Thank the Angel, Magnus looked perfectly safe, having emerged at the other end of the alley without noticing anything, and having made his way to an unobtrusive corner nearby, where he stood talking to a disreputable-looking mundane wearing a trench coat and sunglasses. As soon as the man caught sight of Alec, he startled and bolted away. Alec understood that Downworlders and Shadowhunters didn’t always get along, but he was beginning to take the Shadow Market’s attitude personally.
Magnus beamed at Alec and waved him over. Alec felt his own stern expression soften. He worried too much. But there always seemed a lot to worry about. Demon attacks. Trying to protect the people he loved from demon attacks. Strangers trying to make conversation with him. Sometimes all the thoughts seemed to press down on his shoulders, an invisible burden that Alec could hardly bear, one that couldn’t be laid down.
Magnus stood with his hand reached out to Alec. His jeweled rings gleamed, and he looked for a moment wild and strange, but then he smiled tenderly. Alec’s affection, and feeling of sheer luck that he’d earned Magnus’s affection back, overwhelmed him.
“Hey, honey,” said Magnus, and it was a little marvelous that he meant Alec. “What’s new?”
“Well,” said Alec, “someone was following you. I chased her off. She was a warlock. A warlock pretty ready for a fight, too.”
Magnus asked, “Someone from the Crimson Hand?”
“I’m not sure,” said Alec. “Wouldn’t they send more than one person, if they have a whole cult?”
Magnus paused. “Usually, yes.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Sort of.” Magnus linked elbows with Alec, careless of the mud on Alec’s clothes, and pulled him along. “I’ll tell you every detail when we get home, but the main thing is we’re off to Venice.”
“I was kind of hoping,” said Alec, “that we could rest. And go to Venice tomorrow.”
“Yes, yes,” said Magnus. “We’ll sleep in, and then it will take me ages to pack, so we’ll leave tomorrow evening and be there by the morning.”
“Magnus.” Alec laughed. “Is this a dangerous mission or are we still on vacation?”
“Well, I’m hoping a little bit of both,” Magnus said. “Venice is especially beautiful this time of year. What am I saying? Venice is especially beautiful any time of year.”
“Magnus,” Alec said again. “We’re leaving in the evening and getting there in the morning? Aren’t we taking a Portal?”
“We are not,” said Magnus. “The Crimson Hand is tracking Portal use, according to Tessa. We will have to rough it like mundanes do, and take the fanciest, most luxurious train available on a romantic overnight through the Alps. You see the sacrifices I am willing to make for the sake of safety.”
“Shadowhunters would just use the permanent Portals in Idris to transfer through,” Alec pointed out.
“Shadowhunters have to worry about justifying their expenses to the Clave. I do not. Get ready. No mission is so dangerous it isn’t worth doing in style.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
* * *
The Orient Express
THEY SLEPT IN, AND THEN it took most of the day for Magnus to pack.
Magnus summoned some extra clothes for Alec from one of his favorite boutiques “for unforeseen emergencies.” Alec protested that he didn’t want anything too fancy, but Magnus couldn’t be stopped from summoning him several beautiful sweaters without any holes in them, as well as a tuxedo he promised Alec was absolutely necessary. Breakfast came from the bakery down the street; lunch came from the traiteur the other way on the same street.
Finally, they took an unromantic but practical taxi to the Gare de l’Est, where he had the enjoyable experience of seeing Alec’s eyes widen as the luxurious blue-and-white train cars of the Orient Express pulled up, coming to a stop with a long, pronounced hiss. Several liveried men and women spilled out and began to assist the waiting passengers with their luggage.
Alec fiddled with the retractable handle of the rolling garment bag Magnus had made him organize his things into. He’d watched Alec stuff a shapeless duffel bag with wadded-up laundry until he had been seized by a great madness, had summoned several very nice pieces of luggage from his own matched purple set, and had stood watchful while Alec packed them carefully with his nicest and most appropriate outfits.
Now Alec set his own bag down and came over to Magnus. He squared his shoulders and prepared to heft Magnus’s largest suitcase up onto the steps of the train.
“No, no,” said Magnus. He kept the tip of his hand gently on the top of the lead bag and looked around with an expression of polite befuddlement. Soon, one of the handsomely dressed porters appeared, held out his hand for Magnus to provide him with their tickets, and took control of the entire luggage situation. Magnus felt mildly guilty when the young man grunted in surprise, straining to carry the bags up the steps, but generous tipping would make up for a lot.
They were escorted down the length of a richly detailed sleeper car. The plush carpeting, mahogany-accented walls, and ornate brass railings and fixtures reminded Magnus of the years he had spent with Camille Belcourt, his vampire paramour.
Camille. When their relationship ended, the Orient Express train hadn’t even started running yet. Now it was a tourist’s throwback—still luxe, still comfortable, but hearkening back self-consciously to an era that for almost everyone alive today was the almost unimaginably olden days.