The Lost Book of the White

Magnus opened his eyes. Alec was looking at the wound that the Svefnthorn had given him, a diagonal slash across his heart glowing lightly in a shifting reddish-pink. Alec had seen the wound the night Magnus got it, but he hadn’t been face-to-face with it like this.

Alec continued looking at Magnus’s chest, his head tilted. Magnus regarded him with bemusement. Slowly, thoughtfully, Alec licked his finger, then brought it down, keeping eye contact with Magnus, and traced his wet finger along the length of the wound.

“Does it hurt?” he said hoarsely.

“No,” Magnus said. “It’s just the remnants of magic. It doesn’t feel any different than if it weren’t there.”

Alec reached his hand up to touch Magnus’s face, fingertips brushing from the curve of his eye, trailing down his cheek, curling under his jaw so Magnus was held still for a moment. Then Alec let out a long breath. Magnus hadn’t even noticed the tension Alec was holding, but he felt when it dissipated and the taut line of Alec’s shoulders eased.

Magnus found himself sitting up again. He balled up the shirt, now totally free of his body, and tossed it aside. He reached for Alec and gathered him into his lap, and Alec kissed him again. Magnus wove a hand through Alec’s hair and tugged a little to bring him even closer, catching Alec’s sharply torn breath in his own mouth. The kiss went from light to heat. Magnus curled two fingers into the knot holding Alec’s towel together, and sealed the space between them, so not even the moonlight through the curtains could slide between their bodies. Alec didn’t break that craving, clinging kiss as his hands slid up Magnus’s arms and their kisses grew wilder, a savage accompaniment to the sweet interplay of touch and heat and pressure.

Their bodies pressed together hard. Magnus’s head was full of smoke and his skin alive with fire as he reached down and deftly peeled away Alec’s towel. The towel quickly went the way of the shirt.

“We’re still us,” Alec whispered to Magnus, and Magnus felt a wave of love and desire go through him, fervent desire. They loved Max, they loved him more than life itself, but it was also true: they were still them.

“To always being us,” Magnus murmured, and pulled Alec down onto the bed with him.

* * *

AFTERWARD, THEY LAY IN EACH other’s arms, breathing together quietly. Moonlight came in through the window, and the ambient glow of the French Concession outside. An unknown amount of time passed, and then Magnus heard Alec’s muffled voice: “I hate to spoil the mood, and I would honestly be happy just staying here and not moving ever again, but… I need to sleep, or we’re going to have to fight through demons and jet lag.”

“I’ve got it,” Magnus said, and he raised his hand in the air and waved it, making whorls of golden dust in the air that, he knew, would settle upon them gently and lull them into an easy slumber.

Or that was the plan, anyway. Instead Magnus felt a jolt of magic burst into his hand from the warm node in the center of his chest, and way more sleep dust than he’d intended appeared in the air, then fell in a clump directly onto their faces. Alec sputtered and laughed. “What was that?” he said, his eyes already closed, and then he went limp against the pillow and began to snore gently.

“I seem to be having some issues with calib—” said Magnus, and then he too was asleep.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING MAGNUS WOKE to find himself alone. Alec had gotten up at daybreak, along with the other Shadowhunters, and they had all gone to the Institute. Alec left a note saying he had let Magnus sleep because he seemed to need it—which made Magnus immediately suspicious. After all, he had a more direct connection to the Ke family than any of them; why had they not wanted him to come with them?

He trailed wearily into the bathroom. He splashed water on his tired face and stared into the gold-framed glass above the porcelain-and-walnut sink. The jagged line carved into his chest stared back at him, still emanating its strange light. He was being ridiculous, he told himself—Alec was always forthright with him, and if he said he let Magnus sleep because he seemed to need the sleep, then he was surely telling the truth.

The velvet curtains were tightly shut across the tall balcony doors, the rattle and purr of the busy city morning muffled. The dimness made everything look shadowy, even Magnus’s eyes. He opened the curtains and squinted into the light.

He put on clothes—Shanghai was hot and muggy, as always, so Magnus opted for white linen pants, a guayabera, and a white Panama hat—and went downstairs, wondering if it was too late for breakfast. Attached to the hotel was an enclosed garden, its walls tall, white, and adorned with loops of white stone made to resemble wrought ironwork. He found himself wandering out into it, enjoying the sun on his face. Tourists wandered the graveled paths, elegantly dressed; Magnus counted at least ten languages being spoken in his immediate vicinity. Deep red flowers grew on bushes here, dark green leaves offering up their hearts to the sky. Branches from other trees curved over the walls as if they wanted to enter the garden too. There were benches scattered about, and a stone bridge in an angular geometric pattern, leading to a little green-and-yellow pagoda open to the elements and guarded by a stone creature.

