The Red Scrolls of Magic

by Cassandra Clare

  “Alec,” his father had whispered. “I don’t want you to go.”

  “Dad,” Alec had said. “I’m going.”

  A reflex response interrupted his time within his memories, as his eyes caught Magnus’s red velvet blazer flash by in the distance. Alec returned to himself and hurried in the direction he’d seen the jacket go.

  When he caught up, he saw Magnus turning into a dark alley behind a row of stalls, and then a figure in a cloak appeared from a hiding place and carefully followed Magnus down the alley.

  Alec did not have time to slowly follow; he’d already lost sight of Magnus and would soon lose sight of the cloaked figure as well. He broke into a run, squeezing in between a vampire and a peri locked in an embrace and pushing aside a group of werewolves rolling sticks. He reached the entrance of the alley and pressed his back against the wall. He peered around the corner and saw the figure halfway down the alley, headed for Magnus’s unprotected back.

  He nocked an arrow onto his bow and swung inside the alley.

  He spoke, just loud enough for his voice to carry.

  “Don’t move. Turn around slowly.”

  The cloaked figure froze, its hands slowly reaching outward as if to comply with his orders. Alec inched closer, moving to his left to get a better view of the person’s face. He just caught a glimpse of a narrow chin—human, a woman, by the looks of it, with a sandy complexion—when she whirled toward him, her fingers outstretched. Alec staggered backward as a bright flash slammed into him, obscuring his vision with white static, save for the woman’s shadow, a dark stamp superimposed on the dazzling light. He loosed the arrow blind, trusting his training to keep his aim steady. The arrow leaped from his bow and was about to hit its mark when she somehow blurred out of its path. “Blurring” was the only way to describe it. One moment his arrow was flying toward her, the next her silhouette had twisted and stretched and she was standing at the opposite wall of the alley.

  The woman blurred again, appearing right next to him. Alec leaped away, barely avoiding the slashing blade of a sword. He blocked another attack with his bow. Adamas-treated wood clattered against metal and Alec, still half-blind, swung his bow low and hooked his assailant’s ankles, sweeping her off her feet. He raised his bow high in the air and was about to bring it down on her head when she blurred away again, this time reappearing at the entrance to the alley.

  A gust howled past behind her and whipped her cloak sideways. Part of her hood flapped back, revealing the left half of her face under the light of the lamppost. A woman with deep brown eyes and thin lips. Straight shoulder-length black hair fell down the side of her face and curved around her chin. The blade she carried was a Korean samgakdo, three-sided, the kind designed to inflict irreparable damage on human flesh.

  Alec squinted. Her face looked completely human, but there was something peculiar about it. It was her expression; there was a strange blankness to it, as if she were always gazing off into a faraway place.

  A screech of metal grinding against brick pierced the air behind him. Alec’s attention flickered for an instant.

  The mystery woman took advantage of this slight distraction. She twirled her sword over her head while calling out words in a language Alec didn’t understand, and then pointed it at him. Orange spiraling light shot from its tip, and then the ground at his feet erupted, nearly knocking him over. Alec dove away, pulled another arrow out of his quiver, and nocked it. He brought his aim up to where she had last stood, but she was gone.

  Alec swept the bow across the entrance of the alley and then caught sight of his target crouching on the lip of a building ledge. He loosed the arrow and was on the move, bursting out of the alleyway almost as fast as the arrow could fly. The woman blurred and reappeared on a higher ledge of the same building. The arrow clanged against the stone. The cloaked woman jumped, rolling gracefully across the roof of a stall, and she came up running. She began to bound across the tops of the stalls.

  Alec gave chase, sprinting down the path behind those stalls, jumping over garbage bags and bins of goods, ropes and stakes and crates. The woman was fast, but Alec’s speed drew from the power of angels. He was gaining.

  The woman reached a dead end at the edge of the Market and blurred to the ground. She began to call out more demonic language, and the air before her shimmered and tore. The outlines of a rough Portal began to emerge.

