The Red Scrolls of Magic

by Cassandra Clare

  The language was an old Malay dialect, one that had fallen into disuse centuries ago. Magnus hadn’t heard or spoken it since he was a child.

  His stepfather walked out of the jungle and struck the trembling boy who would be Magnus, sending him sprawling into the sand.

  Magnus shook under his father’s blows. All the memories he had of his stepfather he’d worked so hard to forget flooded back, one with every pang of pain. He could taste the sand in his mouth and feel the damp clothes sticking to his body. He could feel all the terror of those days, and all the rage. He balled his hands into fists, desperate to do something, anything.

  He could feel his stepfather’s rough fingers wrap around his bicep and pull him to his feet. He was dragged, through the sand and into the trees, to the mouth of the old barn.

  This was the past, his past. Magnus knew exactly what would happen next, and the fear he felt now was worse than the first time.

  The barn where his mother had hanged herself was a charred tomb. There were gaping holes in the roof, one of the walls had collapsed under the pressure of encroaching tree limbs, and weeds seethed from between the floorboards.

  In the dark there still hung a cut rope. A narrow creek ran across one corner of the ground in the barn, shadowed by the remains of the roof. There was a low table bearing a cup of incense sticks, and two offering bowls and a rough sketch on stone of a woman. Magnus looked at the picture and remembered his mother’s sorrowful eyes.

  Magnus as a child looked up at his stepfather and saw him weeping. Magnus could feel the boy’s shame for hating him, the boy’s desire to love him.

  The adult, watching part of Magnus knew what came next.

  His stepfather put his arm around the boy’s shoulder and led him to the creek. The boy felt the stiffness of his stepfather’s fingers, as if the man were willing himself to keep from shaking.

  Then Magnus felt rough hands close around his neck as the man grabbed the boy and pushed him into the water. Cold swallowed him, and it became impossible to breathe. His lungs spasmed desperately as he choked in gulps of water. The boy, fists pounding the water, struggled but could not escape his stepfather’s grip.

  Then there was a twist in the air, like the snap of twigs when something moved in the jungle. There was the first stirring of magic. The boy was somehow able to twist away from his stepfather’s strong grasp.

  Magnus coughed and choked, clawing long, wet hair out of his eyes, and gasped out painfully, “I’m sorry. I will be good. I try to be good.”

  “This is the only way for you to be good,” his stepfather shouted.

  Magnus screamed.

  His stepfather’s hands closed around his neck once more, his grip unyielding, his breath panting in Magnus’s ears. There was an awful gentleness in the finality of his voice.

  “This will make you pure,” whispered the only father he had ever known. “Trust me.”

  He plunged the boy’s head back underwater, this time so deep it smashed into the stony bed of the creek. Magnus felt the numbing pain, felt his knees weaken as the boy began to lose consciousness and sink toward death.

  Magnus was drowning, but at the same time he was terribly distant, watching a small boy die. As he watched, he saw a shadow move over the water.

  A whisper flooded the boy’s head, colder than the water in his lungs.

  “Here are the words that will free you. Speak them and trade his life for yours. Only one of you can survive this. Take hold of your power or die.”

  In that moment it was an easy decision.

  Calm swept over the boy, and the spell flowed out of his mouth into the water. His hands, flailing in panic, stilled and then made a series of complex gestures. He could not breathe, but he could do this magic.

  Magnus had never been able to work out how he had done the spell that killed his father.

  Now he knew.

  The boy burst into a column of blue flame, so hot it brought the water in the creek to a boil. The fire crawled hungrily up his stepfather’s arms and consumed him.

  His stepfather’s screams echoed through the dark barn where his mother had died.

  Magnus found himself standing across from the boy and saw his younger self looking back at him. His shirt was charred black, and smoke was still drifting off his body. For a moment, he thought the child could see him. Then he realized the boy was staring at the charred remains of his stepfather.

  “I never wanted any of this to happen,” Magnus whispered, to all his old shadows and ghosts, to his mother and his stepfather and the lost, wounded child he had been.

  “But you did,” said Asmodeus. “You wanted to live.”

