The Red Scrolls of Magic

by Cassandra Clare

  Her expression, serious but with a quiet light behind it, was exactly Jace’s when he was playing the piano.

  Alec shook off the strange thought.

  “How’s Paris?” asked Jace idly. “If you’re not having fun, you could come back early.”

  “Paris is nice,” said Alec. “How are things?”

  “Well, my business is looking great and fighting demons, and business is good,” said Jace.

  “Cool. Um, Jace, can I ask you something? If you want something to happen, and you feel like it could but maybe the other person is waiting for you to give a signal that you’re ready—that you’re maybe ready—no, that you’re definitely ready, maybe, what should you do? In this hypothetical scenario.”

  There was a pause.

  “Hmm,” said Jace. “Good question. I’m glad you came to me with this. I think you should go ahead and give a signal.”

  “Great,” said Alec. “Yes, that’s what I was wondering. Thanks, Jace.”

  “Hard to work out signals on the phone,” Jace said thoughtfully. “I’ll think about various signals and show you when you get home. Like, one signal is for ‘there is a demon creeping up behind you and you should stab it,’ right? But there should be a different signal for if a demon is creeping up behind you, but I have it in my sights. That just makes sense.”

  There was another silence.

  “Put Isabelle back on the phone,” said Alec.

  “Wait, wait,” said Jace. “When are you coming home?”

  “Isabelle!” said Alec.

  There were sounds of another scuffle as Isabelle repossessed her phone.

  “Sure you don’t want me to come help out? Or do you and Magnus prefer to be alone?”

  “We prefer to be alone,” he said firmly. “And actually, I should get back. Love you, Isabelle.”

  “Love you,” said Isabelle. “Wait! Jace says he needs the phone back. He says he thinks he may have misunderstood your question.”

  MAGNUS WAS IN THE SAME position he’d been in when Alec left. It seemed he hadn’t moved at all, but the cyclone of paper, photos, and books that surrounded him was about twice as large and twice as messy. “Alec!” he said brightly, his mood seemingly much improved. “How is Paris?”

  “If I were a Shadowhunter based in Paris,” Alec said, “I would have to train twice as hard to make up for all the times I stopped for a coffee and a little something to eat.”

  “Paris,” Magnus declared, “is the single greatest city on earth in which to stop for a coffee and a little something to eat.”

  “I brought you some pain au chocolat,” Alec said, holding up a now slightly wilted white paper bag.

  Magnus parted the wall of books and papers like a curtain and gestured Alec within. “I’ve found something,” he said. “Come in.” Alec went to put down the bag and Magnus shook his head. “Bring the pain au chocolat with you.”

  Alec took a hesitant step inside and stood next to Magnus. The warlock fished a pastry out of Alec’s bag with one hand and beckoned at one of the frozen images with the other, drawing it down in front of them. It was an image of a glum, green-skinned, white-haired warlock wearing a potato sack, sitting at a wooden table filled with tin mugs.

  That was Ragnor Fell, Alec thought. Magnus had his picture on the wall. Magnus had mentioned casually, several days after Ragnor’s death, that he and the dead warlock had been friends. It was becoming very clear that they had been close. Alec wondered why Magnus had not said so when Ragnor died, but they had been in the middle of a war. Alec and Magnus had still been working out what they were to each other.

  Magnus had not kept it from him, exactly.

  Across the table from Ragnor Fell was a shirtless Magnus, who had both of his hands open, palms out. He seemed to be trying to enchant a bottle.

  Magnus flipped his fingers and the photo wavered and then grew in size. He swallowed.

  “I remember this night in detail. We were playing a drinking game. We had previously literally lost our shirts to several cheesemongers who turned out to be gifted amateur cardsharps. Somewhere between the fourth and ninth pitcher of glögg, we got into a deep discussion about the meaning of life, or more specifically how much easier life would be if there was a way we could openly use our powers without mundanes always soiling themselves and trying to burn us at the stake every time they saw a little sparkle of magic.”

  “You and Ragnor thought creating a demon-worshipping cult would make your lives easier?” Alec asked in disbelief.

  “The world is sometimes unkind to warlocks. Sometimes we feel a temptation to be unkind back.”