  Alec drew an arrow and held it between his fingers. He lunged at her and she turned toward him, expecting an attack. Instead the sharp edge of the arrow pierced her cloak, pinning her to the side of a Market stall.

  “Got you.” Alec drew his bow fast, another arrow pointing dead center at her.

  The woman shook her head. “I don’t think you do.”

  He kept his eyes trained on her weapon. This was his mistake. Light blasted from her other hand and Alec felt himself flying, flailing, falling. He saw the wall barreling straight at him and twisted his body so his feet struck first. He flipped forward, landing in a crouch in the mud.

  He shot up, his bow miraculously not broken, and he reflexively moved to bring it back into position. The woman—the warlock—had disappeared. All that was left were the remnants of the Portal as it closed and blinked out of existence. Alec kept his bow drawn as he pivoted in a full circle. It was only after he was sure she was gone that he let his guard down.

  This woman was a warlock, but also a trained fighter. She was a serious threat.

  “Magnus,” Alec breathed. It suddenly occurred to him that there was no guarantee the warlock was working alone. What if she had been trying to lure him away from Magnus? He backtracked to the alley, barreling through the narrow path, not bothering to hurdle any of the things in his way as he uprooted stakes and collapsed tents. Outraged shouts from the people of the Shadow Market followed him as he went.

  Thank the Angel, Magnus looked perfectly safe, having emerged at the other end of the alley without noticing anything, and having made his way to an unobtrusive corner nearby, where he stood talking to a disreputable-looking mundane wearing a trench coat and sunglasses. As soon as the man caught sight of Alec, he startled and bolted away. Alec understood that Downworlders and Shadowhunters didn’t always get along, but he was beginning to take the Shadow Market’s attitude personally.

  Magnus beamed at Alec and waved him over. Alec felt his own stern expression soften. He worried too much. But there always seemed a lot to worry about. Demon attacks. Trying to protect the people he loved from demon attacks. Strangers trying to make conversation with him. Sometimes all the thoughts seemed to press down on his shoulders, an invisible burden that Alec could hardly bear, one that couldn’t be laid down.

  Magnus stood with his hand reached out to Alec. His jeweled rings gleamed, and he looked for a moment wild and strange, but then he smiled tenderly. Alec’s affection, and feeling of sheer luck that he’d earned Magnus’s affection back, overwhelmed him.

  “Hey, honey,” said Magnus, and it was a little marvelous that he meant Alec. “What’s new?”

  “Well,” said Alec, “someone was following you. I chased her off. She was a warlock. A warlock pretty ready for a fight, too.”

  Magnus asked, “Someone from the Crimson Hand?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Alec. “Wouldn’t they send more than one person, if they have a whole cult?”

  Magnus paused. “Usually, yes.”

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Sort of.” Magnus linked elbows with Alec, careless of the mud on Alec’s clothes, and pulled him along. “I’ll tell you every detail when we get home, but the main thing is we’re off to Venice.”

  “I was kind of hoping,” said Alec, “that we could rest. And go to Venice tomorrow.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Magnus. “We’ll sleep in, and then it will take me ages to pack, so we’ll leave tomorrow evening and be there by the morning.”

  “Magnus.” Alec laughed. “Is this a dangerous mission or are we still on vacation
?”

  “Well, I’m hoping a little bit of both,” Magnus said. “Venice is especially beautiful this time of year. What am I saying? Venice is especially beautiful any time of year.”

  “Magnus,” Alec said again. “We’re leaving in the evening and getting there in the morning? Aren’t we taking a Portal?”

  “We are not,” said Magnus. “The Crimson Hand is tracking Portal use, according to Tessa. We will have to rough it like mundanes do, and take the fanciest, most luxurious train available on a romantic overnight through the Alps. You see the sacrifices I am willing to make for the sake of safety.”

  “Shadowhunters would just use the permanent Portals in Idris to transfer through,” Alec pointed out.

  “Shadowhunters have to worry about justifying their expenses to the Clave. I do not. Get ready. No mission is so dangerous it isn’t worth doing in style.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  * * *

  The Orient Express

  THEY SLEPT IN, AND THEN it took most of the day for Magnus to pack.

