The Lost Book of the White (The Eldest Curses #2) - Cassandra Clare Page 0,112

cold mud next to the bonfire. While it did put out the flames, by the time they stood up their clothes were blackened and falling off, a development Magnus had not anticipated. He could, of course, summon up new clothing, but these didn’t seem the sort of people in front of whom it was wise to do magic.

The soldiers overseeing the execution had been frozen in bewilderment so far, but now were recovering themselves and drawing their swords.

Magnus looked at the woman. “Now what?” he shouted over the roar of the fire and the exclamations of the crowd.

The woman goggled at him. “Now what?” she yelled. “This is your rescue!”

“I’ve never done this before!” he yelled back.

“How about we run?” the woman suggested. Magnus stared at her stupidly for a moment, and she shook her head. “Good God, I’ve been rescued by an idiot!” She turned toward the crowd and held out her hands, and billows of blue smoke emerged from her palms, spreading in thick clouds quickly. The soldiers’ yelling became more confused.

“Yes! Good idea!” Magnus said. The woman rolled her eyes and ran. Magnus followed, wondering how fast they could find shelter and whether that tailor in Venice would have enough of that brocade material to make him a replacement for his coat.

Ragnor caught up with them many hours later, at a tavern on the road to Tübingen. By that point they had found new clothes and Magnus had learned some things about the woman he’d rescued. Her name was Catarina Loss; she had come to Leonberg to treat an outbreak of plague; she had been caught laying glowing hands on a patient and had been immediately arrested as a witch. Leonberg, she explained, was just mad for witch burning.

“Everywhere in Europe is mad for witch burning,” Ragnor said, ill-tempered. He was angry at Magnus, but equally obviously liked Catarina, and the two of them had quickly fallen into as pleasant a rapport as Magnus had with either of them. Unfortunately, their favorite topic so far was how stupid Magnus had been for attempting the rescue.

“I saved your life!” he protested.

“And a very careful, understated saving it was,” Ragnor said. “How do you think I found you? Within minutes the whole area was buzzing with rumors of a vile magician swooping through the sky over Leonberg on a black cloud, flying through flame and carrying a foul witch out of the fire meant to sanctify her.”

“So we stay out of the Holy Roman Empire for a while.” Magnus shrugged, grinning. “I won’t miss it.”

“It takes up half of Europe, Magnus.”

“Very overrated, Europe.”

Catarina interrupted this to put a hand on Magnus’s arm. “Thank you, though, truly,” she said. “It is terrible to be a warlock in these times.”

“I am fairly new to the experience myself,” said Magnus. “But Ragnor here says we must go our own ways.”

“We can rescue one another, though,” said Catarina. “Since no one else will rescue us. Not other Downworlders, not mundanes, and certainly not Shadowhunters.”

“May they all rot in hell,” put in Ragnor. But his expression softened. “I’ll go fetch us a great deal more to drink. And I’m not against traveling together, for safety. For now. I don’t generally hold with making friends.”

“And yet,” said Magnus, “you were my first friend.”

Catarina gave him a small smile. “Perhaps I will be your friend too. Someone has to stop you from making a complete fool of yourself.”

“Hear, hear,” said Ragnor, draining his glass. “You’re an idiot.”

“I like him,” Catarina told Ragnor. “There is something righteous about someone who doesn’t turn away from danger, even when he should. Someone who sees suffering and will always choose to plunge into the flames.”

By morning, they were all friends. The whole world had changed since then, but that hadn’t changed.

* * *

MAGNUS’S KNOWLEDGE OF SHANGHAI GEOGRAPHY was a little rusty, and he was turned around in the starless emptiness of Diyu, but since he could apparently fly now, he let himself drift over the reversed city until he found what he was looking for.

The temple was small and, like everything else in Diyu, ruined. It had been a humble building to begin with, a simple one-room structure of ochre-stained brick walls, its roof plain and undecorated. Back in actual Shanghai, it had probably been built for a single family.

There was a mark across the side, a slash of black paint that looked familiar. It was the same design that had been graffitied on the side of the modern apartment