The Bane Chronicles

by Cassandra Clare

  “All this time I have been in training so I could come home to you and make you proud. Mother,” Raphael said, “I assure you, I beg you will believe me. I still have a soul.”

  Guadalupe’s eyes were still fixed on the thin, glittering chain around his neck. Raphael’s shaking fingers pulled the cross free from his shirt. The cross danced as it dangled from his hand, gold and shining, the brightest thing in all the nighttime city.

  “You wore it,” Guadalupe whispered. “I was so afraid that you would not listen to your mother.”

  “Of course I did,” said Raphael, his voice trembling. But he did not cry, not Raphael of the iron will. “I wore it, and it kept me safe. It saved me. You saved me.”

  Guadalupe’s whole body changed then, from enforced stillness to movement, and Magnus realized that more than one person in this conversation had been exercising iron self-control. He knew where Raphael got it from.

  She stepped over the threshold and held out her arms. Raphael ran into them, gone from Magnus’s side more quickly than a human could move, and clasped one arm tight around her neck. He was shaking in her arms, shaking all over as she stroked his hair.

  “Raphael,” she murmured into his black curls. First Magnus and Raphael had not been able to stop talking, and now it seemed she could not. “Raphael, mijo, Raphael, my Raphael.”

  At first Magnus knew in the jumble of words of love and comfort only that she was inviting Raphael in, that they were safe, that they had succeeded, that Raphael could have his family and his family would never have to know. All the words she said were both endearments and statements, love and laying claim: my son, my boy, my child.

  The other boys crowded up around Raphael, given their mother’s blessing, and Raphael touched them with gentle hands, touched the little ones’ hair, tugging with affection that looked careless, though it was so very careful, and shoved the older boys in rough but never too rough greeting.

  Playing his role as Raphael’s benefactor and teacher, Magnus hugged Raphael too. As prickly as he was, Raphael did not invite embraces. Magnus had not been so close to him since the day he’d fought to stop Raphael from going into the sun. Raphael’s back felt thin under Magnus’s hands—fragile, though he was not.

  “I owe you, warlock,” Raphael said, a cool whisper against Magnus’s ear. “I promise you I won’t forget.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Magnus, and then because he could get away with it, when he drew back, he ruffled Raphael’s curly hair.

  The indignant look on Raphael’s face was hilarious.

  “I will leave you to be alone with your family,” Magnus told him, and he went.

  Before he did, though, he paused and created a few blue sparks from his fingers that formed tiny play houses and stars, that made magic something fun that the children did not fear. He told them all that Raphael was not quite as accomplished or fabulously talented as he himself was, and would not be able to perform such tiny miracles for years. He made a flourishing bow that had the little ones laughing and Raphael rolling his eyes.

  Magnus did leave, walking slowly. The winter was coming but was not quite there yet, and he was happy to simply walk and enjoy the little things in life, the crisp winter air, the few stray golden leaves still curling under his feet, the bare trees above him waiting to be reborn in glory. He was going home to an apartment that he suspected would feel slightly too empty, but soon he would invite Etta over, and she would dance with him and fill the rooms with love and laughter, as she would fill his life with love and laughter, for a little while yet before she left him.

  He heard steps thundering after him and thought it was Raphael for a moment, the masquerade in ruins around them suddenly, when they’d thought they were victorious.

  But it was not Raphael. Magnus did not see Raphael again for several months, and by then Raphael was Camille’s second-in-command, calmly ordering around vampires hundreds of years older than himself as only Raphael could. Raphael spoke to Magnus then as one important Downworlder to another, with perfect professionalism, but Magnus knew Raphael had not forgotten anything. Relations had always been strained between Magnus and the vampires of New York, Camille’s clan, but suddenly they were less strained. New York vampires came to his parties, though Raphael did not, and came to him for magical aid, though Raphael never would again.

  The footsteps chasing Magnus’s in the cool winter night were not Raphael’s but Guadalupe’s. She was panting from how hard she had been running, her dark hair slipping free of its pins, forming a cloud about her face. She almost ran into him before she could stop herself.

