The Lost Book of the White (The Eldest Curses #2) - Cassandra Clare Page 0,58

Shadowhunters away, and when they were out of earshot, Magnus said, “I appreciate the backup, but you might need to wait outside Peng Fang’s. Last time, he clammed up the moment you arrived.”

“That’s fine,” said Alec. “I’m not worried about Peng Fang. I’m worried about you.” He peered at Magnus. “You really don’t remember anything from the alley?”

“Nothing happened,” Magnus said, and Alec looked like he was going to respond, but he didn’t.

They passed into the Night Quarter themselves, through a huge red velvet curtain. Inside all was dim, lit only by a truly enormous number of candles, in silver holders, and high above them a patchwork of fabric and canvas roofs blocked out any hint of the sun. It was like walking into a very Gothic circus tent.

“Vampires and their candles,” Alec said under his breath.

“I know! They’re even vulnerable to fire,” Magnus said. “But they can’t resist. They’re like moths, in a way.”

He was starting to wonder how they would find Peng Fang’s, when he noticed Alec had stopped walking alongside him. He turned and saw his boyfriend looking wide-eyed at something to the side, and followed his gaze. Then it took a moment for him to realize what he was looking at.

There in front of a velvet-draped stall—Vampires and their velvet, too, Magnus thought—was a full-size cardboard standee of Alec.

He blinked at it.

The cardboard cutout was in full Shadowhunter gear and had Alec’s face. Cardboard Alec was holding up a crystal decanter full of crimson liquid, and a speech bubble emerging from his mouth read, in flowing script, Mmmm! That’s good blood!

“Magnus,” said Alec slowly, “do you think maybe I have brain damage?”

“Wait here,” Magnus said, and began striding purposefully toward the tent, magic gathering in his hands.

Before he could reach the entrance, though, a stocky man had emerged from the stall and was extending his arms in welcome, a huge grin on his face. He had hair like a bumblebee who had become a rock star, and he was wearing a red-lined black suit jacket unbuttoned over a T-shirt with an illustration of a steam train on it. The cloud of steam formed puffy gray letters that read HERE COMES THE VEIN TRAIN!

“Peng Fang,” said Magnus. “I immediately regret having come to speak with you.”

“Magnus Bane!” Peng Fang said. “I haven’t seen you in—well, it’s been simply forever!”

“It’s been three years,” Alec said dryly. “You kicked us out of the Paris Shadow Market because you said Shadowhunters were bad for business.”

Peng Fang looked thrilled. “And Alec Lightwood! Hey, I’m so glad to see you two lovebirds are still together. Inspiring! A new era of cooperation between Shadowhunters and Downworlders! Here, let me give both of you a hug.”

Magnus held up a hand politely. “No touching, Peng Fang. You know the rule.”

“But—”

“No. Touching.” It wasn’t that Magnus objected to hugging per se, but Peng Fang had always been… enthusiastic about Magnus. And everyone else. Magnus had laid down the rule early in their acquaintance, sometime in the mid-eighteenth century, and he had never had any reason to lift it.

“What brings you to Shanghai? What brings you to my shop?” He continued smiling broadly at them.

“Never mind that,” said Alec, barely keeping it together. “What brings me to your shop?” He gestured at the standee.

Peng Fang looked back at it with eyebrows raised, as though he’d just noticed its existence. “My dear boy, you’re famous. You founded the Downworlder-Shadowhunter Alliance. You’ve been a hero of two wars. You must understand how helpful it is for business to let people know that you’ve been to my shop.”

“You kicked me out of your shop!” Alec said, and Peng Fang held up his hands to shush him. Alec ignored this. “And you hit on Magnus.”

“I hit on everyone.” Peng Fang shrugged. “Do not take it personally.” He leaned toward Magnus. “You must come through to the shop. I’ve just gotten my hands on some vintage stuff. Pre-Accords, very hard to come by. I can’t say more, but let’s say there’s something a little… fishy about its provenance?” Magnus stared at him. “Mermaid blood. It’s mermaid blood,” he clarified.

“No, Peng Fang, we still don’t drink blood,” Magnus sighed. “We’ve come for gossip.”

“You’re missing out,” said Peng Fang. “Come inside.” At the entrance to the stall, he pulled the curtain back with a courtly bow rather at odds with his T-shirt, and waved them inside.

The interior was lined with glass cases, filled with cut-crystal vials and decanters. They glinted in the candlelight, but