  Magnus summoned some extra clothes for Alec from one of his favorite boutiques “for unforeseen emergencies.” Alec protested that he didn’t want anything too fancy, but Magnus couldn’t be stopped from summoning him several beautiful sweaters without any holes in them, as well as a tuxedo he promised Alec was absolutely necessary. Breakfast came from the bakery down the street; lunch came from the traiteur the other way on the same street.

  Finally, they took an unromantic but practical taxi to the Gare de l’Est, where he had the enjoyable experience of seeing Alec’s eyes widen as the luxurious blue-and-white train cars of the Orient Express pulled up, coming to a stop with a long, pronounced hiss. Several liveried men and women spilled out and began to assist the waiting passengers with their luggage.

  Alec fiddled with the retractable handle of the rolling garment bag Magnus had made him organize his things into. He’d watched Alec stuff a shapeless duffel bag with wadded-up laundry until he had been seized by a great madness, had summoned several very nice pieces of luggage from his own matched purple set, and had stood watchful while Alec packed them carefully with his nicest and most appropriate outfits.

  Now Alec set his own bag down and came over to Magnus. He squared his shoulders and prepared to heft Magnus’s largest suitcase up onto the steps of the train.

  “No, no,” said Magnus. He kept the tip of his hand gently on the top of the lead bag and looked around with an expression of polite befuddlement. Soon, one of the handsomely dressed porters appeared, held out his hand for Magnus to provide him with their tickets, and took control of the entire luggage situation. Magnus felt mildly guilty when the young man grunted in surprise, straining to carry the bags up the steps, but generous tipping would make up for a lot.

  They were escorted down the length of a richly detailed sleeper car. The plush carpeting, mahogany-accented walls, and ornate brass railings and fixtures reminded Magnus of the years he had spent with Camille Belcourt, his vampire paramour.

  Camille. When their relationship ended, the Orient Express train hadn’t even started running yet. Now it was a tourist’s throwback—still luxe, still comfortable, but hearkening back self-consciously to an era that for almost everyone alive today was the almost unimaginably olden days.

  Magnus returned himself to the present moment. For Alec, the Orient Express wasn’t a nostalgic throwback or a distant fond memory, but an adventure in the present moment, an adventure of grand meals taken among a forest of snowcapped mountains, an adventure of sleeping in a comfortable bed while still feeling the rhythmic, regular thump of the train over the track.

  They reached their assigned cabin in the corner near the end of the sleeper car. True to his word, Magnus had sprung for the fanciest option available, a large suite with a sitting room in front and a bedroom behind. In between the two rooms was a small bathroom with a shower surrounded by glass walls. Lacquered rosewood walls and Turkish accents gave the whole suite a decadent feel. Magnus deeply approved.

  “Our grand suites are all decorated in the style of cities along our route,” the porter said, still struggling to carry Magnus’s luggage inside. “This one is Istanbul.”

  Magnus gave him the generous tip he deserved for his efforts, then closed the door behind him and spun to face Alec, just as the train jolted into movement around them. “What do you think?”

  Alec smiled. “Why Istanbul?”

  “The Paris suite and the Venice suite seemed silly. We’ve had a lot of Paris and we’re just about to have a lot of Venice. So, Istanbul.”

  They sat on the couch in the sitting room and watched the scenery go by. The train was picking up speed. Within minutes, it was out of the station and slipping out of Paris. The cityscape gave way to residential neighborhoods until finally they were speeding through rolling green hills and soft fields of dying lavender in the French countryside.

  “This is . . .” Alec gestured at their surroundings. “This is . . .” He blinked, unable to find words.

  “Isn’t it great? So let’s get dressed and go get dinner. We can explore the rest of the train too.”

  “Yes,” said Alec, still struck mostly dumb. “Dinner. Yes. Good. What do you wear to dinner on this kind of train?” He leaned over the garment bag as Magnus began unfolding it. “Can I get away with just a nice jacket and jeans?”

  “Alec,” Magnus admonished him. “This is the Orient Express. You wear a tuxedo.”