  “Wait,” she said. “I haven’t paid you.”

  Her hands were shaking, spilling over with bills. Magnus closed her fingers around the money and closed his hands around hers.

  “Take it,” she urged him. “Take it. You earned it; you earned more. You brought him back to me, my oldest boy, the sweetest of them all, my dear heart, my brave boy. You saved him.”

  She was still shaking as Magnus held her hands, so Magnus rested his forehead against hers. He held her close enough to kiss, close enough to whisper the most important secrets in the world, and he spoke to her as he would have wanted some good angel to speak to his family, to his own shivering young soul, long ago and in a land far away.

  “No,” he murmured. “No, I didn’t. You know him better than anyone else ever has or ever will. You made him, you taught him to be all he is, and you know him down to his bones. You know how strong he is. You know how much he loves you. If I gave you anything, give me your faith now. Teach one thing to all your children. I have never told you anything more true than this. Believe this, if you believe nothing else. Raphael saved himself.”

  The Fall of the Hotel Dumort

  By Cassandra Clare and Maureen Johnson

  Her silver-blond hair was long and down, looking wild. She patted the end of the bed. This was not the greeting he’d been expecting. This was not the Camille he remembered, or even the one he had seen in passing.

  —The Fall of the Hotel Dumort

  July 1977

  “What do you do?” the woman asked.

  “This and that,” Magnus said.

  “Are you in fashion? You look like you’re in fashion.”

  “No,” he said. “I am fashion.”

  It was a bit of a twee remark, but it seemed to delight his seat companion on the plane. The comment had been a bit of a test, actually. Everything seemed to delight his companion—the seat back in front of her, her nails, her glass, her own hair, everyone else’s hair, the barf bag . . .

  The plane had been in the air for only an hour, but Magnus’s companion had gotten up to use the restroom four times. Each time she’d emerged moments later, furiously rubbing her nose and visibly twitching. Now she was leaning over him, her winged blond hair dipping into his champagne glass, her neck reeking of Eau de Guerlain. The faint trace of white powder still clung to her nose.

  He could have done this trip in seconds by stepping through a Portal, but there was something pleasant about aircraft. They were charming, intimate, and slow. You got to meet people. Magnus liked meeting people.

  “But your outfit?” she said. “What is it?”

  Magnus looked down at his red-plaid-and-black-vinyl oversize suit with a shredded T-shirt underneath. It was au courant for the London punk set, but New York wasn’t quite there yet.

  “I do PR,” the woman said, apparently forgetting the question. “For discos and clubs. The best clubs. Here. Here.”

  She dug around in her massive purse—and stopped for a moment when she found her cigarettes. She shoved one of these between her lips, lit it, and continued digging until she produced a small tortoiseshell card case. She popped this open and picked out one card, which read: ELECTRICA.

  “Come,” she said, tapping the card with a long, red nail. “Come. It’s just op
ening. It’s going to be smash-ing. Soooo much better than Studio 54. Oh. Excuse me a second. You want?”

  She showed him a small vial in the palm of her hand.

  “No, thank you.”

  And then she was fumbling out of the seat again, her purse bumping into Magnus’s face as she went back to the bathroom.

  The mundanes had gotten very interested in drugs again. They went through these phases. Now it was cocaine. He hadn’t seen this much of the stuff since the turn of the century, when they’d been putting it in everything—tonics and potions and even Coca-Cola. He thought for a while that they’d put this drug behind them, but it was back again, in full force.

  Drugs had never interested Magnus. A good wine, absolutely, but he steered clear of potions and powders and pills. You didn’t take drugs and do magic. Also, people who did drugs were boring. Hopelessly, relentlessly boring. Drugs made them either too slow or too fast, and mostly they talked about drugs. And then they either quit—a gruesome process—or they died. There was never a step in between.

