The Red Scrolls of Magic

by Cassandra Clare

  The glowing outline solidified into an intricately detailed gold-plated door with a large oval mirror in the center.

  Magnus walked up to the new door and studied it. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and then back at the rickety wooden door up front. “This is more what I was expecting,” he said, and reached for the handle.

  Both Alec and Shinyun were there in a flash, trying to prevent Magnus from entering first. Alec and Magnus’s essential desire to avoid conflict meant that Shinyun won, nudging the two of them out of the way and pushing the door open. It swung open easily, revealing a long corridor with a low ceiling. A rush of stale air blew past them. A row of torches along the wall sparked and lit one by one down the line.

  The corridor curved around several bends, making what was no more than a five-minute walk seem endless. Magnus had no sense at this point where they were in relation to the palazzo or even the city of Venice. If it were me, and it might have been, he thought, I would just plonk the whole thing in the middle of the lagoon somewhere. Ahead of him, Shinyun gasped as the passageway opened into what Magnus desperately hoped was the last secret chamber to find. Just the thought of the walk back made him want to lie down and take a nap.

  He and Alec followed Shinyun into the chamber, and he understood why Shinyun had gasped. The space was huge, its decor the result of a church and a nightclub having gotten together for a wild night.

  There were two sections of golden pews along each side of the room, and tiles flashing like jewels lined the walls beside them. At the far end of the room was a large painting of a handsome man with a long, bony face and sharp features. He would have almost passed for human if it were not for his jagged teeth. The only decoration he wore was a crown of barbed wire.

  In front of the painting was a stone altar—a much more impressive one—in the center of a giant pentagram. Small grooves were carved into the stone slab, leading downward out from the four corners of the altar to the points of the star below. The entire space was mottled over with dark red stains whose shade varied, but were all of a piece.

  “See?” said Shinyun triumphantly. “Blood on the walls. That’s how you know it’s the real one.”

  Alec pointed to the left, puzzlement flashing on his face. “Why is there a fully stocked bar next to the sacrificial altar?”

  Magnus gave up. “This is definitely my cult, isn’t it?” He paused. “I hope the altar was a later addition.”

  “Maybe not,” said Alec. “There might be another warlock who would have wanted a wet bar next to their blood altar.”

  “Well, if there is, he should introduce himself,” said Magnus. “I think we would get along.”

  In their haste to leave, the cult had left the place a mess. Half the pews were overturned, litter covered much of the floor, and a pile of mostly burnt debris cluttered a sunken fire pit.

  At one point, the fire must have jumped the pit and gotten out of hand, because a few of the pews around it were charred. Magnus walked behind the bar counter. Plenty of liquor, no ice or fruit or garnish, though. He poured himself three fingers of the bitterest amaro he could find and sipped it angrily, pacing the room.

  Memories were powerful forms of magic. Everything in the universe had them, even events, places, and things. That was how ghosts from particularly tragic moments were born, why houses became haunted. Magnus was willing to bet that a demon-worshipping sanctuary involved in sacrificial rituals would have manifested its fair share of powerful memories from which they could glean clues.

  Making a slow circle around the perimeter of the sanctuary, he began to chant. His hands were outstretched as he moved, and a glittering trail of white mist leaked from his fingertips.

  The mist lingered and shifted in the air like lazy ocean waves, and then it condensed, taking shape into human bodies in motion. These were some of the strongest memories that had imprinted upon this place.

  But something was blocking Magnus’s casting. The cult had prepared for this. Magnus reached out and pushed against the strong ward blanketing the entire area. A few memories did coalesce into something tangible, but they remained faint and unclear, dissipating after only a few seconds.

  Of these, only three were vivid enough to materialize into something discernible. One was a stained glass window that was no longer here, portraying someone who looked awfully like Magnus being fanned with palm leaves. One was of two figures kneeling in prayer, an adult and a child, both smiling. One was of a woman standing over the altar, holding a long kris knife. Then there were faces, too many faces twisted in agony. He saw mundanes, and even a couple of warlocks, but mainly he saw faeries. Faerie blood, the blood that could be used to call up Greater Demons.

