The Lightwoods, the Shadowhunters who run the New York Institute, are expecting a new addition to their family: the orphaned son of their father’s friend, Jace Wayland. Alec and Isabelle aren’t too sure they want a new brother, and their parents are not assuaging their fears, too occupied with the dark news that Raphael Santiago, second-in-command of the New York vampire clan, has brought from the Shadow Market.
Matthew Fairchild is the Consul’s son and the golden-haired boy of the Nephilim. He has the love of his family and his parabatai James Herondale, and nothing to wish for, except excitement and artistry and beauty that do not seem to fit in with a warrior’s way of life. Matthew gets more than he bargained for at the Shadow Market, where he commits the greatest sin of his life—something he can never tell his parabatai, or any of the honorable Shadowhunters around him.
Anna Lightwood, eldest child of Gabriel and Cecily, is mad, bad and dangerously dapper. Every rake has an origin story, though: now under Brother Zachariah’s eye we see Anna’s doomed love story unfold.
Every world contains other worlds within it. People wander through all the worlds they can find, searching for their homes.
Some humans thought their world was the only world there was. Little did they know of other worlds as close to their own as a room, or the demons trying to find a door through to them, and the Shadowhunters who barred those doors. Still less did they know of the Downworld, the community of magical creatures who shared their world and carved out their own little space therein.
Every community needs a heart. There had to be a common area where everyone could gather, to trade for goods and secrets, to find love and riches. There were Shadow Markets, where Downworlders and those with the Sight met, all over the world. Usually they were held outside.
Even magic was a little different in New York.
The abandoned theater on Canal Street had stood since the 1920s, silent witness to but not part of the blaze of activity that was the city. Humans who did not have the Sight passed by its terra-cotta façade in a hurry about their own affairs. If they spared the theater a look, they thought it as dark and still as ever.
They could not see the haze of faerie light that turned the gutted amphitheater and bare concrete halls to gold. Brother Zachariah could.
He walked, a creature of silence and darkness, through halls with sunshine yellow tiles, panels of gold and red blazing on the ceiling above him. There were busts grimy with age set in alcoves along the walls, but for tonight faeries had coaxed flowers and ivy to twine around them. Werewolves had set little twinkling charms depicting the moon and stars in the boarded windows, lending brightness to the decayed red curtains still hanging in the arched frames. There were lamps with casements that reminded Brother Zachariah of a time long ago, when he and all the world had been different. In one vast echoing theater room there hung a chandelier that had not worked in years, but tonight warlock magic had encompassed each bulb with a different-colored flame. Like burning jewels, amethyst and ruby, sapphire and opal, their light created a private world that seemed both new and old, and restored the theater to all its former glory. Some worlds only lasted one night.
If the Market had the power to lend him warmth and illumination for only a night, Brother Zachariah would have taken it.
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