Lady Midnight

by Cassandra Clare

  Emma pulled over to the side of the highway. Lines of cars were parked along the sides of the PCH here, most of them surfers drawn by the wide beach to the west.

  Emma exhaled, turning the car off. "Okay," she said. "We--"

  "Emma," Julian said.

  She paused. Julian had been almost completely silent since they'd left the Institute. She couldn't blame him. She couldn't find words herself. She'd let the distraction of driving take her, the need to concentrate on the road. She'd been aware of him beside her the whole time, though, his head back against the seat, his eyes closed, his fist clenched against the knee of his jeans.

  "Mark thought I was my father," said Julian abruptly, and she could tell he was remembering that awful moment, the look of hope in his brother's eyes, a hope that had nothing to do with him. "He didn't recognize me."

  "He remembers you twelve," Emma said. "He remembers all of you as so young."

  "And you, too."

  "I doubt he remembers me at all."

  He unsnapped his seat belt. Light sparked off the bracelet of sea glass he wore on his left wrist, turning it to bright colors: flame red, fire gold, Blackthorn blue.

  "He does," he said. "No one could forget you."

  She blinked at him in surprise. A moment later Julian was out of the car. She scrambled to follow him, slamming the driver's side door as cars whizzed by just a lane away.

  Jules was standing at the foot of Malcolm's bridge, looking up toward the house. She could see his shoulder blades under the thin cotton of his T-shirt, the nape of his neck, a shade lighter than the rest of his skin where his hair had kept it from getting tanned.

  "The Fair Folk are tricksters," Julian said without turning. "They won't want to give Mark up: Faerie blood and Shadowhunter blood together, that's too valuable. There'll be some clause that'll allow them to take him back when we're done."

  "Well, it's up to him," said Emma. "He gets to choose whether to stay or go."

  Julian shook his head. "A choice seems simple, I know," he said. "But a lot of choices aren't simple."

  They began to climb the stairs. The staircase was helical, twisting upward through the hills. It was glamoured, visible only to supernatural creatures. The first time Emma had visited, Malcolm had escorted her; she had looked down in wonder at all the mundanes speeding by below in their cars, entirely unaware that above them, a crystal staircase rose impossibly against the sky.

  She was more used to it now. Once you'd seen the staircase, it would never be invisible to you again.

  Julian didn't say anything else as they walked, but Emma found she didn't mind. What he'd said in the car--he'd meant it. His gaze had been level and direct as he'd spoken. It had been Julian talking, her Jules, the one who lived in her bones and her brain and at the base of her spine, the one who was threaded all through her like veins or nerves.

  The staircase ended abruptly in a path to Malcolm's front door. You were meant to climb down, but Emma jumped, her feet landing on the hard-packed dirt. A moment later Julian had landed beside her and reached out to steady her, his fingers five warm lines across her back. She didn't need the help--of the two of them, she likely had the better balance--but, she realized, it was something he'd always done, unthinkingly. A protective reflex.

  She glanced toward him, but he seemed lost in thought, barely noticing that they were touching. He moved away as the staircase behind them vanished back into its glamour.

  They were standing in front of two obelisks that thrust up out of the dusty ground, forming a gateway. Each was carved with alchemical symbols: fire, earth, water, air. The path that led up to the warlock's house was lined with desert plants: cactus, sagebrush, California lilacs. Bees buzzed among the flowers. The dirt turned to crushed seashells as they neared the brushed-metal front doors.

  Emma knocked and the doors slid open with a near-silent hiss. The hallways inside Malcolm's house were white, lined with pop-art reproductions, snaking off in a dozen different directions. Julian was at her side, unobtrusive; he hadn't brought his crossbow with him, but she felt the ridge of a knife strapped to his wrist when he nudged her with his arm.

  "Down the hall," he said. "Voices."

  They moved toward the living room. It was all steel and glass, entirely circular, giving out onto views of the sea. Emma thought it looked like the sort of place a movie star might own--everything was modern, from the sound system that piped in classical music to the infinity-edged swimming pool that hung over the cliffs.

  Malcolm was sprawled on the long couch that ran the length of the room, his back to the Pacific. He wore a black suit, very plain and clearly expensive. He was nodding and smiling agreeably as two men in much the same kind of dark suits stood over him with briefcases in hand, speaking in low, urgent voices.

