The Lost Book of the White (The Eldest Curses #2) - Cassandra Clare Page 0,50

disinfected.’ ”

“It’s hard to really prepare someone for it,” Alec said. “You kind of have to experience it for yourself.”

“Indeed,” said Kadir. “I am glad for Where the Wild Things Are, at least. I have learned, after all these years, where the wild things are. They are in this Institute.”

Alec said his good-byes and hung up, then gazed up at the clear night sky. Maryse had raised four kids in an unpadded stone building full of weapons. Maryse had raised him, and he had never so much as broken a bone under her watch. Max would be fine.

Will Magnus, though?

He pushed the thought aside and headed back toward bed.

* * *

MAGNUS WAS IN A HUGE, dusty hall. There were lights hanging from its ceiling, providing a gloomy yellow illumination, but their pendants, and the ceiling itself, were so far above him and so shrouded in darkness that he couldn’t make them out.

As his eyes adjusted, he realized he was in a kind of courtroom, an old-fashioned one at that, like something from a hundred or two hundred years ago. It looked like it had been abandoned for at least that long. A thick layer of dust and cobwebs covered every surface, and while most of the carved wooden furniture was intact, there were chairs thrown here and there that had not been picked up.

He was dreaming, he thought. Certainly dreaming. But of what? Of where?

Behind the judges’ bench were three seats. The middle seat was much larger than the others, and a thick gray cloud hung over it, like a giant Ala demon was perching in it, although Magnus could see no eyes. To the cloud’s right sat Shinyun; to the cloud’s left sat Ragnor.

Magnus lifted his hands and found that the spiked balls that had been etched into his palms had become real, solid, iron balls, a few inches across, embedded deeply. Blood seeped from around them. He held up his hands experimentally and bumped his palms together, hearing the balls clink dryly in the empty room.

There was a grinding sound that after a moment Magnus recognized as Ragnor clearing his throat. “They’re supposed to be so you can’t put your hands together in prayer,” he said. His voice was quiet, but it rang in Magnus’s ears clearly. “It’s a little old-fashioned, but you know how these artifacts are. Lots of symbolism, much less practicality.”

“Where are we?” Magnus said. He addressed Ragnor and ignored Shinyun. He had the distinct impression that Shinyun was leering at him, though of course her face was as deadpan as always.

“Nowhere in particular,” Ragnor said, waving his hand lazily. “We’re just talking.”

Magnus strode forward, though he felt heavier than usual, as though his legs were chained to weights. “Talking about what? Are you ready to give me any answers? Will you tell me what’s going on with this… this thorn? The chains on my arms? What you’re up to? What you want with the Book of the White? Why you’ve thrown in your lot with S—”

At that instant Shinyun put a finger up to her lips and shushed him. The noise was deafening, like being drowned in a crashing wave, and Magnus put his hands to his ears, then pulled them away quickly as he felt the iron spikes from his palms poke them.

When the noise died down, Ragnor said reproachfully, “You must not say his name.”

“What?” said Magnus incredulously. “Sammael?”

The room shook very slightly, disturbing dust clouds into the air.

“Sammael!” Magnus yelled. “Sammael, Sammael, Sammael!”

The room rumbled now and shook like a derailing train. Magnus struggled to keep his footing, but Ragnor and Shinyun remained in their seats, looking impatient.

“Why?” Magnus shouted at Ragnor, angry now. “Why him? Why would the great Ragnor Fell ally himself with any demon, no matter how powerful? That’s not what you taught me. It’s against everything you’ve ever believed!”

“Times change,” Ragnor said, annoyingly calm.

“And what’s with this… this thorn? What’s that got to do with S—with your Prince of Hell?”

Ragnor laughed now, an unpleasant grating sound very different from the laugh Magnus remembered. “The Svefnthorn? That’s entirely Shinyun’s doing. It’s old magic, Magnus, very old and powerful warlock magic, and it had no master. Shinyun found it, and then it had a master. Our master. The thorn will only help you become who you are meant to be.”

He stood now, and Magnus gasped. Ragnor’s horns, always so tidy and elegant, had grown and wrapped themselves fully around his head; now they ended on either side of his face,