  His father was standing beside the boy Magnus had been, looking at Magnus across the smoke.

  “Go now,” he murmured to the boy Magnus. “You did well. Go and make yourself worthy. I may come back to claim you one day.”

  Magnus blinked away the smoke and found himself in the center of the stage of the amphitheater under a dark sky.

  The ground felt unsteady beneath his feet, but that was because he was shaking. Only a few seconds had passed. Shinyun was still frozen, her eyes fixed on him with a desperate intensity. Outside the pentagram, the blank blackness was starting to fade into gray. Magnus could nearly make out the outlines of people, watching him.

  Asmodeus was standing beside him, hand curved around Magnus’s shoulder in what almost felt like an embrace.

  “You see now,” he said. “I saved you. You chose me. You are my favorite child, because I forged you in that fire. I have come back for you as I said I would. Across all the worlds, there is nobody who will accept you and understand you. There is only me. All you could ever be is mine.”

  A knife appeared in Magnus’s hand, its cold weight heavy. His father’s voice was low and crackling with hellfire.

  “Take the blade, draw Shinyun’s blood. Sacrifice her, so I can cross the world to you. I have seen all your struggles and been proud of all your rebellions,” said Asmodeus. “My kind has always responded to a rebel. Every pain you have suffered has had a purpose, has made you strong, has led you to this moment. You have made me so proud, my child, my eldest curse. Nothing pleases me more than to lift my worthy son up to a high place, and lay all the kingdoms of the world before him.”

  Magnus could almost feel his father’s hand on his shoulder. The faint heat of Asmodeus’s other hand was on Magnus’s wrist, as if Asmodeus would guide the blade straight into Shinyun’s heart.

  As he had led Magnus to kill his stepfather, so long ago. Magnus had made a choice, back then. Maybe it had been the right choice.

  “You see . . . ,” Magnus said, “the thing is . . . I don’t want the world. The world’s a mess. I can’t even keep my apartment organized. I’m still cleaning glitter out of the lampshades after my cat’s birthday party, and that was months ago.”

  Despite the heat and pressure of Asmodeus’s hand, Magnus lowered the knife. He was grown now, worlds and lives away from that terrified child. He did not need to be told what to choose. He could choose for himself.

  Asmodeus began to laugh. The world shook. “Is this about that boy?”

  Magnus had thought he could not feel more afraid, until he realized he had unwittingly called Asmodeus’s attention to Alec.

  “My love life is none of your business, Father,” Magnus said with as much dignity as he could. He knew Asmodeus could feel how deathly afraid he was. Magnus simply would not give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

  “I find it very amusing that you have tangled up one of the Nephilim in your net,” said Asmodeus. “Nothing is more fun than a challenge, and what else is it, to corrupt the purest of the pure? The Nephilim burn with such righteous fury. I see the temptation to cast a shadow over all that light. Even the Nephilim are amenable to lures, the sins of the flesh, and all the raging delights of jealousy, lust, and despair. Sometimes especially the Nephilim. The higher they are, the more completely shattered when they fall. I applaud you
, my son.”

  “That’s not how it is,” Magnus said. “I love him.”

  “Do you?” Asmodeus asked. “Or is that just something you tell yourself, so you can do what you want, the way you did when you burned your stepfather alive? Demons cannot love. You said that yourself. Everything you are is half mine. Surely that means you inherited only half a heart.”

  Magnus turned his face away. Long ago the Silent Brothers had told him warlocks had souls. He had always chosen to believe it.

  “Everything I am,” said Magnus, “is all mine.”

  “And does he love you?” asked Asmodeus, and laughed again.

  His voice was a mimicry of Catarina’s, calling back her voice asking the same question, telling Magnus that there was no love that he could hold sacred and safe away from Asmodeus.

  “He could never love something like you,” Asmodeus pursued. “Alight with magic from Hell, and burning everything you touch. He may want you now, but you never told him about me, did you?” Asmodeus smiled. “Which was wise of you. If he did know, I’d have to kill him. Can’t have one of the Nephilim knowing about my eldest curse.”

