Ghosts of the Shadow Market

by Cassandra Clare

  As he spoke, another flock of pigeons took flight from the cobblestones, and for a moment all was wings and feathers and Stephen’s rather high-pitched squeal.

  Céline laughed. “Yes, I can see you’re fearless in the face of danger. If not in the beak of danger.”

  Stephen glared fiercely at her. Her pulse quickened. Had she overstepped? Then he winked.

  Sometimes she wanted him so much she felt like her heart might explode.

  “You sure we’re still going in the right direction?” he said. “I feel like we’re walking in circles.”

  “Trust me,” she said.

  Stephen clapped a hand to his heart. “Bien sûr, mademoiselle.”

  Unless you counted the starring role he played in her daydreams, Céline hadn’t seen Stephen since he’d graduated from the Academy four years before. Back then, he’d barely noticed her. He was too busy with his training, his girlfriend, and his friends in the Circle to give much thought to the slip of a girl whose eyes tracked his every move. But now, Céline thought, her cheeks burning again, they were practically equals. Yes, she was seventeen, still a student, while he was twenty-two, not just a full-fledged adult but Valentine Morgenstern’s most trusted lieutenant in the Circle—the elite group of young Shadowhunters sworn to reform the Clave and return it to its pure and ancient glory. But Céline was finally a member of the Circle too, handpicked by Valentine himself.

  Valentine had been a student at the Academy alongside Stephen and the other founding members of the Circle—but unlike the rest of them, he’d never seemed quite young. Most of the students and teachers at the Academy had thought of Valentine’s crowd as nothing but a harmless clique, odd only in that it preferred late-night policy debates to partying. Even then, Céline understood that this was exactly how Valentine wanted to appear: harmless. Those who paid attention knew better. He was a fierce warrior, with an even fiercer mind—once he fixed his inky black gaze on a goal, nothing would stop him from achieving it. He’d composed his Circle of young Shadowhunters he knew to be as capable as they were loyal. Only the best of them, he’d told her that day he’d approached her at a particularly boring lecture on Downworlder history. “Every member of the Circle is exceptional,” he’d said. “Including, if you accept my offer, you.” No one had ever called her exceptional before.

  Ever since then, she’d felt different. Strong. Special. And it must have been true, because even though she still had one more year at the Academy, here she was, spending her summer vacation on an official mission with Stephen Herondale. Stephen was one of the greatest fighters of his generation, and now—owing to Lucian Graymark’s unfortunate werewolf situation—Valentine’s most trusted deputy. But Céline was the one who knew Paris, its streets and its secrets. It was the perfect moment to show Stephen that she’d changed, that she was exceptional. That he couldn’t do this without her.

  Those had, in fact, been his exact words. I couldn’t do this without you, Céline.

  She loved the way her name sounded on his tongue. She loved every detail of him: the blue eyes that sparkled like the sea of the Côte d’Azur. The white-blond hair that glowed like the golden rotunda of the Palais Garnier. The curve of his neck, the tautness of his muscles, the smooth lines of his body like something carved by Rodin, a model of human perfection. Somehow he’d gotten even more handsome since she saw him last.

  He’d also gotten married.

  She tried not to think about that.

  “Can we pick up the pace?” Robert Lightwood grumbled. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can get back to civilization. And air-conditioning.”

  Robert was something else she tried not to think about. His grouchy presence made it substantially more difficult to pretend she and Stephen were taking a romantic stroll through the moonlight.

  “The faster we go, the more you’ll sweat,” Stephen pointed out. “And trust me, no one wants that.” Paris in August was approximately ten degrees hotter than Hell. Even after dark, the air felt like a blanket soaked in hot soup. For the sake of discretion, they’d traded their Shadowhunter gear for mundane fashion, choosing long sleeves to cover up their runes. The white T-shirt Céline had selected for Stephen was already soaked through. This was not exactly unfortunate.

  Robert just grunted. He was different than Céline remembered him from the Academy. Back then, he’d been a little stiff and curt, but never deliberately cruel. Now, though, there was something in his eyes she didn’t like. Something icy. It reminded her too much of her father.

