“I should go too,” said Alec. He jogged to catch up with Shinyun and conferred with her—it looked to Magnus like they were deciding who would search where.
“I’ll see you back here in the foyer!” Magnus called. Alec gave a thumbs-up without turning around.
Catarina hooked her hand around Magnus’s elbow and hauled him away, like a schoolteacher with a misbehaving student. They entered a narrow alcove around the corner, where the music and noise of the party was muffled. She rounded on him.
“I recently treated Tessa for wounds she said were inflicted on her by members of a demon-worshipping cult,” Catarina said. “She told me you were, and I quote, ‘handling’ the cult. What’s going on? Explain.”
Magnus made a face. “I may have had a hand in founding it.”
“How much of a hand?”
“Well, both.”
Catarina bristled. “I specifically told you not to do that!”
“You did?” Magnus said. A bubble of hope grew within him. “You remember what happened?”
She gave him a look of distress. “You don’t?”
“Someone took all my memories around the subject of this cult,” said Magnus. “I don’t know who, or why.”
He sounded more desperate than he would’ve liked, more desperate than he wanted to be. His old friend’s face was full of sympathy.
“I don’t know anything about it,” she said. “I met up with you and Ragnor for a brief vacation. You seemed troubled, but you were trying to laugh it off, the way you always do. You and Ragnor said you had a brilliant idea to start a joke cult. I told you not to do it. That’s it.”
He, Catarina, and Ragnor had taken many trips together, over the centuries. One memorable trip had gotten Magnus banished from Peru. He had always enjoyed those adventures more than any others. Being with his friends almost felt like having a home.
He did not know if there would ever be another trip. Ragnor was dead, and Magnus might have done something terrible.
“Why didn’t you stop me?” he asked. “You usually stop me!”
“I had to take an orphan child across an ocean to save his life.”
“Right,” said Magnus. “That’s a good reason.”
Catarina shook her head. “I took my eyes off you for one second.”
She had worked in mundane hospitals in New York for decades. She saved orphans. She healed the sick. She’d always been the voice of reason in the trio that was Ragnor, Catarina, and Magnus.
“So I planned with Ragnor to start a joke cult, and I guess I did it. Now the joke cult is a real cult, and they have a new leader. It sounds like they’re mixed up with a Greater Demon.”
Even to Catarina, he wouldn’t say the name of his father.
“Sounds like the joke has gotten a little out of hand,” Catarina said dryly.
“Sounds like I’m the punch line. There are all these rumors the new leader is me. I have to find these guys. Do you know a man called Mori Shu?”
Catarina shook her head. “You know I don’t know anyone.”
A group of drunken faeries stumbled past. The celebration was noticeably ratcheting up in decibels and wildness. Catarina waited until they were alone again to continue.
“You’re in this mess and you still have a Shadowhunter with you?” she demanded. “Magnus, I knew you were seeing him, but this is a long way past having fun. It’s his duty to tell the Clave about you founding this cult. They’ll hear the rumor you’re leading it eventually, whether your Lightwood tells them or not. The Nephilim won’t look any further for a culprit. The Nephilim do not admit weakness. There is no room in their hearts for pity or mercy. I have seen the children of the Angel murder their own for breaking their precious Law. Magnus, we’re talking about your life.”
“Catarina,” said Magnus, “I love him.”
She stared at him. Her eyes were the color of the ocean, swept by storms and with treasure sunk below the waves. She had worn a plague mask during real plagues. She had seen so many tragedies, and they both knew the worst tragedies were born of love.
“Are you sure?” she said quietly. “You always hope for the best, but this time hope is too dangerous. This one could hurt you worse than the others. This one could get you killed.”
“I’m sure,” said Magnus. “Am I sure it will work out?” He thought of the small coldness between him and Alec before they had entered the party. He thought of all the secrets he was still keeping. “No. But I’m sure I love him.”
Catarina’s eyes were sad. “But does he love you?”
“For now,” Magnus said. “And if you’ll excuse me, I need to go search out the stone goat, if you understand my meaning.”
