He shooed them in, shaking his head as they spilled into the caravan. Inside, Hypatia had left her mark on every surface: jewel-toned velvet cushions were piled on the fringed carpets; gilded mirrors and exquisitely framed Japanese illustrations lined the walls. Lamps glowed from coved niches, and in the center of the room was a small table covered in papers—scribblings about the Limehouse magic shop, from what Cordelia could see.
“Magnus!” Lucie said, delighted, as she and the others found places on the scattered cushions. It was delicious to be in the warmth after the icy night outside. Cordelia sank into a massive blue velvet cushion, wiggling her toes inside her boots as they began to thaw. James settled beside her, his shoulder warm against her side. “Are you and Uncle Jem back, then? From the Spiral Labyrinth?”
“I’m only in London for tonight,” Magnus explained, settling into a brightly painted rattan chair. “Hypatia has kindly allowed me to hole up here, as my flat is full of ice trolls. It’s a bit of a long story. Brother Zachariah, alas, is still in the Labyrinth. His work ethic is unimpeachable.”
Cordelia cast a sideways glance at James. Did it bother him that Jem was so out of reach? If so, she could not tell; his expression was unreadable.
“Perhaps my information is out of date,” Magnus went on, setting out a tray laden with small dishes of biscuits, nuts, and sugary jellies. “But isn’t there a murderer on the loose in London? Should you lot really be out on your own? Not to mention the Shadow Market isn’t that welcoming of Nephilim.”
“Dealing with monsters is what we do,” James said, reaching for a biscuit. “It’s our job.”
“And all the murders have happened in the early morning,” Cordelia said. “So it doesn’t follow that it’s not safe in the evening.”
“Besides, the killer wouldn’t dare strike here, not with so many Downworlders around. The murders have been happening in the shadows, on deserted streets,” said Christopher. “Drawing from a sample set of five, the logical conclusion—”
“Oh dear, not logic, please.” Magnus held his hands up in a conciliatory fashion. “Well, you certainly aren’t the first generation of young Nephilim to decide saving the world is your responsibility,” he said. “But what are you doing in the Market?”
James hesitated only a moment before taking the pithos out of his coat pocket and handing it to Magnus. He explained as quickly as he could the situation: Thomas mistaking it for a stele, James taking the object before the Inquisitor arrived, their suspicion that it might have something to do with the murders, Christopher giving it its name.
“I am not sure your friend Thomas was as mistaken as he thought,” said Magnus. He pressed down on a particular rune with a well-manicured finger. With a faint click, the box elongated and rearranged itself into a new, familiar shape.
“It is a stele,” Christopher said in amazement, leaning in close to stare.
“It is certainly modeled on one,” said Magnus. “And I would say this was Shadowhunter work, but… all magic has a kind of alliance. The tools of the Nephilim are angelic. Adamas itself has a seraphic alliance, while objects from the realms of demons are demonic in their very nature. This”—he nodded at the object in his hand—“is demonic. And the runes bear a resemblance to the runes of the Gray Book, but they have been altered. Changed. Rendered in a demonic script. A demonic demotic, if you will.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “All right, no one got that joke. Over your heads, I suppose. The point is, this is a demonic artifact.”
“Might I examine it again?” Christopher asked.
Magnus handed it over, his eyes betraying a flicker of concern. “Just be careful. It’s certainly not a toy.”
“An Iron Sister couldn’t have made it?” asked Matthew. “Gone a bit barmy on the crumpet in the Adamant Citadel and started up production of evil objects?”
“Certainly not,” said Lucie. “The Iron Sisters take their job very seriously, and even if they didn’t, you can’t make demonic objects in the Adamant Citadel. The wards won’t let you. I used to want to be an Iron Sister,” she added, as everyone looked at her in surprise, “until I found out how cold it gets in Iceland. Brr.”
“Could someone else have taken a stele and reversed its alliance?” James asked. “Made it demonic?”
“No,” said Magnus. “It was never a real stele. It was made the way you see it now, I’m sure of it. Very unlikely to have been Lilian Highsmith’s. I would agree—that object belongs to whoever has been committing these murders.”