  By the time Magnus gave up, he was gasping and wet with sweat. Breathing hard, he waved off the thick haze that had clung to the air around him. After the mist in the room cleared, he noticed Shinyun leaning with her arms crossed against one of the columns. She had been studying his work with great interest.

  “Anything useful?” she asked.

  Magnus leaned back against the wall and shook his head. “Someone set up a spell to block me from finding anything at all. Someone very powerful.”

  “Do you notice anything strange about that wall?” Shinyun said, nodding toward the portrait of the man with jagged teeth. Magnus had been trying to avoid the portrait’s eyes, as if his father Asmodeus could watch him through them.

  Even if he had started a cult, surely he would never have involved Asmodeus. Surely there was never a time he had been that mad or reckless.

  “I do,” said Alec suddenly, and Magnus started.

  “The portrait is hung on a bare stone wall, by itself. That’s a big wall, why not use it for anything else?”

  Alec strode forward, walked underneath the picture frame, and pulled the bottom outward. He lifted the giant portrait off the wall and put it on the ground against one of the columns. He returned to the now-naked stone wall and banged a knuckle against it.

  Shinyun walked next to him and placed a hand on the wall. Orange waves flowed from her hands and over the stone, and the stone shimmered like water to form an alcove tiled in the same glittering stone as the other walls. Set in the alcove was a large book, bound in calfskin dyed deep crimson, with gilt letters set deep into the cover.

  The gold letters formed the words THE RED SCROLLS OF MAGIC.

  Shinyun drew the book out and sat down on the stone to read. The book looked huge in her slim hands. As she began to turn the pages, the yellowed vellum crackled beneath her fingertips. Alec began to read over her shoulder.

  Magnus did not want to, but he made himself take the steps past the altar, to where Shinyun and Alec stood reading the book.

  Awe and dread both dissipated somewhat as Magnus read some of the holy tenets laid down by the Red Scrolls.

  “Only the Great Poison, he who is handsome and wise and charming and handsome, can lead the faithful to Edom. So cater to the Great Poison with food and drink and baths and the occasional massage.”

  “They wrote ‘handsome’ twice,” murmured Alec.

  “Why is it called the Red Scrolls,” said Shinyun, “when it is a book? And not a scroll?”

  “It’s definitely not plural scrolls,” said Alec.

  “I’m sure whoever this handsome, handsome cult founder is,” said Magnus, his chest constricting, “he had his reasons.”

  Shinyun read on. “The prince wishes only the best for his children. Thus, to honor his name, there must be a hearth crowded with only the finest of liquors and cigars and bonbons. Tithes of treasure and gifts showered upon the Great Poison symbolize the love between the faithful, so keep the spirits flowing and the gold growing, and always remember the sacred rules.

  “Life is a stage, so exit in style.

  “Only the faithful who make a truly great drink shall be favored.

  “Offend not the Great Poison with cruel deeds or poor fashion.

  “Seek the children of demons. Love them as
you love your lord. Do not let the children be alone.

  “In times of trouble, remember: all roads lead to Rome.”

  Alec looked at Magnus, and Magnus could not entirely understand Alec’s small smile. “I think you wrote this.”

  Magnus winced. It did sound like him. Like his worst self, frivolous and thoughtless, contemptuous and superior. He did not remember writing it. But he almost certainly had. He was, almost certainly, the Great Poison. He was, almost certainly, responsible for the Crimson Hand.

  “It’s silly,” Shinyun remarked with disgust.

  “Magnus, aren’t you relieved this is a joke?” Alec said, and Magnus realized his smile had been relief. “Why would anyone think you needed to have your memories of this taken away? It isn’t serious.”

  He almost wanted to snap at Alec, though he knew it was himself he was angry at. Don’t you see what this means? The Crimson Hand might have started out as a joke, but now it was deadly serious. People were dead because of Magnus’s joke.

