“You and Ragnor thought creating a demon-worshipping cult would make your lives easier?” Alec asked in disbelief.

“The world is sometimes unkind to warlocks. Sometimes we feel a temptation to be unkind back.”

There was a silence. Eventually, Magnus sighed.

“We weren’t talking about summoning demons,” he said. “We were talking about how hilarious it would be to impersonate a demon and get gullible mundanes to do stuff.”

“What sort of stuff?”

“Whatever it was we wanted. Massage our feet, run naked through the village square, throw rotten eggs at members of the clergy. You know, normal things joke cults do.”

“Sure,” said Alec. “Normal things.”

“I don’t remember actually following through with it. One would think founding a cult would be memorable. In fact, I don’t remember much of anything after that night. The next memory I have is almost three years later, heading to a vacation in South America. That was awfully strong gl?gg, but three years of amnesia seems excessive.”

Magnus looked grim.

“The conversation plus the three years of memory loss does not look good for me. The conversation is very suspicious, and the memory loss is very convenient. I have to find the Crimson Hand immediately.”

Alec nodded resolutely. “Where do we start?”

There was a long silence, as if Magnus was carefully considering his next words. He eyed Alec, almost as if he was wary of him. Did Magnus think Alec wouldn’t be able to help?

“I’m going to start by reaching out to some sources in Downworld for information on the cult.”

“What can I do? I can help you,” Alec insisted.

“You always do,” said Magnus. He cleared his throat and added, “I was thinking, it seems a shame to interrupt your first time in Paris with silly problems from my past and a bunch of delusional mundanes. You had a good time today, right? You should enjoy yourself. This shouldn’t take long. I’ll be back before you even get the chance to miss me.”

“How could I possibly enjoy myself,” Alec said, “if you were in trouble without me?”

Magnus was still giving him that strange, careful look. Alec did not understand anything that was happening.

“There’s always the cabaret,” Magnus murmured.

He smiled, but Alec did not smile back. This was not a joke. He thought of all the bright pictures flittering through the air and crossed his arms.

Alec had three close friends in the world: Isabelle, Jace, and their childhood friend Aline, who was actually more Isabelle’s friend than his. He had known them all, and fought with them all, for years. He was used to being part of a team.

He wasn’t used to liking someone so much but not knowing them inside out. He’d assumed that when Magnus fought by his side, it meant they were a team now. Alec didn’t know what to do if Magnus didn’t want to be a team, but he knew one thing.

“Magnus, I’m a Shadowhunter. Shutting down demons and their worshippers is part of the job. It’s most of the job. More importantly, someone has to watch your back. You’re not leaving me behind.”

Alec suddenly felt very alone. He’d come on this trip to get to know Magnus better, but maybe it was impossible for him to know Magnus. Maybe Magnus didn’t want to be known. Maybe he saw Alec as just a future one of those flying pictures, the fleeting moments that Magnus now had to struggle to recall.

Because Magnus wanted to keep this whole demon cult business private, and neither of them was sure, Alec suddenly realized, that private included Alec. What if Magnus really had done something terrible, hundreds of years ago? What if in the lost memories, Alec would find Magnus being foolish, or callous, or cruel?

Magnus leaned forward, serious for once. “If you come with me, you may not like what we find out. I may not like what we find out.”

Alec relaxed a fraction. He couldn’t imagine Magnus ever being cruel. “I’m willing to take the chance. So what’s our move?”

“I want some names, a meeting place, and/or a copy of the Red Scrolls of Magic,” said Magnus. “So I know exactly where to go. It’s almost sundown—we’ll make it to the Paris Shadow Market just about when it opens.”

“I’ve never been to a Shadow Market,” Alec remarked. “Is the Paris one especially glamorous and elegant?”

Magnus laughed. “Oh, no! It’s a total dump.”

CHAPTER FIVE

* * *

Shadow Market

“WELCOME,” SAID MAGNUS, “TO THE Arènes de Lutèce. It was a gladiatorial arena in classical Rome. It was a cemetery. It’s Paris’s sixty-eighth-most-popular tourist stop. And tonight, it’s where your faerie aunt Martha comes to buy her monthly supply of illegal newt eyeballs.”

They stood at the entrance to the Market, a narrow alley passing between ancient stone bleachers. To those without the Sight, the alley spilled into a large depressed circle of sand, still very clearly denoting a gladiator’s pit, empty but for a few stragglers. But for the denizens of the Market, it was a labyrinth of stalls crowded with Downworlders, a chaos of shouts and smells.

Even before they made their entrance they were under scrutiny. Alec knew it, and was jumpy and alert. A selkie sneaked an anxious side-eye at them as he passed, then not-so-subtly veered away.