  Where tuxedos were concerned, Magnus had learned over decades to be a purist. Trends came and went. And he loved bright colors and showiness, it was true. But the dinner jackets he had brought for himself and Alec were black, with grosgrain peak lapels and a two-button front.

  The bow ties were black. Alec had no idea how to tie one. “Where would I have ever needed to wear a bow tie before in my life?” said Alec. Magnus conceded the point and tied Alec’s for him, without the teasing that they both understood at some level that Alec deserved.

  The secret of the tuxedo, Magnus knew from many decades of experience, was that every man looked good in a tuxedo. If you were already a very attractive man, like Alec, you would look very, very good in a tuxedo. Magnus briefly allowed himself a moment of reverie to simply take in the sight of Alec in black tie, fiddling with the studs in his shirt. Alec caught his eye and a slow, shy smile emerged as he realized Magnus had been looking.

  Alec owned no cuff links, of course. Magnus had so many ideas for cuff links to buy Alec in the future, but on short notice he’d found a pair of his own with a bow-and-arrow motif, and now provided them to Alec with a flourish.

  “What about you?” said Alec, doing up his cuffs.

  Magnus went back into the garment bag and withdrew two enormous square-cut amethysts, set in gold. Alec laughed.

  They left their cabin and were about to join the throng of like-minded mundanes heading toward the restaurant car, when a giddy nymph rushed past them toward the rear of the train. A moment later, a small group of visibly drunk sprites pushed their way past Alec, heading in the same direction.

  Alec tapped Magnus on the shoulder. “Where do you think all the Downworlders are going?”

  Magnus looked over just in time to see two werewolves enter the next car. When they opened the door, loud singing streamed out. Magnus was hungry, but distractible. “Sounds like a party. Let us follow the siren song.”

  They followed the Downworlders and poked their heads into the back bar, in the last car of the train, which indeed seemed to be hosting a party in full swing. The decor reminded Magnus of the speakeasy he’d owned during Prohibition. A full-size bar counter hugged the right side, and plush purple sectional sofas occupied the other. In the center of the car, a grand piano was being played by a dapper-looking man with a beard and goat legs. A siren wearing a dress made from swirling water lounged on top of it, entertaining the audience.

  A group of brownies huddled in the corner, one of them strumming a twisted instrument that looked like a l
ute carved out of a branch. Two phoukas were smoking pipes near the window, admiring the landscape. A purple-skinned warlock was playing dice with some goblins. Above the bar was a sign reading NO BITING. NO FIGHTING. NO MAGIC.

  The mood in the car was festive, relaxed. Despite the sheer number of Downworlders, they all seemed to know each other.

  “Where are you headed?” Magnus asked a goblin.

  “To Venice!” said the goblin. A bunch of other goblins in various parts of the car yelled, “To Venice!” back. He hoisted his mug, which hissed and foamed alarmingly. “To the party!”

  “What party?” asked Magnus as the goblin clocked Alec behind him.

  “No, no,” the goblin said. “No party. I’m seven hundred years old. I get confused.”

  Alec had clocked the goblin right back. “Maybe,” he said quietly into Magnus’s ear, “we should go to the restaurant.”

  Magnus was relieved and embarrassed and annoyed and grateful, all at once. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”

  Once the door was safely closed between them and the bar car, Alec said, “Are there always this many Downworlders on trains?”

  “Not usually,” Magnus said. “Not unless they’re going to some big Downworlder party in Venice that no one thought to tell me about. Which they are, in this case.”

  Alec didn’t say anything. Neither of them mentioned that without Alec, Magnus would be on his way to that party right now. Magnus wanted to tell Alec that he didn’t care about a party, that he was happier to have dinner with Alec, because Alec mattered and some party didn’t, really.

  They passed two more lounge cars—a champagne car and a viewing car—before reaching the restaurant car. A host met them at the entrance and escorted them to an elegantly draped booth in the corner. A small brass chandelier above them bathed the table in a warm yellow glow, and the table was set with an intimidating number of different forks, spoons, and knives at various orientations to the plates.