  Like all mundane phases, this too would pass. Hopefully soon. He closed his eyes and decided to sleep his way across the Atlantic. London was behind him. Now it was time to go home.

  Stepping outside at JFK, Magnus got his first reminder of why he’d summarily left New York two summers before. New York was too damn hot in the summer. It was just touching a hundred degrees, and the smell of jet fuel and exhaust fumes mixed with the swampy gasses that hung around this far tip of the city. The smell, he knew, would only get worse.

  With a sigh he joined a taxi line.

  The cab was as comfortable as any metal box in the sun, and his sweating driver added to the general perfume in the air.

  “Where to, buddy?” he asked, taking in Magnus’s outfit.

  “Corner of Christopher and Sixth Avenue.”

  The cabbie grunted and hit the meter, and then they pulled out into traffic. The smoke from the driver’s cigar streamed back directly into Magnus’s face. He lifted a finger and redirected it out the window.

  The road from JFK to Manhattan was a strange one, weaving through family neighborhoods, and desolate stretches, and past sprawling graveyards. It was an age-old tradition. Keep the dead out of the city—but not too far. London, where he had just been, was ringed with old graveyards. And Pompeii, which he’d visited a few months back, had an entire avenue of the dead, tombs leading right up to the city wall. Past all of the New York neighborhoods and graveyards, at the end of the crowded expressway, shimmering in the distance—there was Manhattan—its spires and peaks just lighting up for the night. From death to life.

  He hadn’t meant to be away from the city for so long. He had just been going to take the briefest trip to Monte Carlo . . . but then, these things can go on. A week in Monte Carlo turns into two on the Riviera, which turns into a month in Paris, and two months in Tuscany, and then you end up on a boat headed for Greece, and then you wind up back in Paris again for the season, and then you go to Rome for a bit, and London . . .

  And sometimes you accidentally go for two years. It happens.

  “Where you from?” the cabbie asked, eyeing Magnus in the rearview mirror.

  “Oh, around. Here mostly.”

  “You’re from here? You been away? You look like you been away.”

  “For a while.”

  “You hear about these murders?”

  “Haven’t read a paper in a while,” Magnus said.

  “Some loony-tune. Calls himself Son of Sam. They called him the forty-four-caliber killer too. Goes around shooting couples on lovers’ lanes, you know? Sick bastard. Real sick. Police haven’t caught him. They don’t do nothing. Sick bastard. City’s full of them. You shouldn’ta come back.”

  New York cabdrivers—always little rays of sunshine.

  Magnus got out on the tree-lined corner of Sixth Avenue and Christopher Street, in the heart of the West Village. Even at nightfall the heat was stifling. Still, it seemed to encourage a party atmosphere in the neighborhood. The Village had been an interesting place before he’d left. It seemed that in his absence things had taken on a whole new level of festivity. Costumed men walked down the street. The outdoor cafés were swarming. There was a carnival atmosphere that Magnus found instantly inviting.

  Magnus’s apartment was a walk-up, on the third story of one of the brick houses that lined the street. He let himself in and sprang lightly up the steps, full of high spirits. His spirits fell when he reached his landing. The first thing he noticed, right by his door, was a strong and bad smell—something rotten, mixed with something like skunk, mixed with other things he had no desire to identify. Magnus did not live in a stinky apartment. His apartment smelled of clean floors, flowers, and incense. He put the key into the lock, and when he tried to push the door open, it stuck. He had to shove it hard to get it to open. The reason was immediately clear—there were boxes of empty wine bottles on the other side. And, much to his surprise, the television was on. Four vampires were crashed on his sofa, blankly watching cartoons.

  He knew they were vampires at once. The draining of the color behind the skin, the languid pose. Also, these vampires hadn’t even bothered to wipe the blood from the corners of their mouths. All of them had dried bits of the stuff around their faces. There was a record spinning on the player. It had reached the end and was stuck on the blank end strip, hissing gently in disapproval.

  Only one of the vampires even turned to look at him.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Magnus Bane. I live here.”

