The Red Scrolls of Magic

Alec wore his leather jacket on top of his hoodie pulled low over his head, shielding his face. Soft leather gloves masked the runes on his hands. He wasn’t fooling anyone. Alec would never pass as anything but a child of the Angel. It was obvious from his bearing, his grace, the look in his eyes.

Nephilim weren’t prohibited from attending the Market, but neither were they welcome. Magnus was glad to have Alec beside him, but it did complicate things.

In the crush of people passing through the narrow alley to get into the Market proper, they had a moment of brief but intense claustrophobia. There was a smell like wet animals and stagnant water, and everyone was uncomfortably close. And then a burst of blinding light greeted their emergence into what the Market denizens called La Place des Ombres. The smells were of woodsmoke and spice, of incense, and of herbs drying in the sun. It was pleasantly familiar to Magnus, a constant through decades, centuries, of change.

“The Paris Shadow Market isn’t like most other Shadow Markets. It’s the oldest in the world and its history is political and bloody. Nearly every major conflict the Downworlders had with mundanes, Nephilim, or each other before the nineteenth century started right here.” Magnus weighed his next words. “What I’m saying is, watch out.”

As they began to pass down the first row of stalls, Magnus noticed that they created a bubble of tension around them as they moved. Downworlders were leaning together, whispering. Some shot them accusatory glares, and a few of the vendors actually pulled their curtains down or closed their windows as they approached.

Alec’s brow was furrowed, his bearing stiff. Magnus stopped, made a show of reaching for Alec’s hand, and clasped it tightly. A werewolf slammed his stall’s window shut with a growl as they went by.

“Didn’t want to shop there anyway,” said Alec.

“Obviously not,” said Magnus. “Nobody wants to eat at a place called Wolfsburger. Way to come across like a cannibal, guy.”

Alec smiled, but Magnus suspected it was only for his own benefit. Alec’s eyes continued to scan his surroundings, his vigilance a reflex trained into him his whole life. Magnus let his hand slip out of Alec’s and let Alec drift a little away and back as they walked; he knew Alec was placing himself so as to have the best vantage point for situational awareness.

Magnus’s first stop was a large red tent standing prominently in one of the main streets. The tent was long, tall, and narrow, divided into a front foyer area and a large main room in the back. To the left of the entrance was a sign of a wine bottle filled with red liquid, bearing the legend THE BLOOD IS THE LIFE. LIVE WELL.

Magnus pushed the red drapes to the side and poked his head into the back room, where he saw the world’s first (and probably only) blood sommelier sitting behind a curved mahogany desk. Peng Fang had the appearance of a young man in his midtwenties, his face broad and pleasant, with a mercurial air and twinkling eyes. A tuft of his black hair was dyed violent yellow, which made him resemble a friendly bee. His feet were up on the desk and he was humming a jaunty tune.

Magnus had known Peng Fang casually since the early 1700s, when blood transfusions started to be all the rage. Magnus admired an entrepreneur, and Peng Fang was that above all else. He’d spotted a gap in the market—also the Market—and he’d filled it.

“Why, the High Warlock of Brooklyn,” said Peng Fang, a slow, delighted smile spreading across his face. “Just dropping in for a chat? Usually I’m intent on business, but with you, business would be a pleasure.”

Peng Fang was flirty with everyone. He was so consistent that Magnus had occasionally wondered if his interest was genuine. Now, of course, it did not matter.

“Business, I’m afraid,” Magnus said, with a shrug and a smile.

Peng Fang mirrored the shrug. He was already smiling, and continued to do so. “I never turn down a chance at a profit. Looking for potion ingredients? I have a vial of Dragon demons’ blood. One hundred percent fireproof.”

“Sure, I constantly worry about whether my blood is going to catch on fire,” said Magnus. “No blood today, actually. I need some information about the Crimson Hand.”

“I’ve been hearing a lot about them lately,” said Peng Fang, then looked over Magnus’s shoulder and stopped talking. Magnus turned his head and saw Alec emerging uncertainly through the curtain. Peng Fang rose from his desk and regarded Alec coldly. “My apologies, Shadowhunter. As you can see, I am with a client. Perhaps if you return at a later time, I can be of service.”

“He’s with me,” said Magnus. “Alexander Lightwood, this is Peng Fang.”

Peng Fang narrowed his eyes. “Do not make comments about my name. Obviously, my parents did not expect their little boy to become a vampire when he grew up. I do not find comments about my name humorous.”

Magnus decided not to mention at that moment that Peng Fang was known as Fang Fang among his friends. Peng Fang was clearly not interested in making friends with Alec. His gaze was fixed on Alec as though Alec might attack him at any moment. To be fair to Peng Fang, Alec’s hand was resting casually on the hilt of the seraph blade at his side.

“Hi,” said Alec. “I’m here with Magnus. I’m here for Magnus. No other Shadowhunters know I’m here. We just want to know about the Crimson Hand.” After a brief silence he added, “It’s important.”