The Lost Book of the White

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 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.