  “He doesn’t know,” Magnus said through his teeth. “And stop calling me that.”

  “You knew telling him might endanger your warlock friends,” said Asmodeus, and Magnus knew, with some despair, that Asmodeus was flipping through his memories like a card deck. “But you were glad for the excuse, weren’t you? You feared if Alexander Lightwood knew about your kinship to me, he would turn away in disgust. You know he still will. He will come to hate and resent you for your immortality as he withers away. He was born to righteousness, and you were born to night everlasting. Your corruption will eat away at him. He will not be able to bear you long, being what you are. It will destroy him, or he will destroy you.”

  Asmodeus’s voice was no longer fire and smoke. It was drops of cold water into an ocean of despair. It was nothing Magnus had not told himself.

  He looked down at the knife. The emblem on the handle and guard, an insect with spread wings, marked its master. He looked over at Shinyun, whose eyes were glued to the point of the blade. Sweat poured down her face even as she was frozen in place.

  “You understand. You have always known it would not last.” Asmodeus’s breath stirred Magnus’s hair. “Nothing will ever last for you, except me. Without me, you will be truly alone.”

  Magnus bowed his head. He remembered stumbling through scorching-hot sand, filled with despair and smelling smoke from the ashes of his whole life. There had been a time when he had been so desperate, he did not know what his answer to Asmodeus would have been.

  He knew now.

  Magnus turned and walked away from his father, and threw the knife down in the dirt.

  “I’m not alone. But even if I was, my answer would be the same. I understand what faith is,” said Magnus. “I know who I am, and I know who I love. My answer to you is no.”

  Asmodeus shrugged. “So be it. Remember, when you die, that I tried to give you this chance. I wanted you, but I am more than happy to adopt.”

  Asmodeus lazily waved a hand, and Shinyun fell to the ground, gasping. Her hand was still closed tight upon the sword hilt. Magnus did not know how much she had seen, or absorbed.

  Shinyun, finally able to move, climbed to her feet. She looked up at Asmodeus, then at Magnus, and then back at the blade.

  “Shinyun, my daughter,” said Asmodeus. “You have been chosen. Embrace your glorious destiny.”

  Her unreadable face was tipped up to his. She walked toward him, his most faithful worshipper.

  “All right,” said Shinyun, and drove her sword into Asmodeus’s side.

  Asmodeus’s bright form blurred until he was only a shimmer in the air, then resolved into shape farther away, a shining image above them both.

  “Treachery amuses me,” he said. “I forgive you. I understand your rage. I know your pain. This is all you are. I know how deep your loneliness has always been. Seize this opportunity. End Magnus’s life, and you will have all that you wished for: a father, legions of demons at your command, and a world to rule.”

  Shinyun’s head turned toward Magnus. Her shoulders slumped, then bunched, muscles gathering with new resolve. She hurled herself at him, sword in hand, and knocked him to the ground.

  Her tears fell hot on Magnus’s face. She hit him with her free hand, again and again. She hefted the sword. Then she hesitated.

  “Don’t,” Magnus choked out, through a mouthful of blood.

  “I have to!” Shinyun raged. “I need him. I’m nothing without him.”

  Magnus said, “You can be something more than this.”

  Shinyun shook her head. There was nothing in her eyes but despair. Magnus scrabbled in the dirt for the knife he’d thrown away, touched the hilt with his fingertips, then drew in a deep breath and sighed. He let the knife go.

  Shinyun lifted the blade in both hands, held it above Magnus’s heart, and brought it down.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  * * *

  The Fool’s Knight

  ALEC LOOKED DESPERATELY AT THE vision within the pentagram. He stared at every Shinyun, and every one looked the same. He searched the face of every Magnus, and they were all Magnus. Magnus swinging a blade, Magnus gasping on his knees, Magnus with his hands held high, Magnus with Shinyun on his chest, her sword held high for a killing blow.

  “Joke’s on you, Shadowhunter,” said Bernard, speaking with his own voice now.

