Lady Midnight
Page 38
Malcolm looked dispiritedly at the poster. “I’ll get in touch.”
The producers turned toward the front door, and the younger one jumped at the sight of Emma and Julian. Emma could hardly blame him. From his perspective, they must have appeared out of thin air.
“Sorry, gents,” said Malcolm. “My niece and nephew. Family day, you know.”
The mundanes looked from Malcolm to Jules and Emma and back again, clearly wondering how someone who looked twenty-seven could possibly have a niece and nephew in their teens. The older one shrugged.
“Enjoy the beach,” he said, and they marched out, brushing by Emma with a whiff of expensive cologne and the rattle of briefcases.
Malcolm stood up, listing a bit to one side—he had a slightly awkward way of walking that made Emma wonder if he’d once been injured and hadn’t completely healed. “Everything all right with Arthur?”
Julian tensed beside Emma, almost imperceptibly, but she felt it. “The family’s fine, thanks.”
Malcolm’s violet eyes, his warlock’s mark, darkened before clearing like a sky briefly touched by clouds. His expression as he ambled over to the bar that ran along one wall and poured himself a glass of clear liquid was amiable. “Then what can I help you with?”
Emma moved over toward the couch. They had made copies of the papers the faeries had given them. She set them down on the coffee table. “You remember what we were talking about the other night. . . .”
Malcolm put his glass aside and picked up the papers. “That demon language again,” he said. “The one that was on that body you found in the alley, and on your parents’ bodies . . .” He paused to whistle through his teeth. “Look at that,” he said, stabbing his finger at the first page. “Someone’s translated the first line. Fire to water.”
“It’s a breakthrough, right?” Emma said.
Malcolm shook his bone-white head of hair. “Maybe, but I can’t do anything with this. Not if it’s a secret from Diana and Arthur. I can’t get involved in something like that.”
“It’s fine with Diana,” Emma said. Malcolm gave her a dubious look. “Seriously. Call her and ask—”
She broke off as a man ambled into the room, hands in his pockets. He looked about twenty, tall, with spiked black hair and cat’s eyes. He wore a white suit that contrasted crisply with his brown skin.
“Magnus!” Emma said, jumping to her feet. Magnus Bane was the High Warlock of Brooklyn, and also held the warlock’s seat on the Council of Shadowhunters. He was possibly the most famous warlock in the world, though you’d never guess it; he seemed young, and had been kind and friendly to Emma and the Blackthorns since he’d met them during the Dark War.
She’d always liked Magnus. He seemed to bring a sense of infinite possibility with him wherever he went. He looked the same as the last time she’d seen him, down to his sardonic smile and the heavy jeweled rings on his fingers. “Emma, Julian. A pleasure. What are you doing here?”
Emma darted her gaze toward Julian. They might have been fond of Magnus, but she could tell from Julian’s expression—it was quickly hidden, smoothed over by a look of mild interest, but she could still see it—that he wasn’t thrilled Magnus was there. This was already going to be a secret Malcolm needed to keep. Adding someone else in . . . especially someone on the Council . . .
“What are you doing in town?” Julian’s tone was casual.
“Ever since the Dark War, the Clave has been tracking incidences of the kind of magic Sebastian Morgenstern used,” said Magnus. “Energy raised from evil sources, Hell dimensions and the like, to draw power and extend life. Necyomanteis, the Greeks called it.”
“Necromancy,” Emma translated.
Magnus nodded. “We built a map,” he said, “with help from the Spiral Labyrinth, from the Silent Brothers—even Zachariah—that reveals where necromantic magic is being used. We caught a flare of it here in Los Angeles, out by the desert, so I thought I’d stop by, see if Malcolm knew about it.”
“It was a rogue necromancer,” said Malcolm. “Diana said she took care of him.”
“God, I hate rogue necromancers,” said Magnus. “Why can’t they just follow the rules?”
“Probably because the biggest rule is ‘no necromancy’?” Emma suggested.
Magnus grinned at her, sideways. “Anyway. It was no big deal for me to stop by here on my way to Buenos Aires.”
“What’s in Buenos Aires?” said Julian.
“Alec,” Magnus said. Alexander Lightwood was Magnus’s boyfriend of half a decade. They could have gotten married under the new laws that allowed Shadowhunters to marry Downworlders (other than faeries), but they hadn’t. Emma didn’t know why. “Routine check on a vampire-worshipping cult, but he ran into some trouble there.”
