The Lost Book of the White

by Cassandra Clare

  “Everybody okay?” said Clary.

  “Sure,” said Simon, though his voice remained shaky. “Nothing happened, right?”

  They all looked to Magnus—of course they did, Alec thought. Even with all their experience, they expected Magnus to have the answers to any mystery. He shook his head, looking grave. “I don’t know,” he said. “We were walking, and then… there were those voices.…”

  Isabelle and Clary exchanged worried looks. “We didn’t hear any voices,” Isabelle said.

  “What were they saying?” asked Alec quietly.

  Magnus looked at Alec helplessly. “I… I don’t remember.”

  “You’d think the Downworlders would do something about having an alley from Hell right through the middle of their neighborhood,” said Jace.

  Magnus shook his head. “I don’t know where we were,” he said, “but that was definitely not Shanghai.”

  * * *

  MAGNUS HAD NOT BEEN LYING. He didn’t remember what had happened, and he didn’t remember what the voices had been saying or whether he recognized who had been speaking. What he didn’t say was what he did remember: how powerful he had felt, how strong. Like the rest of them, he had been sure they would be attacked, but he had felt only a contempt for the forces that might attack them, as though he might wipe them away with a wave of his hand. Now he felt a strange emptiness, both relieved and disappointed that his feeling hadn’t been tested.

  He was the navigator, however, and he tried to put all these feelings aside and concentrate on remembering where they were going. He had been here before, but it had been eighty-some years ago—still, he was able to follow the noise, and soon they were passing more Downworlders, all heading in roughly the same direction. Groups of young werewolves, pairs of older vampires huddled under large black umbrellas, and a few faeries, who gave the Shadowhunters worried looks and crossed the street to avoid passing them.

  Alec took note. “I don’t much like being looked at like the enemy here,” he said. “We’re all on the same side, Shadowhunters and Downworlders.”

  Jace quirked an eyebrow. “I believe the Clave’s official position is that we are on opposite sides.”

  “It’s ridiculous,” said Clary. “How many faeries were actually on Sebastian’s side in the war? The Queen, her court—it must be a tiny percentage of them. But we’ve punished them all.”

  “The Clave punished them all,” said Simon. “We haven’t done anything. We tried to prevent the Cold Peace.”

  “As long as we can explain that to each of them individually, I’m sure we’ll be fine,” said Jace.

  “Maybe we could get T-shirts made,” Simon agreed. “ ‘We Tried to Prevent the Cold Peace.’ ”

  Magnus gestured toward another stone archway. “Through here, I think.”

  “Our luck with random archways hasn’t been great,” muttered Isabelle. But they went through anyway, and after a brief moment of eerie radiance that caused them all to catch their breath, the passage shimmered and expanded, and suddenly a tall faerie with a sideways grin and a long brocade jacket was trying to sell them wolfsbane cologne.

  The Market square was huge and open, paved with massive slabs of stone. Shadow Markets were usually twisty, labyrinthine affairs, full of makeshift stalls and tents, everyone jockeying for customers’ attention and shouting over one another. But the Sunlit Market of Shanghai was an altogether more civilized affair, with stalls and sheds neatly lined up in wide rows, shaded by Shanghai’s ubiquitous plane trees. Cafés had outdoor terraces with neatly kept tables, and at the center was a huge fountain with a stone figure at each of the corners. From here Magnus could see a dragon and a bird that looked like Jinfeng, and if he remembered correctly, there were a tiger and a tortoise on the other side. The fountain sprayed in colors: red, yellow, and green, and while the water shot many feet into the air, it all remained precisely within the perimeter of the stone pool. Magnus noted with some interest that he could see the aura of the magic responsible for this, a silver glow that, he thought, would usually have been invisible to him.

  He was beginning to get a sense of why Shinyun had thought the Svefnthorn wound was a gift, but given the chains on his arms, it seemed like a gift with a ludicrously high cost. No gift was worth accepting chains as well.