“I don’t,” said Catarina, “but good luck, I guess.”
For the next hour, Magnus dedicated himself to his task of finding the stupid goat. He decided to cover the main floor, since Shinyun and Alec had both gone elsewhere, and commenced a careful study of the rooms one by one, first the sitting and then the music and then the game room, subtly using his magic to detect hidden latches or levers or buttons that opened up to secret passageways. Unfortunately, the entire mansion was so steeped in magic from the celebration that all his discovery spells came back distorted and inconclusive.
Magnus kept at it, taking his time to feel through the rooms as he navigated around the crowds, brushing his hand along all the usual suspects: twisting candelabras, pulling books, pushing against statues. He tugged a bellpull that turned out to be seaweed, revealing a mostly underwater room where a group of mermaids were frolicking with a lone vampire.
The vampire, a lunatic of Magnus’s acquaintance named Elliott, waved at him until the water foamed.
“Don’t mind me,” Magnus called. “Carry on splashing.”
Nothing was out of the ordinary.
He reached the smoking room at the end of the west wing. A large mantel on the side wall served as the centerpiece of this richly furnished room, filled with curved and heavily plush Victorian furniture. Each of the pieces was monstrously out of proportion. A gigantic button-tucked red settee the size of a car was arranged next to a pair of blue high-backed chairs that looked as if they were meant for children. Along each wall were moving wallpapers and brass sconces alternating with gramophones piping jazz.
A dryad, not the one he’d met earlier, was sitting on a swing dangling from a chandelier in the center of the room. A taupe daybed hung vertically against the far wall and was currently being enjoyed by a vampire lounging as if she were right side up. Magnus hadn’t known that Malcolm dabbled in antigravity magic, but he appreciated the High Warlock of the City of Angels’ flair.
“You look like you could use a smoke, Magnus Bane,” said a woman from somewhere off to the side.
He followed the sound of the voice and saw a mahogany-skinned woman wearing a chic metal dress that matched her bronze hair perfectly. Her mask was a cascade of golden stars that ran from the top of her head down past her chin. They matched her pupils, which were star-shaped too.
“Hypatia,” said Magnus. “Thanks, but I quit a hundred years ago. I was going through a rebellious phase.”
Hypatia Vex was a London-based warlock with an affinity for business and property ownership. Their paths had crossed a few times over the years, and they had been rather close at one point, but that was long ago. Over a century.
He took a seat opposite Hypatia, in the slightly too-small high-backed chairs. Hypatia crossed her legs and leaned forward, taking a long drag. “I heard a rather nasty rumor about you.”
Magnus also crossed his legs but leaned back. “Do tell. I love a good nasty rumor.”
“Leading a cult called the Crimson Hand to glory and destruction?” Hypatia asked. “You naughty boy.”
Magnus supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that Hypatia knew about the cult. Unlike small-time Johnny Rook, Hypatia was the big leagues. She’d run a Downworld salon in the early 1900s, the center for every scandal in London. Magnus remembered al
l the secrets she’d known then, and she was a collector: he could only imagine she had a great many more by now.
“I cannot deny being a naughty boy in the more general sense,” Magnus admitted. “Glory and destruction, however, is not my style. The rumor’s totally unfounded.”
Hypatia gave a graceful shrug. “It did seem far-fetched, but it appears to be spreading like wildfire these last few days. You might want to consider how it looks—running a whole cult and carrying on with a Shadowhunter? Not just a Shadowhunter, but the son of two members of Valentine’s Circle?”
“That’s not a rumor.”
“Glad to hear it,” Hypatia said. “He sounds like a disaster.”
“It’s a fact,” said Magnus. “And he is a delight.”
The expression on Hypatia’s face was a picture. In all the years he’d known her, Magnus had never actually seen her look shocked before.
“You would do well to remember that you are one of the most prominent warlocks in the world,” said Hypatia when she’d recovered herself. “There are Downworlders who look to you as an example. There are eyes on you.”
“Usually,” said Magnus. “It’s my dashing good looks.”
“Don’t be dismissive,” Hypatia said sharply.