  There was a silence. Eventually, Magnus sighed.

  “We weren’t talking about summoning demons,” he said. “We were talking about how hilarious it would be to impersonate a demon and get gullible mundanes to do stuff.”

  “What sort of stuff?”

  “Whatever it was we wanted. Massage our feet, run naked through the village square, throw rotten eggs at members of the clergy. You know, normal things joke cults do.”

  “Sure,” said Alec. “Normal things.”

  “I don’t remember actually following through with it. One would think founding a cult would be memorable. In fact, I don’t remember much of anything after that night. The next memory I have is almost three years later, heading to a vacation in South America. That was awfully strong glögg, but three years of amnesia seems excessive.”

  Magnus looked grim.

  “The conversation plus the three years of memory loss does not look good for me. The conversation is very suspicious, and the memory loss is very convenient. I have to find the Crimson Hand immediately.”

  Alec nodded resolutely. “Where do we start?”

  There was a long silence, as if Magnus was carefully considering his next words. He eyed Alec, almost as if he was wary of him. Did Magnus think Alec wouldn’t be able to help?

  “I’m going to start by reaching out to some sources in Downworld for information on the cult.”

  “What can I do? I can help you,” Alec insisted.

  “You always do,” said Magnus. He cleared his throat and added, “I was thinking, it seems a shame to interrupt your first time in Paris with silly problems from my past and a bunch of delusional mundanes. You had a good time today, right? You should enjoy yourself. This shouldn’t take long. I’ll be back before you even get the chance to miss me.”

  “How could I possibly enjoy myself,” Alec said, “if you were in trouble without me?”

  Magnus was still giving him that strange, careful look. Alec did not understand anything that was happening.

  “There’s always the cabaret,” Magnus murmured.

  He smiled, but Alec did not smile back. This was not a joke. He thought of all the bright pictures flittering through the air and crossed his arms.

  Alec had three close friends in the world: Isabelle, Jace, and their childhood friend Aline, who was actually more Isabelle’s friend than his. He had known them all, and fought with them all, for years. He was used to being part of a team.

  He wasn’t used to liking someone so much but not knowing them inside out. He’d assumed that when Magnus fought by his side, it meant they were a team now. Alec didn’t know what to do if Magnus didn’t want to be a team, but he knew one thing.

  “Magnus, I’m a Shadowhunter. Shutting down demons and their worshippers is part of the job. It’s most of the job. More importantly, someone has to watch your back. You’re not leaving me behind.”

  Alec suddenly felt very alone. He’d come on this trip to get to know Magnus better, but maybe it was impossible for him to know Magnus. Maybe Magnus didn’t want to be known. Maybe he saw Alec as just a future one of those flying pictures, the fleeting moments that Magnus now had to struggle to recall.

  Because Magnus wanted to keep this whole demon cult business private, and neither of them was sure, Alec suddenly realized, that private included Alec. What if Magnus really had done something terribl
e, hundreds of years ago? What if in the lost memories, Alec would find Magnus being foolish, or callous, or cruel?

  Magnus leaned forward, serious for once. “If you come with me, you may not like what we find out. I may not like what we find out.”

  Alec relaxed a fraction. He couldn’t imagine Magnus ever being cruel. “I’m willing to take the chance. So what’s our move?”

  “I want some names, a meeting place, and/or a copy of the Red Scrolls of Magic,” said Magnus. “So I know exactly where to go. It’s almost sundown—we’ll make it to the Paris Shadow Market just about when it opens.”

  “I’ve never been to a Shadow Market,” Alec remarked. “Is the Paris one especially glamorous and elegant?”

  Magnus laughed. “Oh, no! It’s a total dump.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  * * *

  Shadow Market

  “WELCOME,” SAID MAGNUS, “TO THE Arènes de Lutèce. It was a gladiatorial arena in classical Rome. It was a cemetery. It’s Paris’s sixty-eighth-most-popular tourist stop. And tonight, it’s where your faerie aunt Martha comes to buy her monthly supply of illegal newt eyeballs.”