  The Market was more well-organized than most, but it was still a bustle of chaotic activity. An elderly vampire who looked half-melted stood under a black velvet parasol and haggled with a Sighted mundane over obsidian stakes. Two warlocks were engaged in what appeared to be a magical drinking game at one of the café tables, and every few seconds miniature fireworks exploded from their fingertips with loud cracks. In front of the fountain, four werewolves were howling in erratic harmony.

  Magnus dropped back a step, to murmur in Alec’s ear, “The barbershop quartet of the night. What music they make.”

  “There’s one thing I don’t get,” said Clary. “If the Downworlders have their own district in the city, why do they need a Market? Why not just have permanent stores?”

  “They do,” said Magnus, leading them through the crowd toward the outer perimeter of stalls. “That’s why this isn’t really a Shadow Market. It’s just a market, like you’d find in any mundane neighborhood.”

  The outer circle of the market had been all food stalls when Magnus had last been here, and despite decades of upheaval and change in the city, this was still the same. Everywhere was a strange combination of mundane and Downworlder food, with Peking duck and mapo tofu, baozi and mantou laid out in rows next to candied faerie fruit and flowers on sticks. Magnus bought a candied tangerine, then offered it to Alec with a smile. Alec took it, but he was still giving Magnus nervous glances when he didn’t think his boyfriend was looking. Magnus wished he could remember what had happened in the alley.

  He also wished that the Shadowhunters would be a bit more discreet. They had all, he thought, gotten accustomed to the New York Market, where they were well known and garnered friendly glances from most of the vendors and at least some of the patrons. Here, no matter how good Tian said the relationship was between the Conclave and Downworld, they were still a team of five laowai Nephilim.

  “We’re getting some looks,” said Jace, always with a bit more situational awareness than the rest of them. “Maybe we should split up.”

  “This Peng Fang probably won’t want to meet with all of us,” Clary said hopefully. “Maybe some of us could just go straight to the bookstore?”

  “Ooh, look at the heroes,” Magnus said with a little smirk. “Save the world a few times and you start shirking responsibilities.”

  “Honestly, Peng Fang is terrible,” said Alec.

  “Betrayer,” said Magnus.

  “I too would like to go straight to the bookstore,” put in Simon.

  “Fine!” said Magnus. “All of you get out. The bookstore is just through the Night Quarter, where all the vampires are, and to the left. It should be hard to miss. I will handle Peng Fang by myself.”

  “You will not,” Alec said. “You will handle Peng Fang along with me.” Magnus thought about objecting, but he’d rather have Alec along with him anyway. Peng Fang could be a lot to deal with.

  They sent the other New York Shadowhunters away, and when they were out of earshot, Magnus said, “I appreciate the backup, but you might need to wait outside Peng Fang’s. Last time, he clammed up the moment you arrived.”

  “That’s fine,” said Alec. “I’m not worried about Peng Fang. I’m worried about you.” He peered at Magnus. “You really don’t remember anything from the alley?”

  “Nothing happened,” Magnus said, and Alec looked like he was going to respond, but he didn’t.

  They passed into the Night Quarter themselves, through a huge red velvet curtain. Inside all was dim, lit only by a truly enormous number of candles, in silver holders, and high above them a patchwork of fabric and canvas roofs blocked out any hint of the sun. It was like walking into a very Gothic circus tent.
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  “Vampires and their candles,” Alec said under his breath.

  “I know! They’re even vulnerable to fire,” Magnus said. “But they can’t resist. They’re like moths, in a way.”

  He was starting to wonder how they would find Peng Fang’s, when he noticed Alec had stopped walking alongside him. He turned and saw his boyfriend looking wide-eyed at something to the side, and followed his gaze. Then it took a moment for him to realize what he was looking at.

  There in front of a velvet-draped stall—Vampires and their velvet, too, Magnus thought—was a full-size cardboard standee of Alec.

  He blinked at it.

  The cardboard cutout was in full Shadowhunter gear and had Alec’s face. Cardboard Alec was holding up a crystal decanter full of crimson liquid, and a speech bubble emerging from his mouth read, in flowing script, Mmmm! That’s good blood!

  “Magnus,” said Alec slowly, “do you think maybe I have brain damage?”

  “Wait here,” Magnus said, and began striding purposefully toward the tent, magic gathering in his hands.