“Hypatia,” said Magnus. “Have you ever known me to care how things look?”
Gold earrings swung against her dark brown skin as she shook her head. “No. But you do care about others, and I am sure you care about this Alec Lightwood. I know who your father is, if you recall, Magnus. You and I used to be quite close.”
Magnus did recall. “I don’t see what that has to do with Alec.”
“Have you told him about your father?” she demanded.
After a long pause, Magnus said, “No.”
Hypatia relaxed slightly. “Good. I hope you’re not thinking of doing so.”
“I don’t see that it’s any of your business what I tell my boyfriend.”
“I’m sure you regard Alec Lightwood as being of the highest moral caliber, Magnus,” Hypatia said, choosing her words with care. “And you might not be wrong. But imagine the position you would be putting him in if he knew that the Council’s warlock representative is also the son of the demon worshipped by the Crimson Hand, a cult that is wreaking havoc right now. If he truly cares for you, he’d conceal that knowledge, and if it ever got out, both of you would be implicated by your shared secrecy. History has shown that the Nephilim are capable of cruelty to their own as well as to Downworlders. Especially those among them who do not fall into the status quo.”
“We all have demon parents, Hypatia. It isn’t like that’s a surprise,” Magnus said.
“You know as well as I do that not all demons are created equal. Not all of them would be regarded with the same hate and fear your father is. But since you bring it up, this does impact all of us. Warlocks have walked a fine line with the Nephilim for centuries. We are tolerated because our talents are useful. Many of us have professional relationships with the Clave. You’re one of the most famous warlocks in the world, and like it or not, the way you are perceived reflects upon all of us. Please don’t do anything that could jeopardize the safety we’ve fought for. You know it has been hard-won.”
Magnus wanted to be angry. He wanted to tell Hypatia to stay out of his business, his love life.
But he could tell she was speaking earnestly. The edge to her voice was real. She was afraid.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll take it under advisement. Hypatia, since you seem to be so well-informed, do you know someone called Mori Shu?”
“I do,” said Hypatia, sitting back in her chair. She seemed a bit embarrassed by the passion of her outburst. “Isn’t he part of your cult?”
“It’s not my cult,” Magnus said doggedly.
“He’s here tonight,” Hypatia said. “I saw him earlier. Maybe you two should have a chat, get all this cult business cleared up.”
“Well, maybe we will.”
“If you’ll take my advice,” said Hypatia, “I’d get the Shadowhunter business cleared up too.”
Magnus gave her a ferociously bright smile. “Unasked-for advice is criticism, my dear.”
“Well, your funeral,” said Hypatia. “Wait. Do the Nephilim give you a funeral, after they execute you?”
“Nice seeing you, Hypatia,” said Magnus, and left.
He felt in need of a drink. He wended his way through the crowd until he found a bar. He took a seat at it, and ordered a Dark and Stormy to match his mood. Catarina’s worry and Hypatia’s horror had left a dent in his usually hopeful heart.
The bar was set up against a window. Through the bottles, Magnus could see another dance party in full swing in the courtyard below, and hear faint music filtering out from the glowing green bubble that surrounded the dancers. He had pictured dancing with Alec, in beautiful places around Europe, but they weren’t. Because of something from Magnus’s past.
Magnus snapped his fingers and a crystal glass fell into his hand, filling with amber liquid as the bottle on the shelf began to drain.
“Hello there,” said Shinyun, wandering up to him with a glass of red wine in hand.
Magnus touched glasses with her. “Any luck?”
“No. I tried some detection spells, but they’ve been unclear.”
“I’ve had the same problem,” he said. Magnus sipped his drink and studied Shinyun’s immobile face. “The cult is personal to you,” he continued. It was not a question. “You talk about demon-hunting, but you won’t talk about the cult. They didn’t just kill people you loved. You feel guilty about something connected to the Crimson Hand. What is it?”
They both looked out into the courtyard full of dancers. Several moments passed.
“Can you keep a secret?” Shinyun asked.
“It depends on the secret,” said Magnus.