On the bridge was Shinyun.

In a major change from her usual, more traditional clothes, she had gone for razor-sharp tailoring and a blood-red business suit. The Svefnthorn was strapped to her back, its ugly twisted point jutting out behind her head.

This, Magnus thought, was a lot to deal with before coffee.

“Magnus!” Shinyun called to him sharply. “Stay there.” She glanced around. “Or I’ll have to hurt one of these nice little traveling folks. What does one call them? Tourists.”

Magnus weighed his options. They were grim. None of the tourists had turned to look at Shinyun when she spoke: he expected she was glamoured. He could try to lunge in with some warding magic, but at least a few mundanes were likely to be hurt or killed even so, and he wasn’t sure of the current extent of Shinyun’s powers.

He didn’t move as Shinyun approached. Quietly, he began to surround himself with wards. He could at least protect himself from another thorning.

“If you want to fight,” said Magnus lightly, “I’ll have to put you on my calendar. I can’t possibly do anything before I’ve eaten.”

“It needn’t come to that if you don’t do anything stupid,” she said. “I just want to talk.”

“If you want to talk,” said Magnus, “you’d better be ready to talk over breakfast.”

Shinyun drew herself up with dignity and said, “I am.” She brought out a plastic bag from within her purse. “Do you like ci fan?”

“I do,” said Magnus, eyeing the little parcels of glutinous rice. “I like them very much.”

A few minutes later found them seated on benches in the garden. It was a fine morning, sunny and breezy. The osmanthus flowers were blooming in Shanghai, and the wind brought their gentle scent, a little like peach or apricot. He chewed a mouthful of pork and pickled vegetables and felt a little better. Unfortunately, this reminded him that he was breakfasting with an unstable person, who had stabbed him the last time they’d met, with a weapon she currently had with her, and who, if Clary’s dream meant anything, might try to stab him again. On the other hand, at least he was pretty sure the breakfast was not poisoned.

Magnus popped another ci fan into his mouth and checked his protective wards. They were still in place. A charging rhino shouldn’t be able to get through them.

“How did you find me?” he asked around a mouthful. “I ask only out of professional curiosity.”

“We have been in Shanghai for months,” Shinyun said. “Obviously by now we’ve assembled a team of secret informants throughout the city.”

“Obviously,” murmured Magnus. If it turned out that he and his friends hadn’t been able to find Ragnor only because he was more successfully tracking them, he was going to be very annoyed. He hoped the others hadn’t encountered Ragnor on their way to the Institute or anything. On the other hand, he also hoped they didn’t come back before he figured out how to get rid of Shinyun. “So, uh—how’s your evil master? How are his evil plans going?”

“Sammael’s only counsel is his own,” said Shinyun. “I follow his lead without question. It’s very relaxing, actually.”

“So you don’t even know what he’s trying to do? Do you know why he wanted the Book of the White? Do you know why he wanted Ragnor?”

“Oh, that’s easy enough.” Shinyun took a bite. “He wanted Ragnor to find him a realm. And Ragnor did. A while ago. But by then he’d come to accept Sammael’s victory and became his willing minion.”

“His willing minion?” said Magnus, eyeing the Svefnthorn. “That doesn’t sound like the Ragnor Fell I know.”

“Sammael is not like other demons,” Shinyun said. She regarded Magnus thoughtfully. “You think I’m a fool, tying my fortunes to the Serpent of the Garden.”

“No, no,” Magnus protested. “Serpent of the Garden, he sounds very trustworthy.”

“It’s not a matter of trust,” Shinyun said. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Okay,” said Magnus. “What are you doing?”

“Here on Earth,” Shinyun said, “power is a complicated, strange thing. Humans grant one another power; it’s exchanged, it’s gained and lost—it’s all very abstract. But out there—” She gestured above her.

“In the sky?” said Magnus.

“Out beyond our own world, in the worlds of demons and angels and whatever else is out there. Out there power is not some abstract piece of human culture. Power is power. What we here on Earth call magic is just power by another name, power wielded here in this realm.”

“And you want power,” Magnus said. Despite himself, he was a little interested. He had always known there were Princes of Hell and mad archangels out there, playing with humanity as if with a chessboard. This was like a peek into the gaming room.