The Lost Book of the White by Cassandra Clare

CHAPTER EIGHTShadow and Sunlight

MAGNUS WAS STILL SHAKY, BUThe managed to put on a brave face through breakfast. He and the Shadowhunters wolfed down Yun’s congee before Clary opened a Portal for them back to the Mansion Hotel so they could put on street clothes. Tian pointed out that a team of Shadowhunters in gear trooping through any Downworlder Market wouldn’t be seen as friendly no matter their intentions.

Magnus stood in the Ke kitchen and watched out the window as demons scattered from Clary’s Portal, then burst into flame as they encountered the daylight. (They had decided to open the Portal out in the courtyard for just this reason.) It was no longer just beetles, Magnus noted—now they were joined by three-feet-long millipedes and something that looked like a bone-white daddy longlegs the size of a large watermelon. The Shadowhunters didn’t need to engage with them—the sunlight took care of that—but the enigma of why they were appearing at all was annoying Magnus. He should have asked Ragnor and Shinyun about the Portal thing, he thought, when he was in… wherever he was… in his dream.…

Absentmindedly he snapped his fingers in the direction of the dirty dishes, swooping them toward the sink for washing. The first few bowls were already clean by the time he noticed that his magic looked wrong.

The color of a warlock’s magic was not especially meaningful, under normal circumstances. It wasn’t like a movie, where good warlocks had pleasant blue magic and bad warlocks had ugly red magic. For that matter, it wasn’t like a movie where there were “good warlocks” or “bad warlocks”—there were just warlocks, people like any others, with the capacity to do good or bad and the ability to decide anew each time. Nevertheless, Magnus had always been pleased by the smooth cobalt blue of his own magic, which he’d cultivated over a period of centuries. It seemed to him powerful and yet controlled. Soothing, like the wallpaper at an upscale spa.

Today, however, his magic was red. A bright, overexposed red, almost pink, and crackling at its edges with wisps of black curling fire. It still did what he wanted, moving plates in and out of the sink and stacking them neatly, but it certainly looked scary.

With an effort he concentrated on bringing back his magic’s normal color. Nothing changed, and he began to grow frustrated. More and more of his concentration moved away from the dishes, and from his friends outside, and toward bending his magic to his own preference. That, after all, was what the color of magic was really about: a warlock’s magic was under his own control. It was whatever color the warlock wished it to be.

The glow around the dishes persisted in its tacky reddish haze. Magnus’s frustration grew, and finally, when a quiet voice called his name from the door behind him, he lost his grasp completely, and a bowl flew end over end away from the sink and broke as it struck the windowsill.

The magic faded completely. Magnus turned to see Jem standing in the doorway, his face grave.

“Sorry,” Magnus said. “But the color—I don’t know what it means.”

Jem shook his head. “I don’t either. Do the others know?”

“This is the first it’s happened,” Magnus said. “It wasn’t doing this yesterday.”

“Another thing to research today,” Jem said.

Magnus nodded slowly. “I guess that’s all we can do. It’s a bad sign, though. Are you coming with us?”

“If you wish me to,” said Jem. “I said I would help you with the Shinyun situation.”

Magnus picked up a bowl. “No need to risk yourself. You said dangerous people were following you—I assume some of them frequent Shadow Markets?”

“Some of them,” Jem admitted.

“I’d rather not deal with Tessa’s wrath if anything happened to you. Stay here; we can confer when we get back.”

At that moment Alec appeared, wearing what for him were going-out clothes: gray jeans, a many-times-washed blue T-shirt that matched his eyes, and a pin-striped gray-and-white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. “We should go,” he said to Magnus. “The Portal finally seems demon free.”

Magnus handed the bowl he was holding to Jem. He ignored Jem’s raised eyebrow. “Did you ever have to wash dishes in the Silent City?”

“No,” said Jem.

“Then this’ll be good practice.”

