The Red Scrolls of Magic

“You would joke about starting a cult that worshipped demons?” Alec asked.

Magnus gestured helplessly. “I would joke about anything.”

Mundanes had a phrase for when they didn’t remember something: “doesn’t ring a bell.” This was the opposite of that. A cult called the Crimson Hand . . . a joke long ago. It rang through him, almost exactly like a bell.

He remembered telling a joke, centuries ago. Ragnor Fell had been there, he was almost sure. He remembered a hot day and a very long night. He remembered nothing else.

Magnus drew in a deep breath and forced himself to remain calm. His old friend Ragnor was dead now, a casualty of the recent war. Magnus had been trying not to think about that too much. Now there was a gap in his own memories. Keeping centuries of life clear in your mind was difficult, but Magnus could tell the difference between memory that was clouded and memory that had been scythed away. He had cast spells to cloud and remove memories before. Warlocks did it for each other sometimes, to help their friends get through the trials presented by immortality.

Why would he have had memories of a demon-worshipping cult that were removed? Who would have removed them? He did not dare look in Alec’s direction.

“Tessa,” he said carefully, “are you sure you haven’t become confused by the Great Poison’s handsome face and dashing demeanor?”

“There’s a painting on the wall,” said Alec, his voice calm and factual. “You’re wearing the same jacket in both pictures.”

Rather than look at Alec, Magnus looked at the painting, which was of himself and his fellow warlocks Ragnor Fell and Catarina Loss. A werewolf acquaintance of an artistic persuasion had painted the picture, so none of their warlock marks were masked with glamour. Catarina was in a low-cut dress, showing a good deal of beautiful blue skin, and Ragnor’s horns curved in a forest of pomaded curls, his green face a contrast with his white cravat like spring leaves against snow. The corners of Magnus’s glowing cat eyes were crinkled as he smiled. Magnus had always treasured this painting.

And he was wearing the same jacket in both pictures.

He considered but rejected the possibility that the Great Poison had coincidentally owned the same jacket. It had been custom-made for him, as a thank-you, by the Russian tsar’s personal tailor. It seemed unlikely Dmitri would have made a second one for some random cult leader.

“I can’t remember anything about the Crimson Hand,” Magnus said. “But memories can be tampered with. I think mine might have been.”

“Magnus,” said Tessa, “I know you are not the leader of a demon-worshipping cult, but not everyone in the Spiral Labyrinth knows you like I do. They think you might be the one doing this. They wanted to go to the Shadowhunters. I persuaded the Spiral Labyrinth to give you the chance to stop the cult and prove your innocence, before they get any of the Institutes involved. I wish I could do more, but I can’t.”

“That’s all right,” Magnus said. He didn’t want to worry Tessa, so he forced his voice into breeziness, though he felt more like a storm. “I can handle this on my own.”

He hadn’t looked at Alec in some time. He wondered if he would ever have the courage to look at Alec again. According to all the laws of the Accords, the Shadowhunters should have been told about the demonic cult, and the murders, and the warlock suspect immediately.

Tessa was the one who looked at Alec.

“Magnus didn’t do it,” she assured him.

Alec said, “I don’t need you to tell me that.”

Tension eased out of Tessa’s shoulders. She placed her cup on the side table and stood up. Her gaze lingered on Alec and her smile spread, warm and sweet, and Magnus understood that she was seeing within him not just Will but Cecily and Anna and Christopher, generations of beloved faces now gone. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Alexander.”

“Alec,” said Alec. He was studying Tessa closely in return.

“Alec,” said Tessa. “I wish I could stay and help, but I must return to the Labyrinth as quickly as possible. They’re opening a Portal for me. Please take care of Magnus.”

“Excuse me?” asked Magnus, startled.

“Of course I will,” said Alec. “Tessa, before you go. You look . . . familiar. Have we met before?”

Tessa stood looking down at him. Her face was serious and kind.

“No,” she said. “But I hope we meet again.”

She turned toward the back wall, where a Portal was opening, illuminating the furniture and the lamps and the windows with an uncanny light. Through the curving doorway of light cut out of the air, Magnus could see the infamously uncomfortable chairs of the Spiral Labyrinth’s receiving room.

“Whoever the cult’s new leader is,” Tessa said, pausing before the Portal, “be careful. I think it must be a warlock. I did not learn much, but even as an acolyte of the cult I encountered powerful wards and saw spells turned aside as if they were nothing. They have a sacred book they spoke of, called the Red Scrolls of Magic. I was not able to get a copy.”

“I’ll ask around at the Paris Shadow Market,” said Magnus.

“They are watching for magic, so avoid traveling by Portal whenever possible,” Tessa said.

“You’re using a Portal right now,” said Magnus, amused. “Always ‘do as I say and not as I do,’ I see. Will you be safe?”