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

by Cassandra Clare

“Ugh, kids raised in Idris are exhausting,” said the woman.

Creatures are everywhere. Go to bed, Jonathan.”

Zachariah could not open his lips to taste the salt in the air.

He remembered, too vividly, how it had felt when the yin fen was killing him. Sometimes it was good to be without feeling. Sometimes being human

hurt too much, and Zachariah could not afford pity now.

There should have been something more than surprise to the idea, but all he knew was the hollowness he had felt walking through the Market and the sound of his brothers’ voices, colder than the sea. He did not care about these vampires. He did not care about himself.

It should all have ended a long time ago, anyway. He could scarcely remember a reason why he fought.

The dark rose before him. His brothers’ voices could be gone, along with the crash of the sea and all the light of the world that no longer touched him.

The dead woman’s eyes stared into his face, a last empty gleam before the dark consumed all. It seemed as if he were as empty as she. 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....

The boy was too young to even bear warriors’ runes.

Brother Zachariah knew he was not going to be fast enough. The boy turned his head, hair bright gold in the silver moonshine, and picked up Zachariah’s staff. Small and slim, the most fragile of barriers possible against darkness, he charged at the snarling teeth and bared claws. He struck her down.

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. It was not a child’s sweet laugh, but a wild exuberant sound that rang out stronger than sea or sky or silent voices. ...

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

Never fear, said Brother Zachariah. I am fighting with you.

“Raphael,” she said. “Raphael, you shouldn’t have done it.” “Sustained a wound that will heal in a night in preference to losing a valuable member of the clan?” Raphael asked. “I acted to benefit myself. I generally do.” “You’d better,” Lily muttered, wiping tears savagely with the back of her hand. “What would I do if something happened to you?” “Something practical, I hope,” said Raphael.

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

“I never let anyone have any fun,” said Raphael, and looked smug.

Life and death were nothing but ashes in the air.

“Oh, but I have a good feeling about Brother Zacharide-him-like-a-bad-pony. He won’t tell.”

He recognized her expression from a time when he had been able to feel that way himself. She looked sick with love.

“I prefer to wait as long as I can before dawn to test myself,” said Raphael. Lily sighed. “He’s Catholic. So very, very Catholic.”

“Brother Sixpackariah,”

City of Bones, where she could rest and he could not.

Ave atque vale, Catherine Ashdown, he murmured.

“It must be nice to be a Silent Brother. Aside from the fact Shadowhunters are annoying and pathetic. And

Of course she was joking, said Brother Zachariah. She is in love with you.

Raphael’s face twisted. “Why do Shadowhunters always want to talk about feelings? Why can nobody ever be a professional? For your information, I do not have any interest in romance of any kind and never will. Now can you drop this revolting subject?”

Brother Zachariah was familiar with what it looked like when someone blamed and hated themselves for what had happened to those they loved.

But then had come a laugh, and the sound had woken things inside him that he had feared dead. Once woken to the world, Zachariah did not want to be blind to any of it.

“Few are saved,” said Raphael. “Nobody is spared. Somebody tried to save me once, and I will pay him back one day. I don’t choose to owe another debt, or for anyone to owe me. We all got what we wanted. The Shadowhunters and I are done.”

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?”

So you think there might be a time when your path crosses with Shadowhunters again?

Have faith, Raphael. I know you remember how.

It had been a long time since he felt the light, and longer since he could truly enjoy the simple pleasure of it.

“You don’t look much like Michael,” Robert added awkwardly. “No,” said Jonathan. “I always wished I did.”

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

The boy moved with military discipline unusual in one so young, even among Shadowhunters.

Brother Zachariah briefly wished he could have been the Silent Brother at hand for this child.

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

They were not the eyes of a soldier, but a warrior. Brother Zachariah had known both, and he knew the difference.

So, in a way, they would always be fighting together.

The letters were W and H.

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.

He remembered traveling across the sea, having lost his family, not knowing that he was going to his best friend.

Jonathan Wayland, the child who fought like a warrior angel, looked intrigued.

“Now I have to go and live with the man my father was sorry about. I don’t want to be weak, and I don’t want to be sorry. I want to be the best.”