  There was a ripple of laughter from the members of the Crimson Hand around him. Helen swung toward them, seraph blade shining in her hand—and tears shining on her cheeks. She’s crying for me, Alec thought with distant surprise. For me.

  “Shut up,” she hissed. Their laughter died.

  “I just think it’s really funny,” said Bernard. “He came here thinking he was a hero. Determined to bring down the enemy! But he can’t even find the enemy. He doesn’t know which one she is.”

  Alec strung his bow, held it steady, and took aim.

  “I don’t have to,” he said. “I know which one he is.”

  Through the shining light of the pentagram, he let his arrow fly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  * * *

  The Aftermath of Glory

  MAGNUS WAITED FOR A BLOW that never came. With a sudden scream, Shinyun jerked back, an arrow embedded in her arm.

  A familiar arrow.

  “Alec!” With a cry, Magnus wrenched himself free. He rolled across the dirt, scrambled up on one knee. Another arrow passed over his head and toward Shinyun; he dove for the shadowy form he could dimly perceive through the shimmer of the pentagram and thrust his hand through the magical barrier, into the light.

  Being able to put his fingertips outside the edge of the pentagram had turned out to be useful, after all.

  Magnus felt a hand seize his. Alec’s hand, clasping his as Alec had twice before, in cold water, on the edge of a cliff, and now in a pentagram with the Greater Demon who was Magnus’s greatest fear. Take my strength, Alec had told him once, and Magnus, who had always had to be strong enough on his own, had been amazed. Power flowed into Magnus as, once again, Alec gave him his strength. Magic returned, warm and bright, terrifying and transformative.

  Energy sang through his veins. The eerie light of the pentagram began to change. Magnus released Alec’s hand and turned to face his father.

  “No,” Asmodeus called out, as though by his command he could reverse what Magnus had done. “Magnus, wait—”

  Power exploded from Magnus, love and magic and angelic power all fused together, and the barriers of the pentagram shattered. The world around them returned, a chaos of fallen cultists and demons.

  But Asmodeus could not. Even as his projection into the mortal world faded away into shadow, the Greater Demon Asmodeus, ruler of Edom and Prince of Hell, raised his arm, and a deep blackness began to expand from the pentagram’s center, drawing in the light.

  The bl
anket of swirling clouds overhead cracked, and the vortex pulsed and wavered. It began to lose its form, and blinding-white and midnight-black light burst from the fissures in the sky. The earth buckled beneath their feet, and a black pit opened at the former pentagram’s center, its hungry mouth sucking everything toward its abyss. Magnus began to slide as the wooden platform crumbled beneath his feet like earth.

  Magnus fell to his knees. The pull grew in intensity, tearing at every cell in his body. His nerves screamed, and he found himself clutching at the warped boards of the stage like a lifeline.

  Next to him, Shinyun was doing the same. She cried out as the force of the whirlwind lifted her feet off the ground.

  “Magnus! Grab my hand.”

  Magnus could hear Alec’s voice through the falling barriers and hiss of dying light. He lifted his head, searching for him.

  The ground beneath Magnus was crumbling away. Shinyun grabbed for him and screamed, her fingers clawed in his bloodstained jacket, as they both began to tumble into darkness—

  They came to a jerking stop, dangling in midair. Alec’s hand had closed around Magnus’s wrist. Somehow he had lunged across the destroyed pentagram and the shattered stage: he was stretched out, half his body dangling over the edge of the abyss. He tried to pull Magnus up but the weight of Magnus and Shinyun was too great. He slid forward, gripping the edge of the abyss with one desperate hand.

  Fear clutched at Magnus. Shinyun was still holding on to them. They might all fall together.

  “Let go,” he shouted at Alec. “Let me fall.”

  Alec’s eyes went wide. His fingers held Magnus’s wrist even tighter.

  There was a swirl of movement behind Alec. The two Shadowhunter girls who had fought beside Alec appeared at the edge of the abyss. One reached down and grabbed hold of Alec, hauling him up. The other grabbed for Magnus. The abyss howled in despair as Magnus and Shinyun tore free of its pull and tumbled, along with Alec, onto the charred ground.