Son of the Dawn (Ghosts of the Shadow Market #1)(2)

I believe we have a mutual friend, said Brother Zachariah.

“I don’t think so,” said Raphael Santiago. “I don’t have friends.”

“Oh, thank you very much,” said the woman at his side.

“You, Lily,” said Raphael coldly, “are my subordinate.” He turned back to Brother Zachariah. “I assume you refer to the warlock Magnus Bane. He is a colleague who always has more dealings with Shadowhunters than I approve of.”

Zachariah wondered if Lily spoke Mandarin. The Silent Brothers, speaking mind to mind, had no need for language, but sometimes Zachariah missed his. There had been nights—in the Silent City it was always night—when he could not remember his own name, but he could remember the sound of his mother or his father or his betrothed speaking Mandarin. His betrothed had learned some of the language for him, in the time when he had thought he would live to marry her. He would not have minded talking with Lily longer, but he did not particularly like her companion’s attitude.

Since you do not appear to care for Shadowhunters, and you have little interest in our mutual connection, Brother Zachariah observed, why approach me?

“I wished to talk to a Shadowhunter,” said Raphael.

Why not go to your Institute?

Raphael’s lips curled back from his fangs in a sneer. Nobody sneered like a vampire, and this vampire was particularly adept. “My Institute, as you call it, belongs to people who are … how do I put this tactfully … bigots and murderers.”

A faerie selling ribbons with glamour twined in them passed by, trailing blue and purple banners.

The way you put that was not particularly tactful, Brother Zachariah felt bound to point out.

“No,” said Raphael thoughtfully. “I am not gifted in that arena. New York has always been a place of heightened Downworlder activity. The lights of this city work on people as if we are all werewolves howling for an electric moon. A warlock tried to destroy the world here once, before my time. The leader of my clan made a disastrous experiment with drugs here, against my advice, and made the city her slaughter ground. The werewolves’ fatal struggles for leadership are far more frequent in New York than anywhere else. The Whitelaws of the New York Institute understood us, and we them. The Whitelaws died defending Downworlders from the people who now occupy their Institute. Of course the Clave did not consult us when they made us the punishment of the Lightwoods. We do not have any dealings with the New York Institute now.”

Raphael’s voice was uncompromising, and Brother Zachariah thought he should be concerned. He had fought in the Uprising when a band of renegade youths rose up against their own leaders, and against peace with the Downworld. He had been told the story of Valentine’s Circle hunting werewolves in New York City, and the Whitelaws getting in their way, resulting in a tragedy that even that group of angry Downworlder-hating youths had not intended. He had not approved of the Lightwoods and Hodge Starkweather being banished to the New York Institute, but the word was that the Lightwoods had settled down with their three children and were truly remorseful for their past actions.

The pain and power struggles of the world seemed very far away, in the Silent City.

It had not occurred to Zachariah that the Downworlders would resent the Lightwoods so much they might decline their aid even when Shadowhunter help was truly needed. Perhaps it should have.

Downworlders and Shadowhunters have a long, complicated history full of pain, and much of the pain has been the fault of the Nephilim, Brother Zachariah admitted. Yet through the ages, they have found a way to work together. I know that when they followed Valentine Morgenstern, the Lightwoods did terrible things, but if they are truly repentant, could you not forgive them?

“Being a damned soul, I have no moral objection to the Lightwoods,” said Raphael in deeply moralistic tones. “I do have strong objections to my head being cut off. Given the least excuse, the Lightwoods would lay waste to my clan.”

The only woman Zachariah had ever loved was a warlock. He had seen her weep over the Circle and its effects. Brother Zachariah had no reason to support the Lightwoods, but everyone deserved a second chance if they wanted that chance enough.

And one of Robert Lightwood’s ancestors had been a woman called Cecily Herondale.

Say they would not, suggested Brother Zachariah. Would it not be preferable to reestablish relations with the Institute rather than hope to catch a Silent Brother at the Shadow Market?

“Of course it would,” said Raphael. “I fully recognize this is not an ideal situation. This is not the first stratagem I have been forced to employ when I required an audience with Shadowhunters. Five years ago I had coffee with a visiting Ashdown.”

He and his companion shared a shudder of distaste.

“I absolutely hate the Ashdowns,” remarked Lily. “They are so tedious. I believe that if I fed on one of them I would nod off halfway through.”

Raphael gave her a warning look.

“Not that I would ever dream of nonconsensually drinking the blood of any Shadowhunter, because it would violate the Accords!” Lily informed Brother Zachariah in a loud voice. “The Accords are deeply important to me.”

Raphael shut his eyes, a briefly pained expression crossing his face, but after an instant he opened them and nodded.

“So how about it, Brother Lipsmackariah, will you help us out?” Lily asked brightly.