“Nothing serious?” said Julian. He’d known Alec Lightwood longer than Emma had; the Blackthorns and the Lightwoods had been friends for years.
“Complicated, but not serious,” said Magnus, just as Malcolm pushed himself away from the wall.
“I’m going to go call Diana. Be right back,” he said, and vanished down the hallway.
“So.” Magnus sat down on the couch, in the place Malcolm had just vacated. “What brings you to the High Warlock of the City of Angels?”
Emma exchanged a worried look with Julian, but short of diving across the table and whacking Magnus over the head—inadvisable for so many reasons—she couldn’t think of anything to do.
“Something you’re not supposed to tell me, I take it.” Magnus templed his hands under his chin. “About the killings?” At their surprised looks, he added, “I have friends at the Scholomance. Catarina Loss, for one. Anything about rogue magic or the Fair Folk interests me. Is Malcolm helping out?”
Julian shook his head, a minute gesture.
“Some of the bodies were fey,” said Emma. “We’re not meant to get involved. The Cold Peace—”
“The Cold Peace is despicable,” Magnus said, and the humor had gone out of his voice. “Punishing a whole species for the actions of a few. Denying them rights. Exiling your sister,” he added, looking at Julian. “I’ve spoken to her. She helped make the map I spoke of; any magic that global involves the wards. How often do you talk to her?”
“Every week,” said Jules.
“She said you always told her that everything was fine,” said Magnus. “I think she was worried you weren’t telling her the truth.”
Julian said nothing. It was true that he talked to Helen every week; they all did, passing the phone or computer back and forth. And it was also true that Julian never told her anything except that everything was fine, they were all fine, there was no need for her to worry.
“I remember her wedding,” Magnus said, and there was gentleness in his eyes. “How young you both were. Though it wasn’t the last wedding I saw you at, was it?”
Emma and Julian exchanged puzzled glances. “I’m pretty sure it was,” said Julian. “What other wedding would it have been?”
“Hm,” said Magnus. “Perhaps my memory is going in my old age.” He didn’t sound as if he thought that was likely, though. He leaned back instead, sliding his long legs under the coffee table. “As for Helen, I’m sure it’s just an older sibling’s anxiety. Certainly Alec worries about Isabelle, whether it’s warranted or not.”
The producers turned toward the front door, and the younger one jumped at the sight of Emma and Julian. Emma could hardly blame him. From his perspective, they must have appeared out of thin air.
“Sorry, gents,” said Malcolm. “My niece and nephew. Family day, you know.”
The mundanes looked from Malcolm to Jules and Emma and back again, clearly wondering how someone who looked twenty-seven could possibly have a niece and nephew in their teens. The older one shrugged.
“Enjoy the beach,” he said, and they marched out, brushing by Emma with a whiff of expensive cologne and the rattle of briefcases.
Malcolm stood up, listing a bit to one side—he had a slightly awkward way of walking that made Emma wonder if he’d once been injured and hadn’t completely healed. “Everything all right with Arthur?”
Julian tensed beside Emma, almost imperceptibly, but she felt it. “The family’s fine, thanks.”
Malcolm’s violet eyes, his warlock’s mark, darkened before clearing like a sky briefly touched by clouds. His expression as he ambled over to the bar that ran along one wall and poured himself a glass of clear liquid was amiable. “Then what can I help you with?”
Emma moved over toward the couch. They had made copies of the papers the faeries had given them. She set them down on the coffee table. “You remember what we were talking about the other night. . . .”
Malcolm put his glass aside and picked up the papers. “That demon language again,” he said. “The one that was on that body you found in the alley, and on your parents’ bodies . . .” He paused to whistle through his teeth. “Look at that,” he said, stabbing his finger at the first page. “Someone’s translated the first line. Fire to water.”
“It’s a breakthrough, right?” Emma said.
Malcolm shook his bone-white head of hair. “Maybe, but I can’t do anything with this. Not if it’s a secret from Diana and Arthur. I can’t get involved in something like that.”
“It’s fine with Diana,” Emma said. Malcolm gave her a dubious look. “Seriously. Call her and ask—”
She broke off as a man ambled into the room, hands in his pockets. He looked about twenty, tall, with spiked black hair and cat’s eyes. He wore a white suit that contrasted crisply with his brown skin.