ON THE WAY TO THEDownworlder Concession, Tian took them past a huge brick Gothic building, with two spires on either side of its door; it looked like it had been teleported in straight from the French countryside. Alec was used to taking note of houses of worship when he traveled—it was always good to know where the closest weapons cache could be found—and he’d been frustrated by not really being able to identify religious buildings on sight, in this city of so many different mundanes and mundane religions. This building, however, was familiar in a way that made it stand out in a sea of unfamiliarity.

“Is that a church?” he said to Tian as they walked.

Tian nodded. “Xujiahui Cathedral,” he said. “Also called Saint Ignatius. It’s got the largest cache of Nephilim arms in the city, if we need them. But it’s also swarming with tourists most of the time, so we don’t use it much.”

He was right; the place was abuzz with activity. Tourists lined up outside to go in. Some of it seemed to be under renovation, also: scaffolding was wrapped around most of the stained-glass windows along one side.

“Maybe we should stop by and pick up a few more weapons,” Simon muttered. “I feel a little naked going into this Market with only one seraph blade and nothing else.”

“Just like that dream you have sometimes,” Clary said brightly, and Isabelle snorted with a hastily suppressed laugh.

Jace gave Simon a quick sympathetic look. “Maybe Simon is right,” he said. “The bad guys seem to be able to find us when they want to, but we can’t find them. We should have gone in gear.”

“No,” Tian said. “This is better. The Institute and the concession are on fairly good terms, as these things go, but the Cold Peace has made everybody more tense. We need to be seen to come in a spirit of friendship.”

“We’ll see how much they like our spirit of friendship when demons swarm the place,” Jace said, and Simon looked over at him nervously.

Alec, meanwhile, looked at Magnus, who seemed relieved that they wouldn’t be going into the church. Magnus, like most warlocks, didn’t love spending time in mundane religious buildings. Mundane religions didn’t usually have much kindness for warlocks, and that was putting it mildly.

After some twists and turns, Tian led them through an elaborate red gate into a pedestrianized, cobblestoned street. The gate was guarded by two bronze statues: one a rather intimidating wolf on its hind legs, its claws up in either threat or welcome, Alec couldn’t be sure; the other a large bat, its wings folded over its body in a way that made it look strangely coquettish.

“Welcome to the Downworlder Concession,” Tian said, gesturing proudly.

There was, at least at first, nothing particularly Downworld about the place, although it wasn’t like Downworlders had their own styles of architecture. It looked like Shanghai in miniature, really, an eclectic pile of the city’s history all built on top of itself. Traditional Chinese curved roofs jostled against Western-style buildings, some looking like they had been teleported directly from the English or French countryside, some all classical columns and marble. And all the people were Downworlders.

The streets weren’t crowded this time of morning, but Alec was amazed to see faeries, werewolves, even the occasional warlock walking around, no glamours or illusions at all. He saw Magnus taking it in as well: a place where Downworlders lived freely, without having to constantly hide themselves from the mundane world. It was strange. It was nice.

Tian caught his look. “The whole concession is warded from mundanes,” he said. “The arch looks like the entrance to a ruined building, destroyed in the 1940s and never rebuilt.”

“Why doesn’t this exist anywhere else?” Clary said. “Why aren’t there glamoured Downworlder neighborhoods all over?”

Magnus, Tian, and Jace all spoke at the same time.

Tian said, “Shanghai has a very specific and unusual history that allowed this to happen.”

Magnus said, “The Shadowhunters would never allow it.”

Jace said, “The Downworlders in most places fight each other too much.”

They all looked at one another.

“I think it’s probably all those things,” Alec said diplomatically. Magnus nodded but looked around, distracted.

“Any chance we could grab some food?” he said.

Alec gave him a funny look. “We just had breakfast.”

“Research demands calories,” Magnus said.

“I could eat,” put in Clary. “Tian, is there dim sum?”

“There is a lot of dim sum,” Tian confirmed. “Follow me.”

Though it was in better shape than the neighborhood of old Shanghai that they’d been to a couple of days before, the Downworlder Concession was the same kind of confusing warren of narrow streets. What Alec took to be an alley turned out to be the entrance to a house; what he took to be a storefront turned out to be a road.