  They stood at the entrance to the Market, a narrow alley passing between ancient stone bleachers. To those without the Sight, the alley spilled into a large depressed circle of sand, still very clearly denoting a gladiator’s pit, empty but for a few stragglers. But for the denizens of the Market, it was a labyrinth of stalls crowded with Downworlders, a chaos of shouts and smells.

  Even before they made their entrance they were under scrutiny. Alec knew it, and was jumpy and alert. A selkie sneaked an anxious side-eye at them as he passed, then not-so-subtly veered away.

  Alec wore his leather jacket on top of his hoodie pulled low over his head, shielding his face. Soft leather gloves masked the runes on his hands. He wasn’t fooling anyone. Alec would never pass as anything but a child of the Angel. It was obvious from his bearing, his grace, the look in his eyes.

  Nephilim weren’t prohibited from attending the Market, but neither were they welcome. Magnus was glad to have Alec beside him, but it did complicate things.

  In the crush of people passing through the narrow alley to get into the Market proper, they had a moment of brief but intense claustrophobia. There was a smell like wet animals and stagnant water, and everyone was uncomfortably close. And then a burst of blinding light greeted their emergence into what the Market denizens called La Place des Ombres. The smells were of woodsmoke and spice, of incense, and of herbs drying in the sun. It was pleasantly familiar to Magnus, a constant through decades, centuries, of change.

  “The Paris Shadow Market isn’t like most other Shadow Markets. It’s the oldest in the world and its history is political and bloody. Nearly every major conflict the Downworlders had with mundanes, Nephilim, or each other before the nineteenth century started right here.” Magnus weighed his next words. “What I’m saying is, watch out.”

  As they began to pass down the first row of stalls, Magnus noticed that they created a bubble of tension around them as they moved. Downworlders were leaning together, whispering. Some shot them accusatory glares, and a few of the vendors actually pulled their curtains down or closed their windows as they approached.

  Alec’s brow was furrowed, his bearing stiff. Magnus stopped, made a show of reaching for Alec’s hand, and clasped it tightly. A werewolf slammed his stall’s window shut with a growl as they went by.

  “Didn’t want to shop there anyway,” said Alec.

  “Obviously not,” said Magnus. “Nobody wants to eat at a place called Wolfsburger. Way to come across like a cannibal, guy.”

  Alec smiled, but Magnus suspected it was only for his own benefit. Alec’s eyes continued to scan his surroundings, his vigilance a reflex trained into him his whole life. Magnus let his hand slip out of Alec’s and let Alec drift a little away and back as they walked; he knew Alec was placing himself so as to have the best vantage point for situational awareness.

  Magnus’s first stop was a large red tent standing prominently in one of the main streets. The tent was long, tall, and narrow, divided into a front foyer area and a large main room in the back. To the left of the entrance was a sign of a wine bottle filled with red liquid, bearing the legend THE BLOOD IS THE LIFE. LIVE WELL.

  Magnus pushed the red drapes to the side and poked his head into the back room, where he saw the world’s first (and probably only) blood sommelier sitting behind a curved mahogany desk. Peng Fang had the appearance of a young man in his midtwenties, his face broad and pleasant, with a mercurial air and twinkling eyes. A tuft of his black hair was dyed violent yellow, which made him resemble a friendly bee. His feet were up on the desk and he was humming a jaunty tune.

  Magnus had known Peng Fang casually since the early 1700s, when blood transfusions started to be all the rage. Magnus admired an entrepreneur, and Peng Fang was that above all else. He’d spotted a gap in the market—also the Market—and he’d filled it.

  “Why, the High Warlock of Brooklyn,” said Peng Fang, a slow, delighted smile spreading across his face. “Just dropping in for a chat? Usually I’m intent on business, but with you, business would be a pleasure.”

  Peng Fang was flirty with everyone. He was so consistent that Magnus had occasionally wondered if his interest was genuine. Now, of course, it did not matter.

  “Business, I’m afraid,” Magnus said, with a shrug and a smile.

  Peng Fang mirrored the shrug. He was already smiling, and continued to do so. “I never turn down a chance at a profit. Looking for potion ingredients? I have a vial of Dragon demons’ blood. One hundred percent fireproof.”

