The Lost Book of the White (The Eldest Curses #2) - Cassandra Clare Page 0,30

a different room of the house, apparently to discuss the situation with an older relative who wasn’t in good enough health to emerge. They asked Catarina if she would watch Mei, and of course she agreed.

Mei slowly made her way over to Magnus, her eyes wide and her ears twitching slightly. Magnus tried to look as unthreatening as possible. He thought it was going fairly well, but then she suddenly shrieked and retreated.

Magnus held up his hands in surrender, and Mei moved back even farther and began to sob.

Catarina made a disapproving sound at Magnus. “What are you doing? Talk to her! Interact with her!”

“She doesn’t like me,” Magnus said. “I think she’s scared of my eyes.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” said Catarina impatiently. “She isn’t scared of your eyes. She just doesn’t know you.”

“Well,” said Magnus, “I’m giving her space.”

Catarina rolled her eyes. “You don’t give toddlers space, Magnus. She’s been alone enough already.” She went over to Mei and got down on her knees to embrace her. Mei immediately stuffed her head into Catarina’s chest, and Catarina just held her there. “This child is very lucky,” she said quietly. “A warlock raised by loving mundane parents is… well, she’s lucky.”

“You’re very lucky, Mei,” Magnus said to Mei in Mandarin, in as gentle a voice as he could muster.

Mei peeked out from where she had buried her face against Catarina and looked at Magnus sideways, considering.

“And one day, you will wield great power!” Magnus said cheerfully.

Mei laughed, and Catarina gave Magnus a long-suffering look. But Magnus was pleased with himself.

“You see?” said Catarina. “It isn’t so hard.”

Magnus sometimes wondered if the girl remembered him. Probably not; he didn’t remember much from when he was only three years old. Why did he care, anyway? He’d spent an hour with her, decades ago.

Strange, to touch someone’s life and for them not to remember it.

* * *

NOW HE FELT THE BED sink down next to him, and opened his eyes to discover Alec beside him. Alec’s hair was wet, dripping onto his shoulders, blacker than a spill of ink. “First night without Max in the next room,” said Magnus softly. “For a while.”

“So I guess we can take our time,” said Alec, running his finger under Magnus’s waistband.

Magnus shivered. Clever repartee had deserted him; only Alec had ever been able to undo him so completely, reduce him to stammering component parts that all wanted only one thing.

“I guess we can,” he said. And then there was no talking, for a time. Alec flowed into Magnus’s arms, and he was all warm bare skin and damp hair and kisses that tasted like rain.

They kissed, at first gingerly, like they had when they were newly together, and then with a deepening sense of want. Magnus slid his hands down Alec’s back, palms following the slope of his spine, the hard muscle of his latissimus dorsi. His lips grazed Alec’s cheek, the little place behind his ear that Alec liked. There was something urgent in their connection, something that had been constrained and held back. Magnus reminded himself that there was no child in the next room, no chance that a siren-like wail would pierce the moment and declare it to be abruptly over. He missed Max, very badly. But he had also missed this.

Alec reached for Magnus’s shirt buttons and started to undo them. Magnus focused on distracting Alec while Alec tried to concentrate on fine motor movements. Normally this led to a frustrated tearing off of the shirt, with buttons flying everywhere, which Magnus always enjoyed. This time, however, Alec managed to keep it together, and Magnus shrugged the shirt off one shoulder, then the other. Alec moved down to kiss Magnus’s throat and the top of his chest, and then he stopped.

Magnus opened his eyes. Alec was looking at the wound that the Svefnthorn had given him, a diagonal slash across his heart glowing lightly in a shifting reddish-pink. Alec had seen the wound the night Magnus got it, but he hadn’t been face-to-face with it like this.

Alec continued looking at Magnus’s chest, his head tilted. Magnus regarded him with bemusement. Slowly, thoughtfully, Alec licked his finger, then brought it down, keeping eye contact with Magnus, and traced his wet finger along the length of the wound.

“Does it hurt?” he said hoarsely.

“No,” Magnus said. “It’s just the remnants of magic. It doesn’t feel any different than if it weren’t there.”

Alec reached his hand up to touch Magnus’s face, fingertips brushing from the curve