  Malcolm, seeing them, waved. The vistors were white men in their forties with nondescript faces. Malcolm made a nonchalant gesture with his fingers, and they froze in place, eyes staring blankly.

  "It always creeps me out when you do that," Emma said. She walked up to one of the frozen men and poked him thoughtfully. He tilted slightly.

  "Don't break the movie producer," said Malcolm. "I'd have to hide the body in the rock garden."

  "You're the one who froze him." Julian sat down on the arm of the couch. Emma slumped down onto the cushions beside him, feet on the coffee table. She wiggled her toes in their sandals.

  Malcolm blinked. "But how else am I meant to talk to you without them hearing?"

  "You could ask us to wait till your meeting is over," Julian said. "It probably wouldn't be a major risk to any lives."

  "You're Shadowhunters. It could always be life-or-death," said Malcolm, not unreasonably. "Besides, I'm not sure I want the job. They're movie producers and they want me to cast a spell to ensure the success of their new release. But it looks terrible." He stared glumly at the poster on the sofa beside him. It showed several birds flying toward the viewer, with the caption EAGLE EXPLOSION THREE: FEATHERS FLY.

  "Does anything happen in this movie that wasn't adequately covered in Eagle Explosion One and Two?" Julian asked.

  "More eagles."

  "Does it matter if it's terrible? Terrible movies do well all the time," Emma pointed out. She knew more about movies than she wished she did. Most Shadowhunters paid little attention to mundane culture, but you couldn't live in Los Angeles and escape it.

  "It means a stronger spell. More work for me. But it does pay well. And I've been thinking of installing a train in my house. It could bring me shrimp crackers from the kitchen."

  "A train?" Julian echoed. "How big a train?"

  "Small. Medium. Like this." Malcolm gestured, low to the ground. "It would go 'choo-choo'--" He snapped his fingers to punctuate the noise, and the movie producers jerked into life.

  "Whoops," Malcolm said as they blinked. "Didn't mean to do that."

  "Mr. Fade," said the older one. "You'll consider our offer?"

  Malcolm looked dispiritedly at the poster. "I'll get in touch."

  The producers turned toward the front door, and the younger one jumped at the sight of Emma and Julian. Emma could hardly blame him. From his perspective, they must have appeared out of thin air.

  "Sorry, gents," said Malcolm. "My niece and nephew. Family day, you know."

  The mundanes looked from Malcolm to Jules and Emma and back again, clearly wondering how someone who looked twenty-seven could possibly have a niece and nephew in their teens. The older one shrugged.

  "Enjoy the beach," he said, and they marched out, brushing by Emma with a whiff of expensive cologne and the rattle of briefcases.

  Malcolm stood up, listing a bit to one side--he had a slightly awkward way of walking that made Emma wonder if he'd once been injured and hadn't completely healed. "Everything all right with Arthur?"

  Julian tensed beside Emma, almost imperceptibly, but she felt it. "The family's fine, thanks."

  Malcolm's violet eyes, his warlock's mark, darkened before cleari
ng like a sky briefly touched by clouds. His expression as he ambled over to the bar that ran along one wall and poured himself a glass of clear liquid was amiable. "Then what can I help you with?"

  Emma moved over toward the couch. They had made copies of the papers the faeries had given them. She set them down on the coffee table. "You remember what we were talking about the other night. . . ."

  Malcolm put his glass aside and picked up the papers. "That demon language again," he said. "The one that was on that body you found in the alley, and on your parents' bodies . . ." He paused to whistle through his teeth. "Look at that," he said, stabbing his finger at the first page. "Someone's translated the first line. Fire to water."

  "It's a breakthrough, right?" Emma said.

  Malcolm shook his bone-white head of hair. "Maybe, but I can't do anything with this. Not if it's a secret from Diana and Arthur. I can't get involved in something like that."

  "It's fine with Diana," Emma said. Malcolm gave her a dubious look. "Seriously. Call her and ask--"

  She broke off as a man ambled into the room, hands in his pockets. He looked about twenty, tall, with spiked black hair and cat's eyes. He wore a white suit that contrasted crisply with his brown skin.