Alec trusted Tian—he was a fellow Shadowhunter, he was a Ke, he had been vouched for by Jem—but he couldn’t help thinking that there was no way they would be able to find their way out again without Tian’s help. He exchanged a glance with Jace, who was clearly thinking the same thing, then reached around to put a reassuring hand on his bow before remembering he didn’t have it.

After a few turns, the street opened up onto a larger courtyard, with restaurants on all sides and clusters of plane trees in the center. Tian gestured around him. “Welcome to the dim sum district, so to speak. I don’t know how often you eat at Downworlder establishments—”

“Maybe more frequently than you’d think,” said Clary.

“Well,” said Tian, “there’s vampire dim sum, faerie dim sum, and werewolf dim sum.”

“Which do we want?”

“We definitely want werewolf dim sum,” Tian said.

Werewolf dim sum turned out to be not all that different from New York mundane dim sum, except that the tough gray-haired women pushing the carts around were all werewolves. They also spoke no English, but this was, for one thing, also not very different from New York, and for another, easily solved by simply pointing to the stacked steamer baskets and metal bowls as needed. Alec was not the biggest congee fan and had eaten only a small bowl so as not to insult Mother Yun, so he dug into shrimp dumplings, turnip cakes, steamed buns, clams in black bean sauce, stir-fried gai lan—and carefully watched Tian’s face and the subtle shake of his head when things came by that were too werewolfish for them: tiny blood sausage, slices of raw red meat, what appeared to be some kind of deep-fried small rodent in sweet-and-sour sauce. Tian tried to stop Magnus from grabbing chicken feet, but once Magnus was contentedly nibbling on one of them, he gave in and ordered some chicken feet of his own. Oddly, so did Jace.

“You like chicken feet?” Tian said, surprised.

“I like everything,” Jace said, mouth full of food.

Simon shook his head. “My ancestors fled their home country so they wouldn’t have to eat chicken feet anymore. I’m not about to start now. Does anything on the table not have meat in it?”

Tian grabbed some vegetable dumplings and mushrooms wrapped in bean curd from the next cart, and the werewolf lady gave Simon a disapproving look.

“Sorry,” Tian said. “Even the ones without meat often use dry shrimp or pork fat.”

“I’m used to it,” Simon said with resignation.

“Also,” pointed out Clary, chewing on a steamed bun, “they’re werewolves.”

Satiated, the team headed out again. As they walked behind Tian, Alec came over to Magnus and bumped into him affectionately. “Hey, are you all right? You were quiet all through the meal.”

“Fat and sassy,” Magnus said, rubbing his stomach and smiling at Alec. Alec smiled back but felt an uncertain twist in his gut. The chains, the shining wound—and Magnus had awoken in the night screaming. He had claimed it was only a random nightmare, but Alec wasn’t sure.

He also hadn’t told the rest of them about the chains on Magnus’s body. He wasn’t sure how exactly to bring such a thing up.

Where a moment ago Alec had been in good spirits, all of a sudden he felt far away from home, unsettled and on edge. He found himself very aware that he couldn’t read any of the street signs or storefronts, that he was half a world away from his child, that there were people here who might hate him for being a Shadowhunter in a Downworlder neighborhood, no matter how friendly relations were. The weight of the Cold Peace and Magnus’s wound and the unknowns stacked on top of unknowns came down upon him.

“I wish Max were here,” he whispered to Magnus, and that was when the thing with wings swooped down and collided violently with Tian.

MAGNUS WAS DISTRACTED BY THEfeeling in his chest; ever since they’d passed through the gate into the concession, he’d felt it. Each time his heart beat, it sent a small throb of magic through his body, and he could feel that throb burst behind his chest wound and extend in spirals along the links of the chains on his arms. It didn’t feel bad, but he didn’t know what it was, and he didn’t like that. He wanted to head straight for the Celestial Palace and bury himself in research; privately he thought talking to Peng Fang was a waste of time. In the past, he probably would have voiced this feeling. In the past, he probably would have convinced them to skip Peng’s entirely and go straight to the bookstore.

