Son of the Dawn (Ghosts of the Shadow Market, #1)

by Cassandra Clare

He spent his long nights feeling love slip through his fingers, more a memory by now than a feeling.

“Now I see why we might want him. Helloooo, Brother Mackariah.”

“I am Raphael Santiago, second in command of the New York clan, and I dislike useless people.”

His betrothed had learned some of the language for him, in the time when he had thought he would live to marry her.

The only woman Zachariah had ever loved was a warlock. He had seen her weep over the Circle and its effects. Brother Zachariah had no reason to support the Lightwoods, but everyone deserved a second chance if they wanted that chance enough. And one of Robert Lightwood’s ancestors had been a woman called Cecily Herondale.

“Not that I would ever dream of nonconsensually drinking the blood of any Shadowhunter, because it would violate the Accords!”

“So how about it, Brother Lipsmackariah, will you help us out?”

and his annual meeting with a lady on Blackfriars Bridge were already testing the limits of what could be allowed.

He could not risk missing that meeting. Anything but that.

ignoring the chill howl of his brethren in his mind and thinking of Tessa’s clear eyes.

Zachariah was not able to feel all he had felt when he was mortal, but Tessa could still feel. He could not let her be disappointed in him. She was the last star he had to steer by.

The ice in Raphael’s voice could have laid the whole of New York City under frost for a week in midsummer.

I understand that you value Magnus highly. So do I. Once he aided someone very dear to— “No, I don’t!” Raphael interrupted. “And I don’t care about your story. Don’t tell him I said any of that. I can have opinions on my colleagues. It does not mean I have personal feelings about them.” “Hey, my man, great to see you,” said Ragnor Fell, passing by. Raphael paused to fist-bump the green warlock before Ragnor disappeared among the stalls and sounds and many-colored lights of the Market.

“He’s another colleague!” Raphael protested. I like Ragnor, said Brother Zachariah. “Good for you,” snapped Raphael. “Revel in your hobby of liking and trusting everyone. It sounds as appealing to me as sunbathing.”

“Love charm for the handsomest Silent Brother?”

“I hardly think Brother Beast-with-two-backs-ariah needs a love charm.”

I’m very flattered, though Brother Enoch is a fine figure of a man.

“I told you the ship was carrying cargo from Idris. I believe some Shadowhunter brat is onboard.”

Isabelle Lightwood was not accustomed to feeling nervous about anything, but anyone might be apprehensive when faced with the prospect of a new addition to the family.

If Jonathan Wayland was as much fun and as good a fighter as Aline Penhallow, who came to visit sometimes with her mother, Isabelle would be glad to have him.

Alec did not like new people. Whenever new Shadowhunters arrived from Idris, Alec would mysteriously slope off. Once Isabelle had found him lurking behind a large vase, claiming he got lost trying to find the training room.

from what Isabelle could see beneath the hood, he resembled one of the mundie singers she had seen in posters around the city.

“I know!” Alec whispered back. “Isn’t he amazing?”

Alec did not glance at her. He was studying the vampire. Isabelle started to get the same uneasy feeling that she got whenever she noticed Alec looking at the same posters of mundie singers that she did. Alec always got red and angry when she saw him looking. Isabelle sometimes thought it would be nice to talk about the singers, the way she’d heard mundie girls doing, but she knew Alec wouldn’t want to. Once Mom had asked them what they were looking at, and Alec had looked afraid.

She watched in horror as he pulled away from her and advanced with nervous determination toward the vampire.

“Hello,” said Alec. “It’s, um, very nice to meet you.”

The vampire boy gave him a thousand-yard stare that suggested a thousand yards was too close up and the vampire wished he were enjoying blissful solitude in the far reaches of space. “Hello.” “I’m Alexander Lightwood,” said Alec. Grimacing as if the introduction were vital information being tortured out of him, the vampire said: “I am Raphael.”

He advanced several steps toward the vampire. Raphael did not take a step back, but he looked like he wanted to. “Also,” Alec added shyly, “your jacket is cool.”

Isabelle wasn’t scared of much, but Alec was always fussing.

once his parabatai had stolen one and they had rowed it down the Thames.

“Oh no, Brother Hop-in-the-sack-ariah,”

“I’ve had it longer than I’ve had him. He’s from the 1950s. Jazz baby and greaser teen take on the world.”

“I will not. Once you go Zachariah, you never go backariah.”

“I’m not frightened of anything,” he said.

Why had he ever fought? Only he remembered. He would not allow himself to forget. Tessa, he thought. Will. Despair was never stronger than the thought of them. He could not betray them by giving up. They are Will and Tessa, and you were Ke Jian Ming. You were James Carstairs. You were Jem.

When he twisted in the air, Zachariah thought not of shadows, as he had with the vampires, but of light. When the boy landed on the deck, feet spread wide and staff twirling between his hands, he was laughing.

He sounded young, and defiant, and joyful, and a little mad.

It had been an achingly long time since he heard a laugh like that.

Are you all right? he asked. “Yes!” the boy shouted. Brother Zachariah could hear him panting at his back. Never fear, said Brother Zachariah. I am fighting with you.

“Maybe I wanted to rip my shirt for Brother Let-him-see-my-rack-ariah.”

“Oh, but I have a good feeling about Brother Zacharide-him-like-a-bad-pony.

“Brother Sixpackariah,” she said. “It’s been a pleasure.”

“I can’t imagine why,” said Raphael. “Those names Lily came up with were very bad.” People do not joke with the Silent Brothers often.

There are more kinds of love than stars, said Brother Zachariah. If you do not feel one, there are many others. You know what it is to care for family and friends. What we keep sacred, keeps us safe. Consider that by trying to cut yourself off from the possibility of being hurt, you shut the door on love and live in darkness.

I am not a typical Silent Brother, observed Brother Zachariah. “Just my luck I got the touchy-feely Silent Brother. Can I request a different one in future?”

“I am sure you’re a good boy.” Jonathan did not look sure.

The boy left the bridge, graceful despite the lurch of the boat and how weary he must be.

It struck Zachariah as a sorry thing, that the child would not have expected even the smallest mercy from a stranger.

“What do the initials mean? On your staff. Do all Silent Brothers have them?” They looked together at the staff. The letters were worn by time and Zachariah’s own flesh, but they had been struck deep into the wood in the precise places where Zachariah would put his hands on them when he fought. So, in a way, they would always be fighting together. The letters were W and H. No, said Brother Zachariah. I am the only one. I carved them into the staff on my first night in the City of Bones.

No, said Jem, because he was always James Carstairs when he spoke of what was dearest to him. Not mine. My parabatai’s. W and H. William Herondale. Will.