  "Magnus!" Emma said, jumping to her feet. Magnus Bane was the High Warlock of Brooklyn, and also held the warlock's seat on the Council of Shadowhunters. He was possibly the most famous warlock in the world, though you'd never guess it; he seemed young, and had been kind and friendly to Emma and the Blackthorns since he'd met them during the Dark War.

  She'd always liked Magnus. He seemed to bring a sense of infinite possibility with him wherever he went. He looked the same as the last time she'd seen him, down to his sardonic smile and the heavy jeweled rings on his fingers. "Emma, Julian. A pleasure. What are you doing here?"

  Emma darted her gaze toward Julian. They might have been fond of Magnus, but she could tell from Julian's expression--it was quickly hidden, smoothed over by a look of mild interest, but she could still see it--that he wasn't thrilled Magnus was there. This was already going to be a secret Malcolm needed to keep. Adding someone else in . . . especially someone on the Council . . .

  "What are you doing in town?" Julian's tone was casual.

  "Ever since the Dark War, the Clave has been tracking incidences of the kind of magic Sebastian Morgenstern used," said Magnus. "Energy raised from evil sources, Hell dimensions and the like, to draw power and extend life. Necyomanteis, the Greeks called it."

  "Necromancy," Emma translated.

  Magnus nodded. "We built a map," he said, "with help from the Spiral Labyrinth, from the Silent Brothers--even Zachariah--that reveals where necromantic magic is being used. We caught a flare of it here in Los Angeles, out by the desert, so I thought I'd stop by, see if Malcolm knew about it."

  "It was a rogue necromancer," said Malcolm. "Diana said she took care of him."

  "God, I hate rogue necromancers," said Magnus. "Why can't they just follow the rules?"

  "Probably because the biggest rule is 'no necromancy'?" Emma suggested.

  Magnus grinned at her, sideways. "Anyway. It was no big deal for me to stop by here on my way to Buenos Aires."

  "What's in Buenos Aires?" said Julian.

  "Alec," Magnus said. Alexander Lightwood was Magnus's boyfriend of half a decade. They could have gotten married under the new laws that allowed Shadowhunters to marry Downworlders (other than faeries), but they hadn't. Emma didn't know why. "Routine check on a vampire-worshipping cult, but he ran into some trouble there."

  "Nothing serious?" said Julian. He'd known Alec Lightwood longer than Emma had; the Blackthorns and the Lightwoods had been friends for years.

  "Complicated, but not serious," said Magnus, just as Malcolm pushed himself away from the wall.

  "I'm going to go call Diana. Be right back," he said, and vanished down the hallway.

  "So." Magnus sat down on the couch, in the place Malcolm had just vacated. "What brings you to the High Warlock of the City of Angels?"

  Emma exchanged a worried look with Julian, but short of diving across the table and whacking Magnus over the head--inadvisable for so many reasons--she couldn't think of anything to do.

  "Something you're not supposed to tell me, I take it." Magnus templed his hands under his chin. "About the killings?" At their surprised looks, he added, "I have friends at the Scholomance. Catarina Loss, for one. Anything about rogue magic or the Fair Folk interests me. Is Malcolm helping out?"

  Julian shook his head, a minute gesture.

  "Some of the bodies were fey," said Emma. "We're not meant to get involved. The Cold Peace--"

  "The Cold Peace is despicable," Magnus said, and the humor had gone out of his voice. "Punishing a whole species for the actions of a few. Denying them rights. Exiling your sister," he added, looking at Julian. "I've spoken to her. She helped make the map I spoke of; any magic that global involves the wards. How often do you talk to her?"

  "Every week," said Jules.

  "She said you always told her that everything was fine," said Magnus. "I think she was worried you weren't telling her the truth."

  Julian said nothing. It was true that he talked to Helen every week; they all did, passing the phone or computer back and forth. And it was also true that Julian never told her anything except that everything was fine, they were all fine, there was no need for her to worry.

  "I remember her wedding," Magnus said, and there was gentleness in his eyes. "How young you both were. Though it wasn't the last wedding I saw you at, was it?"

  Emma and Julian exchanged puzzled glances. "I'm pretty sure it was," said Julian. "What other wedding would it have been?"