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t see the shadow pass over them, and he was taken aback when the bird-woman smashed into Tian.

He saw Alec and the other New York Shadowhunters drop back and reach for the few weapons they had on them—except for Simon, who put up his hands as though blocking a punch and looked around as if wondering what to do. Quickly, however, they all realized that Tian didn’t seem worried—indeed, he was smiling and laughing.

“Jinfeng!” he was saying, and Magnus realized that the bird-woman had given Tian a quick hug and, while she had moved away, was smiling at him.

She was a faerie, he realized a little belatedly, and a striking one at that: a feng huang, a phoenix. The Chinese phoenix was an entirely different faerie from the Western phoenix, and much more beautiful. She was almost as tall as Tian, and her gleaming black hair fell to her feet. Wings of red, yellow, and green spread from her back, rippling in the air; her skin was traced with delicate designs in luminous gold. Her dark eyes, ringed with long lashes, shimmered as she regarded the group.

Jace, Clary, and Isabelle were slowly lowering their weapons in confusion. Simon continued to stare wide-eyed, and Alec, of course, was watching Magnus, giving him a questioning look.

Tian was speaking quietly to the faerie girl. “Oh,” she said in Mandarin, “I’m so sorry. Are these… who…” She trailed off, smiling shyly.

“Would you like to introduce us, Tian?” said Magnus mildly.

“Yes,” said Tian. “This is Jinfeng, everybody. Jinfeng,” and he continued in Mandarin, “these are the Shadowhunters of New York. And also Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn.”

The phoenix pulled back, suddenly wary. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I know I—the Cold Peace—”

“It’s okay,” Magnus said. “We don’t like the Cold Peace much ourselves.”

“Jinfeng is the daughter of the weaponsmiths I was talking about yesterday,” Tian said. “And also”—he sighed—“my girlfriend.”

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhh,” said Jace. Clary whacked him on the shoulder. Jinfeng nervously moved back over to Tian and put an arm around him. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, and he smiled.

“As you can imagine,” Tian continued, “we’ve had to keep our relationship secret when others are around. My family has no problem with our being together, but there are plenty in the Shanghai Conclave who would love to use it against us.”

“How do your parents feel about Tian?” Magnus said to Jinfeng. “Or their court?”

Jinfeng turned to Magnus, pleased to have someone other than Tian who could converse with her in Mandarin. “They like him,” she said, her feathers rustling a little, “and they trust him. But they don’t trust his people.” She took in Alec, who had his arm draped casually around Magnus. “How do your people feel about him?”

“I don’t really have people,” Magnus said, “but they seem to mostly like him. And these are all his closest friends and family, right here, and I would trust them with my life.” At this, Tian raised his eyebrows. Magnus caught his look and went on, “It’s taken a few years, though. I’m vouching for you guys, by the way,” he added to the rest of them, this last sentence in English.

“Tell her about the Alliance,” Alec said, nudging Magnus.

“My boyfriend wants me to tell you that he founded the Downworlder-Shadowhunter Alliance,” Magnus said, and batted his eyelashes at Alec. “If you know what that is.”

Jinfeng gave a wry smile. “In Shanghai, Tian and I are the Downworlder-Shadowhunter Alliance.”

“I thought you said your family approved,” Magnus said to Tian.

Tian looked sheepish. “They do,” he said, “but that’s not the same as allowing us to be public. Much less get married. You must know that I—and they—could get in serious trouble. The Cold Peace forbids even business relationships between the fey and the Nephilim, much less—”

“Sexy business,” Magnus agreed.

The rest of their party were standing around politely but beginning to look a little uncomfortable. Simon was checking his phone.

Tian took note and said to Jinfeng, “Qin’ai de, I was hoping to talk to your parents. These Nephilim have run into a strange weapon recently and we thought they might know about it. Maybe I could talk to them?”