  Magnus was responsible for more than just the cult’s existence. Shinyun was crouched on the stone before him, her wrecked life a living testament to what he had done. Magnus had told his followers to find the children of demons. He had commanded that warlock children be brought into his cult. Whatever evil the cult had done, whatever Shinyun had suffered, it was Magnus’s doing.

  Soon enough Alec would realize that too. Magnus cleared his throat, and tried to make his voice light as air.

  “Well, the good news is,” he said, ignoring Alec’s question, “ ‘all roads lead to Rome.’ So at least we know where to go next.”

  MORNING WOULD BREAK OVER VENICE soon, illuminating water and sky. The city was coming to life already. Magnus could see the storefronts opening and smell baked bread and sausages as well as brine in the air.

  Morning and its transformations were not here yet. The dawn was a line of pearl above the indigo waters. The buildings and bridges were deep lavender and silver by its faint, brightening light. Magnus, Alec, Shinyun, and Malcolm, whom they had found curled up asleep on the remains of the front steps of the palazzo and brought with them, had climbed into a vacant gondola. Magnus waved the gondola in the direction of their hotel, his magic sending bright blue sparks scattering on the surface of the water.

  Magnus’s party clothes were dust gray and crumpled, which was how he felt. They’d all walked quietly back through the endless corridors and doors and stairs until they had found the stars going out as the sky began to brighten over the canals. They had barely spoken, and Magnus was still avoiding Alec’s gaze. Alec was visibly exhausted. He’d abandoned his tattered jacket somewhere in the ruins of the palazzo, and he was in his shirtsleeves, face marked with dust and dirt. He’d been running and fighting and searching for the better portion of the night, trying to fix Magnus’s mistakes, diving for and shielding people with his own body as warlock magic shattered the place where they stood.

  He lay at the bottom of the boat now, his back leaning against Magnus’s chest. Magnus could feel Alec’s whole body limp with weariness.

  “I’m sorry you had a terrible time at the awful party,” Magnus whispered low in Alec’s ear.

  “I didn’t have a terrible time,” Alec whispered back, his voice scratchy with tiredness and worry. “I was with you.”

  Magnus felt Alec’s head loll back against his chest.

  “Sad the party broke up so soon,” Malcolm commented.

  “It’s almost time for breakfast, Malcolm. Also, the building fell down. Anyone fancy breakfast?”

  “Most important meal of the day,” Alec murmured, somewhat more than half-asleep.

  There was no answer from anyone, even Malcolm, who was clearly brooding on his wrongs. “I can’t believe Barnabas Hale,” Malcolm said. “He’s so rude. I’m glad he’s flouncing off to another city. Florence, was it? Or maybe . . .”

  “Rome,” said Shinyun grimly.

  “Oh yes,” Malcolm said brightly. “Maybe Rome.”

  There was a terrible silence. It was broken when Malcolm started to sing a song, soft and off-key, about a lost love by the sea. It didn’t matter—Magnus’s thoughts were far away.

  Barnabas Hale was going to Rome.

  All the Crimson Hand’s roads led to Rome.

  The Crimson Hand and its leader, who had been laying the blame for the cult’s current activities on Magnus, were almost certainly in Rome.

  Magnus had known Barnabas Hale a long time and had never liked him. His appearance in Venice had been an unpleasant surprise. But it was a big jump from that guy is annoying to that guy is slaughtering faeries and summoning Greater Demons and tried to kill me with a Raum brood mother.

  Still, Barnabas was a warlock with plenty of power. He had said he owned the palazzo, so he had wealth as well. He was someone to follow up on, in any event.

  “We need sleep,” Shinyun said eventually, “and then we should get down to Rome as soon as possible.”

  “The sooner we get there, the sooner Alec and I can continue our vacation,” said Magnus.

  His bright tone did not sound convincing, even to himself. Tomorrow, he told himself, he would do better. He would stop feeling so crushed under the weight of the past and his fear of the future, and enjoy the present as he usually did.

  “I’m sure you and Alec will enjoy that,” said Shinyun.

  It was hard to tell, given her expressionless face, but Magnus thought that might be a peace offering. He smiled at her, as best he could.