“I will trust you with this one. You can do with it whatever you please.” She turned to face him. “I—I used to be a part of it. The Crimson Hand is mostly a human cult, but they recruit warlock children.” Shinyun’s voice turned wry. “There was a time when I used to worship you, the Great Poison, holy founder and prophet of the Crimson Hand, the worshippers of Asmodeus.”
“Asmodeus?” Magnus repeated softly, as any hope he’d had that Johnny Rook had been wrong trickled away like blood from a wound.
He remembered, hundreds of years ago, wanting to find out who his father was. That was how he’d found out that you could use faerie blood to summon a Greater Demon.
Magnus hadn’t harmed a Downworlder to call his father to him. He’d found another way. He’d looked his father in the face, and spoken to him, then turned away, sick at heart.
“Nobody ever tried to summon Asmodeus, in those days, of course,” said Shinyun. “That’s a new wrinkle. But we talked about him all the time. Every orphaned warlock child was his child, the cult said. I thought of myself as his daughter. Everything I did was in his service.”
Warlock children. He remembered how he had felt as a warlock child, desperate and alone. Anyone could have taken advantage of his desperation.
He felt overwhelmed by horror. He had heard the name of the Crimson Hand over the years—they were a joke, as he had said to Tessa, and Tessa had agreed. Was it only their new leader who was a problem, or had they been a problem for much longer than anyone realized and somehow kept their true nature quiet?
“You worshipped me?” Magnus asked, and could not suppress the despairing edge to his voice. “I’m glad you’ve been cured of that nonsense. How long were you in this cult?”
“Many decades,” she said bitterly. “A lifetime’s worth. I used to—I used to kill for them. I thought I was killing for you, in your name.” She paused. “Please don’t tell the Shadowhunter—Alec—that I killed for them. You can tell him I was in the cult, if you must.”
“No,” Magnus whispered, but he didn’t know if he was saying it for Shinyun’s sake or for his own. Shinyun said she’d thought of hersel
f as Asmodeus’s child. He could only imagine her horror if she knew Magnus actually was Asmodeus’s child. He thought of Hypatia, her warning that he must not reveal his father’s identity to Alec. Imagine the position you would be putting him in. History has shown that the Nephilim are capable of cruelty to their own as well as to Downworlders.
“It has been many more lifetimes since I broke free from their clutches. I’ve been trying to bring them down ever since, but I wasn’t strong enough to do it on my own, and then this mysterious new leader came. I didn’t have anyone to turn to. I felt so helpless.”
“How did you happen to join them?”
Shinyun bowed her head. “I’ve already told you more than I ever intended to.”
Magnus didn’t press further. He didn’t talk about his childhood either.
“You are brave to come back and face your past,” he said quietly. “I’d say ‘face your demons,’ but that seems too on the nose.”
Shinyun snorted.
“I don’t suppose you know where the Crimson Hand’s Chamber is?” Shinyun was already shaking her head as Magnus added, without much hope: “Or these Red Scrolls of Magic?”
“Mori would know,” Shinyun told him. “The members of the Crimson Hand trusted him more than me. We used to be close, but I had to leave him behind when I fled. It’s been years—but I would know him if I saw him, and he would trust me.”
“He’s here,” said Magnus, “supposedly.” Magnus clicked his fingers, and his glass disappeared in a crystal-bright wink. Then he reached for a bottle of champagne from a nearby chiller. This was an impressive party, but Magnus was having a terrible time. He had turned up no secret lairs, and found no sign of this annoying mystery man. He wanted to dance, and he wanted to forget that there was so much he didn’t remember.
“I’ll ask around about him,” said Shinyun.
“You do that,” Magnus said, rising from the bar. “I have someone to attend to.”
He loved Alec, and he wanted to lay his past and his truths in front of Alec, like bolts of shining silk at his feet. He wanted to tell Alec who his father was, and hope it would not matter. But how could he confess to Alec what he didn’t remember? And how could he tell Alec secrets that had the potential to make him a target of the Clave, like Hypatia had said?
The Red Scrolls of Magic Page 12