariah's stomach lurch and turn, as if the sight pitched him onto a boat on a different sea, one in which he could never keep his balance.

  Lily moved to tip the box over the side, and let it be swallowed by the hungry waters.

  "No, Lily!" said Raphael. "I will not have drug-addled mermaids infesting the rivers of my city. What if we end up with glowing silver alligators in the sewers? Nobody will be surprised, but I will know it is your fault, and I will be extremely disappointed in you."

  "You never let me have any fun," Lily grumbled.

  "I never let anyone have any fun," said Raphael, and looked smug.

  Brother Zachariah stared into the box full of silver powder. It had meant the difference between quick and slow death to him once. He set the fire using a rune known only to the Silent Brothers, a rune meant to burn away harmful magic. Life and death were nothing but ashes in the air.

  Thank you for telling me about the yin fen, he told Raphael.

  "From my perspective, I took advantage of your weakness over the stuff," said Raphael. "You used to take it to keep yourself alive once, as I understand it. Didn't work, I see. Anyway, your emotional state is no concern of mine, and my city is safe. Mission accomplished."

  He wiped his hands, gleaming with blood and silver, over the lapping waves.

  Does your leader know anything about this mission? Zachariah asked Lily.

  She was watching Raphael.

  "Of course," she said. "My leader told you all about it. Didn't he?"

  "Lily! That is stupidity and treason." Raphael's voice was chill as the sea breeze. "If I was ordered to execute you for it, make no mistake, I would do so. I would not hesitate."

  Lily bit her lip and tried to pass off how
hurt she clearly was. "Oh, but I have a good feeling about Brother Zacharide-him-like-a-bad-pony. He won't tell."

  "Is there a place here for a vampire to be stowed away safely from the sunrise?" Raphael asked.

  Brother Zachariah had not considered that the protracted fight with the werewolves meant the sun was close to rising. Raphael glanced at him sharply when he did not answer.

  "Is there only room for one? Lily needs to be secured. I am responsible for her."

  Lily turned her face away so Raphael did not see her expression, but Zachariah saw it. He recognized her expression from a time when he had been able to feel that way himself. She looked sick with love.

  There was room for both vampires in the cargo hold. On their way to examine the hold, Lily almost tripped over the dead Shadowhunter woman.

  "Oooh, Raphael!" she exclaimed brightly. "It's Catherine Ashdown!"

  It was like the faint cold spray of seawater, to see how utterly indifferent she was to human life. Brother Zachariah saw her belatedly recall his presence.

  "Oh no," she added in not terribly convincing tones. "What a senseless tragedy."

  "Go to the hold, Lily," Raphael commanded.

  Will you not both go? asked Brother Zachariah.

  "I prefer to wait as long as I can before dawn to test myself," said Raphael.

  Lily sighed. "He's Catholic. So very, very Catholic."

  Her hand moved restlessly by her side, as if she wanted to reach out and pull Raphael along with her. Instead, she used it to give Zachariah another little wave, the same one she had given when they first met.

  "Brother Sixpackariah," she said. "It's been a pleasure."

  And for me, said Brother Zachariah, and listened to her skip lightly down the stairs.

  She had, at least, given him the woman's name. Brother Zachariah could take her back to her family and the City of Bones, where she could rest and he could not.

  He knelt down by the dead woman's side and closed her staring eyes.

  Ave atque vale, Catherine Ashdown, he murmured.

  He rose to find Raphael still by his side, though not looking at him or the dead woman. Raphael's eyes rested on the black sea touched with moonlight, the black sky edged with the faintest line of silver.

  I am glad to have met you both, Zachariah added.

  "I can't imagine why," said Raphael. "Those names Lily came up with were very bad."

  People do not joke with the Silent Brothers often.

  The prospect of not being joked around with made Raphael look wistful. "It must be nice to be a Silent Brother. Aside from the fact Shadowhunters are annoying and pathetic. And I don't know that she was joking. I'd watch yourself next time you're in New York."

  Of course she was joking, said Brother Zachariah. She is in love with you.

  Raphael's face twisted. "Why do Shadowhunters always want to talk about feelings? Why can nobody ever be a professional? For your information, I do not have any interest in romance of any kind and never will. Now can you drop this revolting subject?"

  I can, said Brother Zachariah. Perhaps you would like to talk about the gang of boys you claim to have killed?

  "I've killed many people," said Raphael distantly.

  A group of children? said Zachariah. In your city? Did this happen in the 1950s?

  Maryse Lightwood might have been fooled. Brother Zachariah was familiar with what it looked like when someone blamed and hated themselves for what had happened to those they loved.

  "There was a vampire hunting children on the streets where my brothers played," Raphael said, his voice still distant. "I led my gang to his lair to stop him. None of us survived."

  Brother Zachariah tried to be gentle.

  When a vampire is newborn they cannot control themselves.

  "I was the leader," said Raphael, his steely voice brooking no argument. "I was responsible. Well. We did stop the vampire, and my family lived to grow up."

  All but one.

  "I generally do accomplish what I set my mind on," said Raphael.

  That is extremely clear, said Brother Zachariah.

  He listened to the sound of the waves hitting the side of the boat, carrying them to the city. On the night of the Market he had been detached from the city and everyone in it, and certainly he had felt nothing for a vampire determined to feel nothing himself.

