The Red Scrolls of Magic (The Eldest Curses, #1)(63)

Alec had been right about the darkness waiting in Magnus, and the pain waiting with it. All that darkness, and all that pain, and Magnus was somehow still a blazing riot of life and color, a source of joy for everyone around him. He was the reason Alec looked into a mirror now and saw a complete person who did not have to hide.

They stayed locked together, the fire beside them dying. All was quiet. Alec held on.

“Don’t worry so much. It’s just a tiny little cult,” he said eventually. “Nothing we can’t handle.”

He felt Magnus’s mouth curve, pressed against Alec’s cheek, as Magnus smiled.





PART III


City of War




When Rome falls, the world shall fall.

—Lord Byron





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN




* * *





The Treasures That Prevail


THERE WAS NO OTHER CITY like Rome, Magnus thought as the domes of the basilicas first appeared on the horizon. Of course, he could say the same about many cities. That was one of the advantages of living forever. There were always new wonders of the world.

There was nothing like Tokyo, with its duality of culture and technology. There was nothing like Bangkok, with its metropolis that spanned as far as the eye could see. There was nothing like Chicago jazz and deep-dish pizza.

And there was nothing as uniquely spectacular as Rome, the golden Eternal City.

Magnus and Alec had fallen asleep next to the fire under the open sky. They awoke to birds chirping and the predawn light heralding the new day. It was honestly one of the best mornings Magnus had ever had.

His only regret was that they hadn’t gotten to use the pavilion he’d conjured. In fact, he didn’t think Alec had even set foot inside the tent. It was a pity. Magnus was very proud of his work. But there was always next time.

He felt refreshed and his mission was clear: wrap up this cult business, return to romantic vacation. The Crimson Hand were in Rome; Magnus would find them and whomever was leading them, and he would have many stern words and painful spells for that cult-stealing, vacation-ruining, Greater Demon–summoning lunatic. He was fairly confident about his ability to face down almost any other warlock in the world. (Even Barnabas. Especially Barnabas.) Even if the cult was deranged enough to be in communication with Asmodeus, Magnus was pretty sure they hadn’t actually raised him yet. He just thought there was no way, if his father walked the earth, that he wouldn’t have already made himself known to Magnus.

Maybe this could all be over soon.

Magnus folded and banished all of the camping supplies to whence they had come, Shinyun did the same, and they climbed into the Maserati.

“Don’t bother with the map,” he told Alec airily. “All roads lead to Rome.”

Alec grinned at him. “The map definitely doesn’t agree.”

It was only about two hours, and soon enough they were struggling their way through the streets of Rome, where the low wide lines of the Maserati were less of a stylish grace note and more of a target for the fleets of scooters and tiny Fiats swarming them from all sides. Rome had some of the worst traffic patterns Magnus knew, and Magnus had seen some bad traffic patterns in his day. They checked into a suite at the Palazzo Manfredi, a boutique hotel across the street from the Roman Colosseum, where without any actual discussion, they unanimously agreed to sleep in comfortable beds with fancy sheets in climate-controlled, beautiful hotel rooms until the evening. Even Shinyun seemed bone weary, heading for the room adjacent to theirs with hardly a word.

Alec whistled when they walked into their suite. He dumped his luggage to the side, leaned his bow against the wall, and sprawled full length on the soft red velvet of the luxuriously wide sofa.

Magnus cast a few protective spells to ward them as they slept, then joined Alec on the sofa, climbing over one arm and crawling on top of the Shadowhunter like Chairman Meow would have if they were home. He draped himself across Alec’s body, tucked his face into the curve of Alec’s neck, and inhaled the scent of him. Alec’s arm went around Magnus’s back, stroking a shoulder blade. Magnus dropped a kiss on the underside of Alec’s jaw and rubbed his cheek lightly against the rough scrape of Alec’s two-day stubble. He felt Alec draw in a shuddering breath.

“You smell amazing,” Alec whispered. “Why—why do you always smell amazing?”

“Um,” Magnus mumbled, delighted but fighting sleep. “It’s sandalwood, I think.”

“It’s great,” Alec whispered. “Come and hold me. I want you next to me.”

Magnus glanced up at him. Alec’s eyes were closed and he was breathing deeply.

Come and hold me. I want you next to me. Maybe it was easier for Alec to say things like that when he was half asleep. It hadn’t occurred to Magnus that Alec might feel self-conscious, saying things like that. He’d thought Alec didn’t want to say them.

Magnus did as requested and curled his body around Alec’s. Their legs tangled together. Magnus traced a forefinger across Alec’s cheek, down to his mouth. Alec’s lashes were long, thick, and dark, curving to touch the tops of his cheekbones. His lips were full and soft, his hair a tumble of rough black silk. He looked vulnerable in a way that was hard to square, sometimes, with the cold-eyed, arrow-slinging warrior he became in battle.