The Red Scrolls of Magic

“This is what I think of your party.” Barnabas flipped his hand, and the glass tumbled back toward Malcolm, spilling on Malcolm’s lavender jacket.

A gasp passed through the crowd, but Malcolm didn’t miss a beat. He looked down at his ruined outfit, pulled out a handkerchief, and began dabbing his face with it.

There was a feverish glitter in Malcolm’s eyes, as if he was enjoying himself. Once, Magnus knew, Malcolm had wanted a calm, quiet life. That had been a long time ago.

“I did you a favor,” Malcolm declared. “We all know your party-throwing abilities are subpar. I saved you the embarrassment of throwing a party and having nobody come.”

“How dare you?” It seemed as if vapor was rising from Barnabas’s head. The warlock knelt and slammed his palm to the floor, sending a white line of jagged ice racing toward Malcolm.

Alec stepped forward, as if to intervene, but Magnus gripped his elbow tightly and shook his head.

Malcolm waved dismissively and melted the ice into a hiss of steam. Then the constellation Orion leaped down from the grand ballroom’s ceiling and took a position next to him. The other constellations, forming vaguely human outlines, drifted down from the ceiling to join the fight on Malcolm’s side. Malcolm pointed lazily at Barnabas, and Orion loosed a roar and charged the short warlock, waving his musical instrument like a club. Barnabas froze the constellation before it reached him, then shattered it into a cloud of stardust.

“That was my first cello!” snapped Malcolm. “Do you know how hard they are to replace?” The constellations flanking Malcolm, their bodies transparent with hundreds of blinking specks of stardust and veins of light, charged Barnabas. They were halfway across the floor when the giant chandelier in the middle of the room came alive and began to use its many arms like an octopus, grabbing at any of the constellations within reach. The marble floor crumbled away near Malcolm, allowing metal pipes to emerge from the dust, snaking toward Malcolm. Before they could reach him, the ceiling exploded.

Most of the crowd scattered through the open arches of the room out into the night, terrified. Others, either braver or more stupid, remained frozen, unable to look away. The two warlocks flung ice, fire, lightning, and green globs of goo at each other. The mansion groaned as windows shattered, bolts of ice punched holes into walls, and jets of flame sprayed across the floor.

An ice bolt struck the wall a few feet away, raining a hail of debris on a group of nymphs. Alec leaped for them, grabbing up a shard of piano and lifting it over their heads as a shield.

“We should do something!” he shouted to Magnus.

“Or,” said Magnus, “we could recognize this has nothing to do with us, and get out of here.”

“They’re going to bring down the entire mansion. Someone is going to get hurt!”

Magnus threw his hands out and blocks of marble ripped loose from the floor, forming a short wall shielding the nymphs from a second ice bolt. “Someone is definitely going to get hurt, very probably us.” But Alec was in hero mode, and there wasn’t much Magnus could do to stop him. “And yet, I’ll try to mitigate the damage,” he added.

The room moaned and shook, and one of the walls buckled. Raphael pushed Elliott out of the way of falling masonry, then brushed white marble dust impatiently out of the other vampire’s dreadlocks.

“I am not feeling well,” said Elliott. “Is the building falling down or did I drink way too much?”

“Both,” said Lily.

“I am feeling fairly sick myself,” Raphael contributed, “of you being an idiot, Elliott.”

“Hello, Raphael,” said Magnus. “Maybe you’d like to follow Alec outside?”

He pointed to the place where Alec had been. He did not see Alec there. Instead he saw the railing on the balcony break loose. It tumbled in pieces toward Catarina’s oblivious head as she ministered to several injured werewolves.

Magnus watched as Alec—who had retrieved his confiscated bow and arrows, now slung across his back—ran into the crossfire, swerving around two metal pipes clutching at him, barely avoiding getting his head taken off by a swipe of the chandelier octopus. He dove just in time to tackle Catarina out of the way, and landed on his knees with her safe in his arms.

“Following Alec seems unwise,” said Raphael from behind Magnus. “Since he seems to be running directly toward danger.”

“Shadowhunters always do,” said Magnus.

Raphael examined his fingernails. “It might be nice,” he said, “to have a partner you knew was always going to choose you, not duty or saving the world.”

Magnus did not respond. His attention was caught by Catarina and Alec. Catarina had been blinking up at Alec, looking mildly surprised. Suddenly she began to struggle, crying out a warning.

Alec glanced up, but it was already too late. Another chunk of the ceiling had come free; it was dangling, about to fall and crush them. It was too late to escape, and Magnus knew Catarina was always dangerously low on magic. She healed whoever came to her and never saved enough to protect herself.

Magnus watched in horror as Alec flung his body over hers, bracing himself for the cave-in that would bury them both alive.

Blue fire sparked. Magnus raised his hands, glowing like lamps in the shadows. “Alexander!” he shouted. “Move aside!”

Alec looked up, surprised not to be crushed to death. He glanced across the ruin of the ballroom at Magnus, blue eyes wide. Magnus kept both hands steady, straining to keep the large chunk of concrete hovering just above their heads.