  According to Stephen, Robert had had some kind of falling-out with his parabatai and was understandably cranky. It’s just Robert being Robert, Stephen had said. Great fighter but a bit of a drama queen. Nothing to worry about.

  Céline always worried.

  They trudged up the final hill of Rue Mouffetard. By day, this was one of Paris’s most bustling market streets, bursting with fresh produce, colorful scarves, falafel vendors and gelato stands, and obnoxious tourists. At night, its storefronts were shuttered and silent. Paris was a market town, but all of its markets went to sleep after dark—all except one.

  Céline hurried them around a corner, down another narrow, winding road. “We’re almost there.” She tried to keep the anticipation out of her voice. Robert and Stephen had made it very clear that the Circle did not approve of Shadow Markets. Downworlders mingling with mundanes, illicit goods changing hands, secrets swapped and sold? According to Valentine, this was all the unseemly consequence of the laxness and corruption of the Clave. When the Circle took power, Stephen had assured her eagerly, the Shadow Markets would be shut down for good.

  Céline had been in the Circle for only a few months, but she’d already learned this lesson: if Valentine hated something, it was her duty to hate it too.

  She was trying her best.

  * * *

  There was no Law that a Shadow Market had to be located on a site rich with dark energy, marinated in the blood of a violent past—but it helped.

  Paris had no shortage of possibilities. It was a city of ghosts, most of them angry. Revolution after revolution, blood-spattered barricades and heads rolling from the guillotine, the September Massacres, the Bloody Week, the burning of the Tuileries, the Terror . . . As a child, Céline had spent many sleepless nights wandering the city, summoning visions of its greatest cruelties. She liked to imagine she could hear screams echoing through the centuries. They made her feel less alone.

  This, she knew, was not a normal childhood hobby.

  Céline’s had not been a normal childhood. She discovered this only when she arrived at the Academy, where for the first time she’d met Shadowhunters her own age. That first day, the other students had chattered about their idyllic lives in Idris, galloping horses across the Brocelind Plain; their idyllic lives in London, New York, Tokyo, training under the kind eye of loving parents and Institute tutors; their idyllic lives anywhere and everywhere. After a while Céline stopped listening and drifted out unnoticed, too bitterly jealous to stay. Too embarrassed by the prospect that someone might make her tell her own story. After all, she’d grown up on her parents’ Provence estate, surrounded by apple orchards, vineyards, rolling fields of lavender: by all appearances, la belle epoque.

  Céline knew her parents loved her, because they told her so repeatedly.

  We’re only doing this because we love you, her mother would say before locking her in the basement.

  We’re only doing this because we love you, her father would say before lashing her with the whip.

  We’re only doing this because we love you, when they set the Dragonidae demon on her; when they dumped her for the night, eight years old and weaponless, in a werewolf-ridden wood; when they taught her the bloody consequences of weakness or clumsiness or fear.

  The first time she ran away to Paris, she was eight years old. Young enough to think she could escape for good. She’d found her way to the Arènes de Lutèce, the remains of a Roman amphitheater from the first ce
ntury AD. It was, perhaps, the city’s oldest blood-soaked ruin. Two thousand years before, gladiators had warred to the death before a cheering, bloodthirsty crowd, until the arena—and its crowd—were overtaken by an equally bloodthirsty barbarian horde. For a time, it had been a cemetery; now it was a tourist trap, yet another heap of stones for bored schoolchildren to ignore. By day, at least. Under the midnight moon, it came alive with Downworlders, a bacchanalia of faerie fruits and wines, gargoyles enchanted by warlock magic, waltzing werewolves, vampires in berets painting portraits in blood, an ifrit accordionist who could make you weep yourself to death. It was the Paris Shadow Market, and from the moment Céline first saw it, she felt herself finally home.

  That first trip, she’d spent two nights there, haunting the booths, befriending a shy werewolf cub, sating her gnawing hunger with the Nutella crepe that a Silent Brother had purchased for her, no questions asked. She’d napped beneath the tablecloth of a vampire’s jewelry stand; she’d whirled with horned children in an improvised faerie revel; she’d finally discovered what it meant to be happy. On the third night, the Shadowhunters of the Paris Institute tracked her down and returned her home.

