The Lost Book of the White (The Eldest Curses #2) - Cassandra Clare Page 0,29
scandalous parties in the 1930s. Du Yuesheng had been a dangerous, violent man, but extremely intelligent: far too intelligent to suppose Magnus had any interest in opium. They usually talked about opera, and opera singers.
Now, decades after his death, it was the Mansion Hotel. It reminded Magnus of an earlier time—not a better time, just an earlier time. But who might stay in the Mansion Hotel today who remembered it as it was? Only the very oldest mundanes, if any remained. The place was decorated with relics of bygone, more decadent days: an old opium pipe, a phonograph that still played opera from crackling speakers, sepia photographs on the walls that Magnus had magically removed himself from, deep velvet chairs, and carved ebony cabinets. It was a great pleasure to sweep in through the gates and up the steps, past small stone guardians and fountains, and approach the opulent crystal-white facade with anticipation.
Magnus looked over at the others. They had iratzed and otherwise cleaned themselves up, but were still bedraggled enough from the fight that they’d kept their glamours on and waited outside as he went by himself to check in.
Magnus returned with keys dangling from his fingers, and they split into three groups. Magnus had booked a balcony suite for himself and Alec; he opened the door with a flourish.
Alec looked around consideringly. Magnus couldn’t help but remember the young man Alec had been when they’d first visited Venice, the way he’d touched everything in their hotel room with wondering, surprised fingers.
Now he smiled. “It’s very you.”
Magnus laughed. “Because it’s opulent yet tasteful?”
“That, but—I’m sure there are plenty more over-the-top hotels in Shanghai. More jewels, more gold, more glitter.”
“I’m not always over-the-top,” Magnus protested, sitting down on the end of the bed.
“Exactly,” Alec said, and leaned over to kiss him. “This hotel feels like a piece of the past. Not modern glass-and-steel Shanghai, a different place. Not quieter or less, just—different.”
Magnus felt his heart swell up with love for this man who understood him so well. But all he said was, “It’s way better than whatever barracks the Institute would put you in—”
Alec had thrown his jacket over a chair as they came in, and now whipped his shirt off. He grinned as it came over his head.
“Well,” said Magnus, “my evening is looking better and better.”
“It’s a good thing you think scars are sexy,” Alec said. He brushed at his arm and made a face. “I feel like I rolled in snake demon. I need a shower. Be right back? Hold that thought?”
Magnus pulled him down for another kiss, then, just for good measure, planted another one on the side of his jaw. Alec inhaled, his eyes closing. He bit Magnus gently on the lower lip and drew away. “Shower.”
Relenting, Magnus fell back on the bed and let his eyes close.
The last time he’d been in Shanghai, it had been in 1990, with Catarina. It was the first time he’d set foot in the city since things had become bad there, in the 1940s, and stayed bad through the fifties and sixties and seventies. A family of Sighted mundanes had found and adopted a young warlock, only a toddler, and they desperately needed someone to teach them how to parent a Downworlder. The warlocks of Shanghai at the time were a strange lot, scholars obsessed with Chinese astrology and disinterested in the problems of a stray child; they would have just taken her away from the mundanes and left her to run in the streets of the Shadow Concession, taken care of by whatever Downworlders were around. Concerned parties had found Catarina, and she had convinced Magnus to come with her as an interpreter, and, Magnus suspected, because she was worried about him.
The warlock child was a scared-looking girl with huge bat ears, maybe three years old. When she saw Magnus for the first time, crowded into the tiny kitchen with her new parents and Catarina, she burst into tears, which did not strike him as a great start.
So he kept his distance while Catarina talked with the parents. Luckily, they knew about Downworld already, and Magnus found himself writing down lists in Chinese of magical supplies as Catarina rattled off her recommendations in English. When there was a pause, he tried to flash a smile at the child—apparently named Mei—who ducked behind her mother’s leg.
Was it his eyes? He returned to translating for Catarina, feeling self-conscious. A rare experience for him.