“Magnus!” Emma said, jumping to her feet. Magnus Bane was the High Warlock of Brooklyn, and also held the warlock’s seat on the Council of Shadowhunters. He was possibly the most famous warlock in the world, though you’d never guess it; he seemed young, and had been kind and friendly to Emma and the Blackthorns since he’d met them during the Dark War.
She’d always liked Magnus. He seemed to bring a sense of infinite possibility with him wherever he went. He looked the same as the last time she’d seen him, down to his sardonic smile and the heavy jeweled rings on his fingers. “Emma, Julian. A pleasure. What are you doing here?”
Emma darted her gaze toward Julian. They might have been fond of Magnus, but she could tell from Julian’s expression—it was quickly hidden, smoothed over by a look of mild interest, but she could still see it—that he wasn’t thrilled Magnus was there. This was already going to be a secret Malcolm needed to keep. Adding someone else in . . . especially someone on the Council . . .
“What are you doing in town?” Julian’s tone was casual.
“Ever since the Dark War, the Clave has been tracking incidences of the kind of magic Sebastian Morgenstern used,” said Magnus. “Energy raised from evil sources, Hell dimensions and the like, to draw power and extend life. Necyomanteis, the Greeks called it.”
“Necromancy,” Emma translated.
Magnus nodded. “We built a map,” he said, “with help from the Spiral Labyrinth, from the Silent Brothers—even Zachariah—that reveals where necromantic magic is being used. We caught a flare of it here in Los Angeles, out by the desert, so I thought I’d stop by, see if Malcolm knew about it.”
“It was a rogue necromancer,” said Malcolm. “Diana said she took care of him.”
“God, I hate rogue necromancers,” said Magnus. “Why can’t they just follow the rules?”
“Probably because the biggest rule is ‘no necromancy’?” Emma suggested.
Magnus grinned at her, sideways. “Anyway. It was no big deal for me to stop by here on my way to Buenos Aires.”
“What’s in Buenos Aires?” said Julian.
“Alec,” Magnus said. Alexander Lightwood was Magnus’s boyfriend of half a decade. They could have gotten married under the new laws that allowed Shadowhunters to marry Downworlders (other than faeries), but they hadn’t. Emma didn’t know why. “Routine check on a vampire-worshipping cult, but he ran into some trouble there.”
“Nothing serious?” said Julian. He’d known Alec Lightwood longer than Emma had; the Blackthorns and the Lightwoods had been friends for years.
“Complicated, but not serious,” said Magnus, just as Malcolm pushed himself away from the wall.
“I’m going to go call Diana. Be right back,” he said, and vanished down the hallway.
“So.” Magnus sat down on the couch, in the place Malcolm had just vacated. “What brings you to the High Warlock of the City of Angels?”
Emma exchanged a worried look with Julian, but short of diving across the table and whacking Magnus over the head—inadvisable for so many reasons—she couldn’t think of anything to do.
“Something you’re not supposed to tell me, I take it.” Magnus templed his hands under his chin. “About the killings?” At their surprised looks, he added, “I have friends at the Scholomance. Catarina Loss, for one. Anything about rogue magic or the Fair Folk interests me. Is Malcolm helping out?”
Julian shook his head, a minute gesture.
“Some of the bodies were fey,” said Emma. “We’re not meant to get involved. The Cold Peace—”
“The Cold Peace is despicable,” Magnus said, and the humor had gone out of his voice. “Punishing a whole species for the actions of a few. Denying them rights. Exiling your sister,” he added, looking at Julian. “I’ve spoken to her. She helped make the map I spoke of; any magic that global involves the wards. How often do you talk to her?”
“Every week,” said Jules.
“She said you always told her that everything was fine,” said Magnus. “I think she was worried you weren’t telling her the truth.”
Julian said nothing. It was true that he talked to Helen every week; they all did, passing the phone or computer back and forth. And it was also true that Julian never told her anything except that everything was fine, they were all fine, there was no need for her to worry.
“I remember her wedding,” Magnus said, and there was gentleness in his eyes. “How young you both were. Though it wasn’t the last wedding I saw you at, was it?”
Emma and Julian exchanged puzzled glances. “I’m pretty sure it was,” said Julian. “What other wedding would it have been?”
“Hm,” said Magnus. “Perhaps my memory is going in my old age.” He didn’t sound as if he thought that was likely, though. He leaned back instead, sliding his long legs under the coffee table. “As for Helen, I’m sure it’s just an older sibling’s anxiety. Certainly Alec worries about Isabelle, whether it’s warranted or not.”