“You can go on,” Magnus said to Tian, in English for the benefit of the others. “I’ve been to the Sunlit Market enough times that I’m sure I can get the rest of us there.”

Tian nodded; he was already scribbling an address down on a scrap of paper from his pocket. “I’m going to go with Jinfeng. Meet us here in two hours, and hopefully Mogan will be willing to talk.”

“Who’s Mogan?” said Magnus.

Tian smiled. “The smiths. Mo and Gan. Mogan.”

“Faeries,” Magnus said with a sigh.

He took the paper, and Jinfeng and Tian disappeared down a side street, fairly quickly.

“He seemed pretty happy to get away from us,” Isabelle observed as they left.

“Young love,” said Magnus. “I’m sure you’d have no idea.” He grinned at Isabelle, and she grinned back. “We’ll catch up with them later. For now, let’s head to the Market.”

“We have a very annoying blood sommelier to meet with,” Alec agreed.

“And a bookstore,” Clary put in eagerly. “Do not forget the bookstore.”

NOW THAT TIAN WAS GONE,they were dependent on Magnus to navigate, which was fine as far as Alec was concerned. Tian was friendly, and knowing he was also dealing with the complexities of a Shadowhunter-Downworlder relationship made him more sympathetic, but he had felt a little babysat. He knew Shadow Markets; he knew Downworlders. He knew Peng Fang. It was a matter of pride, a bit, that they could handle this errand on their own.

As a guide, of course, Magnus was a bit more hesitant than Tian had been. “You’re sure you know where you’re going?” said Alec a few times, as Magnus considered two possible paths.

“This way seems familiar,” Magnus would say, and stride off in that direction. The others put their confidence totally in the warlock, which made Alec feel like it would be disloyal to raise doubts.

They found themselves, after a few twists and turns, in a dark and narrow alley. Unlike the rest of the concession, which was well-kept, clean, and bright in the sunny late morning, this place felt decrepit, like it was rotting away around them, and it was cast in shadow from the surrounding buildings. The pleasant smells of food and autumn flowers were gone, replaced by a humid, fetid odor, not like the crush of people in a city but like a place long abandoned by anything living.

All of them could sense that something was off. Jace and Clary each drew the one seraph blade apiece they had brought, and Simon stood at the back of the alley, vigilantly scanning all around him. Isabelle stood by him, looking less worried but no less alert.

Alec had his hand on his own seraph blade, though he hadn’t yet drawn it. “I think maybe we took a wrong turn,” he began to say, but choked on the words as he looked over at Magnus.

Magnus was glowing, an angry scarlet flare around him in the gloom of the alley. His upper lip was curled back from his teeth, and his head was in the air, like an animal sniffing the air for predators. Or prey. His eyes, too, shone in the dark, yellow-green and alien in a way Alec had never thought of them. They were glassy and unfocused—he looked like he was listening to something far away, something none of the rest of them could hear. And it must have been the illusion of the strange light filtered down through the buildings, but he seemed taller, sharper.

“Magnus?” Alec said quietly, but Magnus didn’t seem to hear him. There was a skittering noise from behind and above him, but when he whirled around, there was nothing there.

The Shadowhunters made their way down the alley carefully. Jace and Isabelle reached the far end first and waited as Clary led Simon, who looked like a cat with its hackles raised, slowly down the lane, standing shoulder to shoulder with him. Alec waited for Magnus to follow, but he seemed to be stuck in place. His hair was wild and his breathing strenuous, as if he’d been running. Alec gently took him by the hand, and Magnus let him, though when his eyes rolled toward Alec, there was no recognition in them.

Alec felt a jolt of fear through him. Magnus was never distracted, never confused. It was one of the things he loved best about his boyfriend: he knew that if Magnus was forced to walk into Hell itself, he would do so with his hair perfect, his clothes pressed, his eye game on point.

