Ghosts of the Shadow Market

by Cassandra Clare

The boy took a step back, nervous and agile, but stopped with his chin high. Apparently he had a question. Zachariah was not expecting the one he asked. “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. “Were they your initials?” the boy asked, his voice low and a little timid. “Back when you were a Shadowhunter, like me?” Brother Zachariah still considered himself a Shadowhunter, but Jonathan clearly did not mean any offense. No, said Jem, because he was always James Carstairs when he spoke of what was dearest to him. Not mine. My parabatai’s.