  “He’s very devoted,” Shinyun continued, gazing at Alec. His eyes were closed, but his arm was curved protectively around Magnus, even in sleep. “Doesn’t he ever quit?”

  She reached out a hand to touch Magnus’s, but Magnus felt the muscles in Alec’s body go tense the moment before the Shadowhunter’s hand shot out to grab her wrist.

  “I don’t,” said Alec.

  Shinyun went still, then withdrew her hand. Alec’s head sagged instantly back against Magnus’s chest and he slipped into whatever twilight state between conscious and unconscious he currently occupied.

  The gondola drifted under the Bridge of Sighs, a pale crown in the dim sky above them. Prisoners in the old days had seen their city for the last time from this bridge, before they were led to their execution.

  Magnus noticed Malcolm watching them, his face white as marble. Malcolm had loved a Shadowhunter. It had not ended well. Magnus had spoken to him about it once, about getting over love and living on, about finding love again. Malcolm had shaken his head. He had said, I do not ever want another love.

  Magnus had thought he was being foolish.

  Perhaps all love sailed too close to madness. The deeper the love, the more dangerous.

  The boat slid on across dark waters. When Magnus looked behind him, he saw the last sparks of his magic sinking and vanishing into the depths. The sparks winked, bright blue and brilliant white, the gentle ripples of the canal becoming by turns rich purple, pale pearl, and inky black under the not-yet-morning sky. The water was suffused with a final luminescence before his blue sparks drowned. Magnus slid his fingers gently through Alec’s wild, soft hair, and felt Alec’s head turn toward him a little in half sleep. He heard Malcolm singing and remembered again his words from long ago.

  I do not ever want another love.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  * * *

  Bitter Secrets

  “WHEN IN ROME, ALEXANDER,” SAID Magnus, “one drives a Maserati.”

  They had to get to Rome as fast as possible, and they couldn’t use a Portal, so Magnus said he was selecting the next best option. Shinyun was reading the Red Scrolls of Magic and ignoring them both, which was fine with Alec.

  “An excellent choice,” said the attendant at the luxury car rental lot. “Gotta love a classic 3500 GT Spyder.”

  Alec leaned into Magnus. “The car is also a spider?”

  Magnus shrugged, flashing Alec an irresistibly bright smile. “No idea. I just picked it because i
t was Italian and red.”

  Twenty minutes later the three were cruising down the A13 toward Bologna with the top down and the wind whistling in their ears. Shinyun was in the back, lying down with her boots propped up against the window and reading aloud from the Red Scrolls at intervals. Alec was in the passenger seat, struggling to navigate with only the help of an accordion-folded paper map in a language he didn’t understand.

  Magnus, who was driving, said, “Been a while since I drove a stick shift. No jokes, please.”

  They were in Florence in time for an early dinner. Magnus had made reservations at a restaurant so tiny Alec was pretty sure it was just the chef’s living room. It was the best pasta he had ever eaten.

  After dinner, Magnus said, “We can’t just drive frantically all the time. We’ll crash. Let’s try to hit another spot on our old itinerary. We’re not far from the Boboli Gardens.”

  “Sure,” said Alec.

  Shinyun walked after them, the Red Scrolls tucked under her arm, even though nobody had asked her along.

  Magnus narrated where they were going as they walked along the Arno, crossed the Ponte Vecchio, and moved in a zigzag to make detours at assorted street vendors. Magnus bought a scarf, a pair of sunglasses, a zeppola, and a cloak that made him look like the Phantom of the Opera.

  They reached the Boboli Gardens Amphitheater and circled the statues lining the perimeter, working their way inward to the obelisk at the center.

  “It’s been a while since we took a picture for the people back home,” said Alec.

  Magnus linked elbows with him and dragged him past the Neptune Fountain and the Statue of Abundance, until he found a statue featuring a large naked guy on top of a giant tortoise. He declared this the perfect spot for a picture. He tipped back his Panama hat and struck a regal pose on one side of the statue, which he explained to Alec was called Morgante. Alec leaned on the other side, hands in his pockets, as Shinyun snapped several shots for them with Alec’s phone.