  "Hm," said Magnus. "Perhaps my memory is going in my old age." He didn't sound as if he thought that was likely, though. He leaned back instead, sliding his long legs under the coffee table. "As for Helen, I'm sure it's just an older sibling's anxiety. Certainly Alec worries about Isabelle, whether it's warranted or not."

  "What do you think about ley lines?" Emma asked abruptly.

  Magnus's eyebrows flew up. "What about them? Spells done at ley lines are amplified."

  "Does it matter what kind of magic? Dark magic, warlock magic, faerie magic?"

  Magnus frowned. "It depends. But it's unusual to use a ley line to amplify dark magic. Usually they're used to move power. Like a delivery system for magic--"

  "Well, how about that." Malcolm, returning to the living room, darted an amused look at Emma. "Diana corroborates your story. Color me astonished." His gaze moved to Magnus. "What's going on?"

  A light flashed in his eyes, whether amusement or something else, Emma couldn't quite tell. Sometimes Malcolm seemed completely childlike, going on about trains and shrimp crackers and eagle movies. At other times he seemed as sharp and focused as anyone she knew.

  Magnus stretched his arms along the back of the sofa. "We were talking about ley lines. I was saying they amplify magic, but only certain kinds of magic. Magic that has to do with energy transferrals. Didn't you and Catarina Loss run into some kind of trouble with ley lines back when you lived in Cornwall, Malcolm?"

  A vague expression passed over Malcolm's face. "I can't remember precisely. Magnus, stop bothering Emma and Julian," he said, and there was a tinge of something like annoyance in his voice. Professional jealousy, Emma guessed. "This is my domain. You've got your own hopeless humans in New York."

  "One of those hopeless humans is the father of my child," Magnus pointed out.

  Magnus had not ever been pregnant, though that would have been interesting, Emma thought. He and Alec Lightwood had an adopted warlock child, named Max, who was a scintillating shade of navy blue.

  "And," Magnus added, "the rest of them have all saved the world, at least once."

  Malcolm gestured toward Julian and Emma. "I have high hopes for these."

  Magnus's face broke into a grin. "I'm sure you're right," he said. "Anyway, I should go. Long trip ahead of me and Alec doesn't like m
e to be late."

  There was a flurry of good-byes. Magnus clapped Malcolm on the arm and paused to hug Julian, and then Emma. His shoulder bumped her forehead as he bent his head, and she heard his voice in her ear, whispering. She looked at him in surprise, but he only let her go and marched toward the door, whistling. Halfway to the door there was the familiar shimmer and burned-sugar smell of Portal magic, and Magnus disappeared.

  "Did you tell him about the investigation?" Malcolm looked anxious. "He mentioned ley lines."

  "I asked him about them," Emma admitted. "But I didn't say why I wanted to know. And I didn't mention anything about translating the markings."

  Malcolm circled around to look at the paper again. "I don't suppose you'll tell me who untangled the first line? Fire to water. It would help to know what it means."

  "We can't," Julian said. "But I don't think the translator knew what it meant either. You can use it, though, right? To get the rest of the spell or message or whatever it is?"

  "Probably, though it would help if I knew the language."

  "It's a very old language," Emma said carefully. "Older than Nephilim."

  Malcolm sighed. "You're not giving me much. Okay, old demony language, very ancient. I'll check with the Spiral Labyrinth."

  "Be careful what you tell them," Julian said. "Like we said--the Clave can't know we're investigating this."

  "Which means faerie involvement," said Malcolm, amusement flickering across his face as he saw their horrified expressions. "Don't worry, I won't tell. I don't like the Cold Peace any more than any other Downworlder does."

  Julian was expressionless. He ought to take up a career playing poker, Emma thought. "How long do you think you'll need?" he asked. "To translate?"

  "Give me a few days."

  A few days. Emma tried to conceal her disappointment.

  "Sorry I can't do it any faster." Malcolm sounded genuinely sorry. "Come on. I'll walk you outside. I need some air."

  The sun had come out from behind the clouds and was blazing down on Malcolm's front garden. The desert flowers shivered, silver-edged, in the wind from the canyons. A lizard darted out from behind a piece of shrubbery and stared at them. Emma stuck her tongue out at it.

  "I'm worried," Malcolm said abruptly. "I don't like this. Necromantic magic, demon languages, a series of killings no one understands. Working without the Clave's knowledge. It seems, dare I say it, dangerous."