  That was when she learned—not for the last time—the consequences of running away.

  We love you too much to lose you.

  That night, Céline had curled fetal in the corner of the basement, back still bloody, and thought, So this is how it feels to be loved too much.

  * * *

  Their mission was straightforward. First, track down the warlock Dominique du Froid’s booth at the Paris Shadow Market. Second, find some evidence of her shady business dealings with two rogue Shadowhunters.

  “I have reason to believe they’ve been trading Downworlder blood and parts to her in return for illegal services,” Valentine had told them. He needed proof. It was up to Céline, Stephen, and Robert to find some.

  “Quietly,” Valentine had cautioned. “I don’t want her tipping off her associates.” Valentine made the word “associates” sound like a vulgarity. For him, it was: Downworlders were bad enough, but Shadowhunters allowing themselves to be corrupted by a Downworlder? That was unforgivable.

  Step one proved simple. Dominique du Froid was easy to find. She’d conjured her name in neon lights, right out of thin air. Literally—the letters glowed brightly, three feet above her booth, with a neon arrow pointing down. DOMINIQUE DU FROID, LES SOLDES, TOUJOURS!

  “Just like a warlock,” Robert said sourly. “Always for sale.”

  “Always on sale,” Céline corrected, too quietly for him to hear.

  The booth turned out to be an elaborate tent with display tables and a curtained-off area in the back. It was crammed with tacky jewelry and colorful potions—none quite as tacky or as colorful as Dominique herself. Her hair was dyed in platinum-blond and hot-pink stripes, half of it scooped into a side ponytail. The other half was crimped and hair-sprayed to a hard sheen. She wore a ripped lace shirt, a black leather miniskirt, purple fingerless gloves, and what looked like a significant portion of her jewelry inventory around her neck. Her warlock mark, a long, feathered pink tail, was slung over her shoulders like a boa.

  “It’s like an Eidolon demon tried turning into Cyndi Lauper and accidentally got stuck midway through,” Céline joked.

  “Huh?” Robert said. “Is that another warlock?”

  Stephen smirked. “Yeah, Robert. Another warlock. The Clave executed her ’cause she just wanted to have fun.”

  Céline and Stephen laughed together, and Robert’s obvious fury at being mocked only made them laugh harder. Like most Shadowhunters, Céline had grown up entirely ignorant of mundane pop culture. But Stephen showed up at the Academy full of arcane knowledge about bands, books, songs, movies that no one had ever heard of. Once he’d joined the Circle, he’d dropped his love of the Sex Pistols just as quickly as he’d traded his leather jacket and frayed denim for the dull black uniform that Valentine favored. Still, Céline had spent the last couple of years studying mundane TV, just in case.

  I can be whatever you want me to be, she thought, wishing she had the nerve to say it.

  Céline knew Amatis, Stephen’s wife. At least, she knew enough. Amatis was sharp-tongued and stuck-up. She was opinionated, argumentative, stubborn, and not even that pretty. There were also rumors that she still secretly associated with her werewolf brother. Céline didn’t much care about that—she had nothing against Downworlders. But she had plenty against Amatis, who obviously didn’t appreciate what she had. Stephen needed someone who would admire him, agree with him, support him. Someone like Céline. If only she could make him see that for himself.

  They surveilled the warlock for a couple of hours. Dominique du Froid was constantly leaving her booth unattended, scurrying off to gossip or trade with other sellers. It was almost like she wanted someone to rifle through her belongings.

  Stephen yawned theatrically. “I was hoping for slightly more of a challenge. But let’s get this done and get out of here. This place stinks of Downworlders. I already feel like I need a shower.”

  “Ouais, c’est terrible,” Céline lied.

  The next time Dominique left her booth, Stephen tailed her. Robert slipped into the booth’s curtained-off area to poke around for evidence of dirty dealings. Céline was left to play lookout, browsing the booth next to Dominique’s, where she could signal Robert if Dominique unexpectedly came back.