  Before he could reach the entrance, though, a stocky man had emerged from the stall and was extending his arms in welcome, a huge grin on his face. He had hair like a bumblebee who had become a rock star, and he was wearing a red-lined black suit jacket unbuttoned over a T-shirt with an illustration of a steam train on it. The cloud of steam formed puffy gray letters that read HERE COMES THE VEIN TRAIN!

  “Peng Fang,” said Magnus. “I immediately regret having come to speak with you.”

  “Magnus Bane!” Peng Fang said. “I haven’t seen you in—well, it’s been simply forever!”

  “It’s been three years,” Alec said dryly. “You kicked us out of the Paris Shadow Market because you said Shadowhunters were bad for business.”

  Peng Fang looked thrilled. “And Alec Lightwood! Hey, I’m so glad to see you two lovebirds are still together. Inspiring! A new era of cooperation between Shadowhunters and Downworlders! Here, let me give both of you a hug.”

  Magnus held up a hand politely. “No touching, Peng Fang. You know the rule.”

  “But—”

  “No. Touching.” It wasn’t that Magnus objected to hugging per se, but Peng Fang had always been… enthusiastic about Magnus. And everyone else. Magnus had laid down the rule early in their acquaintance, sometime in the mid-eighteenth century, and he had never had any reason to lift it.

  “What brings you to Shanghai? What brings you to my shop?” He continued smiling broadly at them.

  “Never mind that,” said Alec, barely keeping it together. “What brings me to your shop?” He gestured at the standee.

  Peng Fang looked back at it with eyebrows raised, as though he’d just noticed its existence. “My dear boy, you’re famous. You founded the Downworlder-Shadowhunter Alliance. You’ve been a hero of two wars. You must understand how helpful it is for business to let people know that you’ve been to my shop.”

  “You kicked me out of your shop!” Alec said, and Peng Fang held up his hands to shush him. Alec ignored this. “And you hit on Magnus.”

  “I hit on everyone.” Peng Fang shrugged. “Do not take it personally.” He leaned toward Magnus. “You must come through to the shop. I’ve just gotten my hands on some vintage stuff. Pre-Accords, very hard to come by. I can’t say more, but let’s say there’s something a little… fishy about its provenance?” Magnus stared at him. “Mermaid blood. It’s mermaid blood,” he clarified.

  “No, Peng Fang, we still don’t drink blood,” Magnus sighed. “We’ve come for gossip.”

  “You’re missing out,” said Peng Fang. “Come inside.” At the entrance to the stall, he pulled the curtain back with a courtly bow rather at odds with his T-shirt, and waved them inside.

  The interior was lined with glass cases, filled with cut-crystal vials and decanters. They glinted in the candlelight, but Peng Fang ignored them. “None of this rubbish,” he said, dismissing the vials and taking a candle from atop a large stained barrel. “This stall is just for advertising and selling plonk by the cup.” He turned to Alec. “Recent mundane blood, the kind of stuff you’d get anywhere on the street. You know what I’m talking about,” he added to Magnus.

  “I don’t,” said Magnus.

  Peng Fang’s smile never wavered. “Follow me,” he said. “Let’s speak in my office.” He pushed a rug aside with his foot, revealing a dank stone spiral staircase that descended into the ground below the stall. Alec gave Magnus a look of concern, and Magnus returned it, but they had come this far, and so they followed Peng Fang down into the depths.

  * * *

  ALEC HADN’T LIKED PENG FANG three years ago, when he hated Alec, and he didn’t like him any better now that Peng Fang had decided they were great friends. He already, he thought, had too much going on to be following a shady vampire down an underground passage by candlelight, on the off chance he had useful information. He wished they’d skipped the whole business and gone straight to the bookstore. He kept one hand on the hilt of the seraph blade at his belt, sure that at any moment Peng Fang would turn and lunge for them, either to bite them or kiss them or both.

  At the end of the hallway was another red curtain, and when they passed through it, Alec relaxed a little. This was still a cellar, but it was lit with permanent fixtures and the floor, rather than packed dirt, was black marble. A wrought-iron spiral stair headed up, and as they ascended Alec saw that at the top were two doors, one lushly lacquered in red and black and the other painted the same color as the dark gray walls, with a small metal sign reading STAFF ONLY in five languages.