And he had to admit that even now, Magnus looked good. His expression may have been hungry and hollow, but it brought out his cheekbones, and Alec for just a moment wondered what it would be like to kiss him while looking into eyes lambent with green and gold. It was a strange combination, this feeling of fear and desire.

He forced himself to walk forward, leading Magnus by the hand. Magnus allowed himself to be led; he seemed to barely notice. Alec held his breath, sure they would be attacked at any moment, but at the end of the alley was another archway, and once all six of them were through it, the sun again shone down and the air was fine and calm. Between one moment and the next, all the peculiarity went out of Magnus and he was again himself. He looked surprised as Alec threw his arms around him, hugging him tight.

“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.

“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 FANGthree 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.

“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.”

“We’re also looking for a couple of warlocks,” Magnus said. “A Korean woman and a green fellow with horns.”

“Oh,” said Fang with a distinct change of mood. “Them.”

“You’ve seen them?” Alec said, trying not to sound too eager.

“Everyone’s seen them,” Fang said. He sounded grumpy. “They’ve been all over the Market for months. The woman for longer. Nobody likes them much, but they spend like sailors on leave, and they look like they’d kill you just as soon as look at you.”

“What have they been buying?” Magnus said.

“Now normally,” Fang said, running his finger around the rim of his goblet, “that kind of information would cost you.”

“I—”

“But the answer is so simple I can’t in good conscience charge you. What haven’t they been buying? Spell components, plain and fancy. Random antique spell books no one’s used in hundreds of years. Cheap blood in bulk.”

“Have they bought anything from you?” Magnus said.

“Well now,” Peng Fang said, a gleam in his eye, “that would cost you. But it doesn’t really matter. None of the really serious blood magic is accessible to them without some pretty powerful spells. As long as they don’t have the Book of the White or anything, we should all be fine.”

Alec wasn’t able to stop himself from looking over at Magnus. Realizing his mistake, he quickly schooled his features into a bland expression, but Peng Fang noticed immediately. “They don’t have it, do they? Right?” He sounded, for the first time, a little less self-assured.

“How should I know?” Magnus said with an impenetrable smile.

“Well, let’s hope for all our sakes they don’t,” Peng Fang said. He drained his cup again and began to fuss with pouring another. “I haven’t seen it myself, but people are saying that these warlocks have been bringing demons into the concession. That’s strictly prohibited, of course,” he added to Alec.

“Has it been reported to the Shadowhunters?” said Alec, already knowing the answer. “Since the relationship between the two is so good here and all.”

Peng Fang shrugged. “Nobody’s been hurt yet. And nobody wants a repeat of ’37.” Alec had no idea what this meant, but Magnus frowned. “Gentlemen, it’s glorious to see you as always, but I’m afraid that I must tend to my Russians.”

Alec was surprised by the abruptness, but Magnus got up immediately and nodded. “Thanks for your time, Peng Fang. We must be off too; we’ve got an appointment with Mogan.”

“The smiths?” Peng Fang sounded surprised. “Don’t take this one,” he advised Magnus, with a gesture in Alec’s direction. “Most fey don’t care for Shadowhunters these days.”

Magnus was rustling around in his pocket and produced a wad of bills from it. “Some yuan for your trouble.”

Peng Fang made a pronounced show of refusing the money. “Magnus, Magnus, we’ve been friends for so long. I haven’t told you anything worth a payment today. That’s how much good faith you can have in me. I’m not some two-bit crook like Johnny Rook.”

Magnus pressed the money into his hand anyway. Peng Fang tried to hug him again, and with a final no, Magnus headed down the spiral staircase, with Alec following. They retraced their steps back through the cellar and up the stone staircase into the stall.

The ground floor of the shop was dark, but they could still easily see the glass cabinets covered in Chinese labels and their contents. The amount of blood on hand was beginning to get to Alec, and he was happy to go out the front door and back onto the streets of the concession, where it was still a fine, sunny afternoon. “Who’s Johnny Rook again?” Alec muttered as they left.

Magnus shrugged. “Some two-bit crook.”