  Of course they’d assigned her the most boring job, the one that required nothing but shopping for jewelry. They thought she was useless.

  Céline did as she was told, feigning interest in the hideous display of enchanted rings, chunky gold chains, charm bracelets jangling with Greater Demons carved in brass and pewter. Then she spotted something that actually did interest her: a Silent Brother, gliding toward the booth in that disconcertingly inhuman way they all had of moving. She watched out of the corner of her eye as the robed Shadowhunter studied the jewelry display with great care. What could someone like him possibly be looking for in a place like this?

  The scruffy preteen werewolf manning the booth had barely acknowledged Céline’s presence. But he scurried straight over to the Silent Brother, eyes wide with fear. “You can’t be poking around here,” he said. “My boss doesn’t like doing business with your kind.”

  Aren’t you a bit young to have a boss?

  The words reverberated in Céline’s mind, and she wondered for a moment whether the Silent Brother wanted her to overhear. But that seemed unlikely—she was standing several feet away, and there was no reason for him to have noticed her.

  “Parents threw me out when I got bitten, so it’s either work or go hungry,” the kid said. He shrugged. “And I like food. Which is why you got to get out of here before the boss comes back and thinks I’m selling to a Shadowhunter.”

  I am in search of a piece of jewelry.

  “Look, man, there’s nothing here you can’t get somewhere else, better and cheaper. This stuff is all junk.”

  Yes, that I can see. But I am looking for something particular, something I’ve been told I can find here only. A silver necklace, with a pendant in the shape of a heron.

  The word “heron” pricked Céline’s ear. It was such a specific request. And it was something so suited to a Herondale.

  “Uh, yeah, I don’t know how you heard about that, but it’s possible we’ve got one of those back here. I told you, though, I can’t sell to—”

  What if I doubled the price?

  “You don’t even know what the price is.”

  No, I do not. And I imagine you won’t get a better offer, given that the necklace is not on display for customers.

  “Yeah, I pointed that out myself, but . . .” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. Céline tried not to make it too obvious she was straining to hear. “Boss doesn’t want his wife to know he’s selling it. Said he just needs to put the word out, and a buyer will find us.”

  And now a buyer has. Imagine how pleased your
employer will be when you tell him it sold for more than his asking price.

  “I guess he never needs to know who bought it. . . .”

  He will not hear it from me.

  The kid considered this for a moment, then ducked beneath the counter for a moment and reappeared dangling a silver pendant. Céline suppressed a gasp. It was a delicately shaped heron, sparkling in the moonlight, the perfect gift for a young Herondale proud of his heritage. She closed her eyes, letting herself to drift into an alternate reality, one in which she was allowed to give Stephen gifts. Imagining fastening the pendant around his neck, nuzzling his soft skin, breathing him in. Imagining him saying, I love it. Almost as much as I love you.

  It is beautiful, is it not?

  Céline flinched at the voice of the Silent Brother in her head. Of course he couldn’t know what she’d been thinking. But nonetheless, her cheeks burned with shame. The kid had retreated to the back of the booth to count his money. The Silent Brother had now fixed his blind gaze on her.

  He was different from the other Silent Brothers she’d seen, his face young—even handsome. His jet-black hair was marked with a streak of white, and his eyes and mouth were sealed but not sewn shut. Runes sliced viciously across each cheek. Céline was reminded how envious she had once been of the Silent Brotherhood. They had scars like she had scars; they endured great pain like she endured great pain. But their scars gave them power; their pain felt like nothing, because they had no feeling. You could not be a Silent Brother if you were a girl. This had never seemed very fair to Céline. Women were, however, allowed to join the Iron Sisters. Céline had liked the idea when she was younger, but now she felt no desire to live cloistered on a volcanic plain, with nothing to do but craft weapons of adamas. The very thought of it made her claustrophobic.

  I am sorry to startle you. But I noted your interest in the pendant.

  “It’s . . . it just, it reminded me of someone.”

  Someone you care about a great deal, I sense.