  “Sure, I constantly worry about whether my blood is going to catch on fire,” said Magnus. “No blood today, actually. I need some information about the Crimson Hand.”

  “I’ve been hearing a lot about them lately,” said Peng Fang, then looked over Magnus’s shoulder and stopped talking. Magnus turned his head and saw Alec emerging uncertainly through the curtain. Peng Fang rose from his desk and regarded Alec coldly. “My apologies, Shadowhunter. As you can see, I am with a client. Perhaps if you return at a later time, I can be of service.”

  “He’s with me,” said Magnus. “Alexander Lightwood, this is Peng Fang.”

  Peng Fang narrowed his eyes. “Do not make comments about my name. Obviously, my parents did not expect their little boy to become a vampire when he grew up. I do not find comments about my name humorous.”

  Magnus decided not to mention at that moment that Peng Fang was known as Fang Fang among his friends. Peng Fang was clearly not interested in making friends with Alec. His gaze was fixed on Alec as though Alec might attack him at any moment. To be fair to Peng Fang, Alec’s hand was resting casually on the hilt of the seraph blade at his side.

  “Hi,” said Alec. “I’m here with Magnus. I’m here for Magnus. No other Shadowhunters know I’m here. We just want to know about the Crimson Hand.” After a brief silence he added, “It’s important.”

  “What could I possibly know about them?” asked Peng Fang. “Let me assure you, Shadowhunter, I do not do business with cults. I am strictly aboveboard. A simple blood merchant, selling the finest legal and licensed blood to law-abiding Downworlders. If you are interested in purchasing blood, High Warlock, I will gladly advise you in your selection. Otherwise, I am afraid I can’t help you.”

  “We hear they have a new leader,” asked Alec.

  “Don’t know anything about him,” said Peng Fang firmly.

  “Him?” said Magnus. “Well, that’s something.” Peng Fang scowled. “You seemed willing to help a few moments ago.”

  The three stood at an impasse for several moments before Peng Fang sat back down at his desk and began shuffling papers.

  “Yes, well, I can’t have people saying I leaked information to Shadowhunters.”

  “We’ve known each other a long time,” Magnus said. “If you trust me, you can trust him.”

  Peng Fang glanced up fro
m his papers.

  “I trust you. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to trust Shadowhunters. Nobody trusts Shadowhunters.”

  After a moment, Alec said in a tight voice, “Come on, Magnus. Let’s go.”

  Magnus tried to catch Peng Fang’s eye as they exited. Peng Fang industriously studied his papers and ignored them. They regrouped back outside. Alec’s arms were folded tightly over his chest and he restlessly watched the crowd pass. It looked like he was Peng Fang’s bouncer.

  “I apologize for that,” Magnus said.

  Magnus could not blame any Downworlder for being suspicious of a Shadowhunter. Nor could he blame Alec for feeling insulted.

  “Look,” Alec said. “This isn’t going to work. Why don’t you go on ahead. I’ll keep out of sight and we can meet up once you’ve gotten some information.”

  Magnus nodded. “If you want to head back to the apartment—”

  “That’s not what I meant. I meant, you go ahead, and I’ll keep out of sight and shadow you while you go through the Market. I won’t step in unless you’re in danger.” Alec hesitated. “Or if you want me to go . . .”

  “No,” said Magnus. “I want you nearby.”

  Alec glanced around a little self-consciously, then pulled Magnus to him. The clatter and bustle of the Shadow Market faded to a faint, low-key mumble. The tight knot of frustration in Magnus’s chest eased somewhat. His eyes shut. Everything was quiet, and still, and sweet.

  “Get away from my stall!” yelled Peng Fang suddenly, and Magnus and Alec leaped away from one another. Magnus turned to see Peng Fang glaring through the flap of the tent. “Stop hugging Shadowhunters in front of my place of business! No one is going to buy blood from someone who has a Shadowhunter hugging booth in front of his stall! Go away!”

  Alec began to melt into the crowd passing by. He extended his hand and trailed it along Magnus’s arm as he disappeared. “I’ll be close,” he said, just loud enough for Magnus to hear. “I have your back.”