The Red Scrolls of Magic (The Eldest Curses, #1)(84)

Aline went over to Helen and offered her a hand. Helen hesitated for a moment, then clasped Aline’s hand and let Aline help her to her feet.

“Thanks for the assist,” said Helen.

Alec put his bow away and left the underbrush at the edge of the garden, joining them at the wall. “You two make a pretty good team.”

Helen looked pleased. “We do,” she agreed.

“You helped too,” Aline added loyally. Alec raised an eyebrow at her.

Alec retrieved his arrows from the ground where the demon had vanished. He led them to the lowest part of the ruined stone wall, still well above their heads, but easily scalable by trained Shadowhunters.

On the other side of the wall was a ramshackle building, smaller than the main house. In front of it were six cultists, armed to the teeth and glowing like white neon in their pale suits.

“The tracking rune says through there,” Alec said quietly, pointing to the doors of the ramshackle building ahead.

“Right through the cultists,” said Helen wearily. “Of course.”

“It’s all right,” Aline said, putting her hand to her weapons belt. “I’m in a stabby mood.”

“Okay,” Alec said. “If we spread out—”

He broke off as the scream tore the night in half. It was a long scream, of pain and horror, wrenching and deep, cutting into his soul. The voice was unmistakable.

He let out a cry of dismay of his own before he realized what he was doing.

“Alec,” Helen said in his ear, gripping his sleeve with her small hand. “Stay calm. We’ll get to him together.”

Magnus’s cry ended, but Alec had already forgotten all his strategy, all his plans. He charged forward, wielding his bow like a staff.

The cultists turned in surprise, but he was already on them. He jabbed the nearest in the abdomen as he passed, then spun and twirled his bow overhead, striking the second in the face. The third cultist threw a punch that Alec caught with his free hand. Alec turned his wrist and twisted the man’s body at a severe angle, then slammed him into the ground.

Fighting mundanes was too easy.

Helen and Aline jogged up to him, each holding a blade. Catching sight of two more angry Shadowhunters joining the one who had decimated their associates, the remaining three cultists dropped their weapons and fled.

“That’s right!” Aline called after them. “And stop worshipping demons!”

“You all right, Alec?” said Helen.

Alec breathed hard. “Working out some aggression.”

“It’s the Shadowhunter way,” agreed Aline.

“I won’t be all right until we get to Magnus,” said Alec.

Helen nodded. “Then let’s go.”

Stepping over the cultists, they cut through the crumbling building, empty save for dust and spiders, and burst out the other side into—

An amphitheater.

It was ancient-looking, sunk into the earth, terraced with stone. Along the tiers an audience of Crimson Hand members, all dressed in the same white outfits, watched the action. A long flight of stone steps led down to a large wooden platform placed on the grass, acting as a stage. Alec’s eyes found Magnus immediately: on his knees, with his head hung low, in the center of a pentagram of salt. Shinyun stood over him, a sword in her hand. The maelstrom they’d seen from a distance was up close now, descending like a funnel directly toward Magnus, swirling with ash and light. The whole stage seemed about to be swept into the maelstrom, or burned wholly away.

Alec ran straight for it.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX




* * *





Old Sins


THE EARTH SHOOK, THE AIR pulsed, and Magnus felt a thousand needles puncture him from all sides. A force took hold of his mind and twisted it, squeezing it and kneading it like dough into an entirely different shape. He screamed.

Pain washed the world white. When Magnus blinked away the dazzle, he saw a small room with plaster ceilings and heard a familiar voice calling his name.

“Magnus.”

The owner of that voice was dead.

Magnus turned slowly and saw Ragnor Fell, sitting across the scarred wooden table from Magnus himself—a second Magnus. A younger, less-incapacitated-by-excruciating-pain Magnus. They were both holding large tin mugs, both in extreme disarray, and both very drunk. Ragnor’s white hair was snarled around his horns, like clouds that had been caught in a jet propeller. Ragnor’s green cheeks were flushed dark emerald.

He looked absurd. It was good to see him again.

Magnus realized he was trapped inside his own memory, forced to witness.

He approached Ragnor, and Ragnor reached a hand across the table. Magnus wanted to be the one his friend was reaching for. Hope was all it took; he felt his past and present selves reach toward one another, coalescing into a single body. Magnus was once again the man he had been, about to come face-to-face with the things he had done.

Ragnor said gently, “I’m worried about you.”

Magnus waved his mug with studied carelessness. Most of the contents sloshed on the table. “I’m having fun.”

“Are you really?” asked Ragnor.

The ghosts of old pain burned in him, alive and fierce for a moment. His first love, the one who had stayed, had died of old age in his arms. There had been too many attempts to find love since. He had lost too many friends already, and was too young to yet know how to deal with the loss.