  “Excuse me a moment,” Peng Fang said, and swung the lacquered door open. Behind it were two ancient vampire women with thin blue-white skin and pale gray eyes, both wearing very old-fashioned widow’s weeds. One of them was examining a small crystal vial of blood.

  Peng Fang spoke to them in Russian; Alec couldn’t understand the words, but the tone was the same unctuous manner he always used, and his smile was wide as always. He ended with a question and looked back and forth between the ladies, who blinked at him.

  “V’skorye,” he said, and closed the door. “Tasting room,” he said to Magnus, who smiled thinly. “Lovely ladies. Been coming to me for years. They’re looking to invest in blood futures.”

  Alec cocked an eyebrow. “So… blood that’s still inside people?”

  Peng Fang clapped Alec on the back and laughed heartily but didn’t explain further. He opened the STAFF ONLY door and gestured them inside.

  Inside was a huge mahogany desk and a few wing-backed armchairs. In classic vampire style, the lights were very dim, but they had been carefully designed to glitter off the shelves of decanters and bottles that lined the back wall. Peng Fang went to them and began to elaborately select and pour himself a goblet of blood. Magnus dropped into one of the chairs facing the desk and stretched his legs out. Alec remained standing, arms crossed.

  Peng Fang turned, holding his goblet. “Ganbei,” he said, and took a sip. Magnus and Alec remained silent, and Fang flashed them a toothy, red-stained smile. “What can I help my favorite customers with today?”

  “Well, we’re looking into a few things right now,” Alec said. “The situation with Portals, for example. They’ve been going wrong all over Shanghai, it seems.”

  Peng Fang took another sip. “That’s not exactly juicy gossip. They’ve been going wrong all over the world, sounds like. Why you two are investigating, I have no idea; the Conclave’s been all over trying to figure it out.”

  “But you hear things,” said Magnus. “All over Downworld. Any interesting theories?”

  “Oh, plenty blame the Shadowhunters, of course,” Fang said with a dismissive wave of his free hand. “Ever since the Cold Peace, they get blamed for everything. But that’s silly, of course. Portals are warlock magic. Let’s see. Some say the faeries have been sabotaging them.”

  “I can’t imagine how they’d be able to do that,” Magnus said doubtfully.
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br />   “Neither can I,” agreed Peng Fang, “unless they’re in league with somebody very powerful. And I mean very powerful.”

  “A Greater Demon?” said Alec.

  “Greater than Greater,” said Fang, giving them another grin. “A Prince of Hell. The Prince of Hell.”

  “Not—” began Magnus.

  “No,” said Fang immediately. “Not him. But close. Sammael.”

  Alec did his best not to react at all. “Sammael?” he said, chuckling. “Everyone knows Sammael is gone. Has been for—well, basically forever.”

  “So he’s dead,” said Fang, though that hadn’t been exactly what Alec had said. “So am I, but that hasn’t stopped me running a successful international business concern, has it now? You know as well as I do that you can’t keep a Prince of Hell down forever. For a while, sure. For longer than I or even you,” he added, gesturing at Magnus, “have been around, definitely. But not forever. And Sammael is, after all, the Maker of the Way.”

  “The what?” said Alec.

  Fang looked impatient. “The Finder of Paths? The World-Burrower? The Render of Veils? Any of this ringing a bell?”

  “Not at all,” Alec said.

  Fang made a disapproving noise in the back of his throat and drained the rest of his drink. “What do they teach these Shadowhunters? Sammael, he’s the guy who opened the paths from the demon realms into this world in the first place. He weakened the wards of the world, or that’s what they say.” He reached down for the decanter and refilled his goblet. “So,” he went on, “when things go wrong with Portals, naturally people start talking about how Sammael is the source of it.”

  “Do you believe that?” Magnus said.

  Peng Fang smiled. “I don’t believe anything unless I get paid for it, Magnus Bane. I’ve found that to be a good way to keep my head on my shoulders and stakes out of my chest.”