  But then had come a laugh, and the sound had woken things inside him that he had feared dead. Once woken to the world, Zachariah did not want to be blind to any of it.

  You saved people today. The Shadowhunters saved people, even though they did not save you when you were a child trying to fight monsters.

  Raphael twitched as if this implication of why he disliked Shadowhunters was a fly landing on him.

  "Few are saved," said Raphael. "Nobody is spared. Somebody tried to save me once, and I will pay him back one day. I don't choose to owe another debt, or for anyone to owe me. We all got what we wanted. The Shadowhunters and I are done."

  There might always be another time for help or cooperation, said Brother Zachariah. The Lightwoods are trying. Consider letting the other Downworlders know you survived dealing with them.

  Raphael made a noncommittal sound.

  There are more kinds of love than stars, said Brother Zachariah. If you do not feel one, there are many others. You know what it is to care for family and friends. What we keep sacred, keeps us safe. Consider that by trying to cut yourself off from the possibility of being hurt, you shut the door on love and live in darkness.

  Raphael staggered over to the rail and pretended to vomit. Then he straightened up.

  "Oh wait, I'm a vampire and we don't get seasick," he said. "I came over all nauseous for a second. Can't think why. I heard Silent Brothers were withdrawn. I was looking forward to withdrawn!"

  I am not a typical Silent Brother, observed Brother Zachariah.

  "Just my luck I got the touchy-feely Silent Brother. Can I request a different one in future?"

  So you think there might be a time when your path crosses with Shadowhunters again?

  Raphael made a disgusted noise and turned away from the sea. His face was pallid as moonlight, ice white as the cheek of a child long dead.

  "I am going belowdecks. Unless, of course, you have any other brilliant suggestions?"

  Brother Zachariah nodded. The shadow of his hood fell across the scar of a cross on the vampire's throat.

  Have faith, Raphael. I know you remember how.

  With the vampires safely hidden below and Robert Lightwood steering the ship towards Manhattan, Brother Zachariah took on the task of cleaning up the deck, moving the bodies out of sight. He'd call on his brothers to help him attend to them, and to the survivors, who were currently secured in one of the cabins. Enoch and the others might not approve of his decision to help Raphael, but they would still fulfill their mandate to keep the Shadow World hidden and safe.

  Once Brother Zachariah had finished, all there was to do was wait for the ship to carry them to the city. Then he would have to return to his own city. He took a seat and waited, enjoying the sensation of the light of a new day on his face.

  It had been a long time since he felt the light, and longer since he could truly enjoy the simple pleasure of it.

  He sat near the bridge, where he could see Robert and young Jonathan Wayland in the morning light.

  "You're sure you're all right?" Robert said.

  "Yes," said Jonathan.

  "You don't look much like Michael," Robert added awkwardly.

  "No," said Jonathan. "I always wished I did."

  The boy's thin back was braced to be a disappointment.

  Robert said: "I am sure you're a good boy."

  Jonathan did not look sure. Robert saved himself from awkwardness by conspicuously examining the controls.

  The boy left the bridge, graceful despite the lurch of the boat and how weary he must be. Zachariah was startled when young Jonathan advanced across the deck to where Zachariah hims
elf sat.

  Brother Zachariah pulled his hood close around his face. Some Shadowhunters were disquieted by a Silent Brother who did not appear exactly as the rest did, though the Silent Brothers looked fearsome enough. He did not want to distress the boy, either way.

  Jonathan carried Brother Zachariah's staff back to him, balanced flat as a tightrope along his palms, and laid the staff with a respectful bow on Zachariah's knees. The boy moved with military discipline unusual in one so young, even among Shadowhunters. Brother Zachariah had not known Michael Wayland, but he guessed he must have been a harsh man.

  "Brother Enoch?" the boy guessed.

  No, said Brother Zachariah. He knew Enoch's memories as his own. Enoch had examined the boy, though his memories were gray with lack of interest. Brother Zachariah briefly wished he could have been the Silent Brother at hand for this child.

  "No," the boy repeated slowly. "I should've known. You moved differently. I just thought it might be, since you gave me the staff."

  He bowed his head. It struck Zachariah as a sorry thing, that the child would not have expected even the smallest mercy from a stranger.

  "Thank you for letting me use it," Jonathan added.

  I am glad it was useful, returned Brother Zachariah.

  The boy's glance up at his face was shocking, the flare of twin suns in what was still almost night. They were not the eyes of a soldier, but a warrior. Brother Zachariah had known both, and he knew the difference.

  The boy took a step back, nervous and agile, but stopped with his chin high. Apparently he had a question.

  Zachariah was not expecting the one he asked.

  "What do the initials mean? On your staff. Do all Silent Brothers have them?"

  They looked together at the staff. The letters were worn by time and Zachariah's own flesh, but they had been struck deep into the wood in the precise places where Zachariah would put his hands on them when he fought. So, in a way, they would always be fighting together.

  The letters were W and H.

  No, said Brother Zachariah. I am the only one. I carved them into the staff on my first night in the City of Bones.

  "Were they your initials?" the boy asked, his voice low and a little timid. "Back when you were a Shadowhunter, like me?"

  Brother Zachariah still considered himself a Shadowhunter, but Jonathan clearly did not mean any offense.

  No, said Jem, because he was always James Carstairs when he spoke of what was dearest to him. Not mine. My parabatai's.