  “Oh.”

  She turned back to the cartoon.

  When Magnus had left two years before, he’d left his apartment in the care of a housekeeper, Mrs. Milligan. He’d sent money every month for the bills and the cleaning. Clearly she had paid the bills. The electricity was still on. But she hadn’t cleaned, and Mrs. Milligan probably hadn’t invited these four vampires to come and stay and generally trash the place. Everywhere Magnus looked there were signs of destruction and decay. One of the kitchen chairs had been broken and was in pieces on the floor. The others were piled with magazines and newspapers. There were overflowing ashtrays, and makeshift ashtrays, and then just trails of ash and plates full of cigarette butts. The living room curtains were cockeyed and torn. Everything was askew, and some things were simply missing. Magnus had many lovely pieces of art that he’d collected over the years. He looked for a favorite piece of Sevres porcelain that he’d kept on a table in the hall. That, of course, was gone. As was the table.

  “I don’t want to be rude,” Magnus said, unhappily eyeing a pile of stinking garbage on the corner of one of his best Persian carpets, “but may I ask why you’re in my house?”

  This got a bleary look.

  “We live here,” said the girl at the end, the spunky one who could actually turn her head.

  “No,” Magnus said. “I think I just explained that I live here.”

  “You weren’t here. So we lived here.”

  “Well, I’m back. So you’re going to need to make other arrangements.”

  No response.

  “Let me be more clear,” he said, standing in front of the television. Blue light crackled between his fingers. “If you’re here, you may know who I am. You may know what I’m capable of. Perhaps you’d like me to summon up someone to help you out? Or perhaps I could open a Portal and send you to the far side of the Bronx? Ohio? Mongolia? Where would you like to be dropped?”

  The vampires on the sofa said nothing for a minute or two. Then they managed to look at one another. There was a grunt, a second grunt, and then they pulled themselves up from the sofa with tremendous difficulty.

  “Don’t worry about your things,” Magnus said. “I’ll send them along. To the Dumont?”

  The vampires had long ago claimed the doomed old Hotel Dumont. It was the general add
ress of all New York vampires.

  Magnus looked at them more closely. He had never quite seen vampires like these. They appeared to be—sick? Vampires didn’t really get sick. They got hungry, but they didn’t get sick. And these vampires had eaten. The evidence was all over their faces. Also, they were twitching a bit.

  Considering the state of the place, he didn’t feel like worrying over their health.

  “Come on,” one of them said. They shuffled out onto the landing and then down the stairs. Magnus shut the door firmly and, with a swoop of his hand, moved a marble-topped dry sink to block the door from the inside. At least that had been too heavy and sturdy to break or remove, but it was full of old dirty clothes that seemed to be covering up something he instinctively knew he never wanted to see.

  The smell was terrible. That had to go first. One crack of blue hit the air, and the funk was replaced with the light smell of night-blooming jasmine. He took the record off the record player. The vampires had left behind a pile of albums. He had a look through this and picked out the new Fleetwood Mac album that everyone was playing. He liked them. There was a light magical sound to the music. Magnus swept his hand through the air again, and slowly the apartment began to right itself. As a thank-you, he sent the garbage and the various disgusting little piles over to the Dumont. He had promised to send them their things, after all.

  Despite the magic he used on his window air-conditioning unit, despite the cleaning, despite everything he had done—the apartment still felt sticky and dirty and unpleasant. Magnus slept poorly. He gave up at around six in the morning and went out in search of coffee and breakfast. He was still on London time anyway.

  Out on the street some people were clearly just coming home for the night. There was a woman hopping along in one high heel and one bare foot. There were three people covered in glitter and sweat, all wearing flopping feather boas, emerging from a cab by his corner. Magnus settled down in the corner booth of a diner across the street. It was the only thing open. It was surprisingly full. Again, most of the people seemed to be at the end of their day, not the start, and were gobbling pancakes to soak up the alcohol in their stomachs.