The Lost Book of the White (The Eldest Curses #2) - Cassandra Clare Page 0,2
dimensional magic.”
“And its most humble. Why can’t he find his own realm?”
“Oh, he probably would eventually. He’s probably been looking all this time. But demon time is not the same as human time. Or even warlock time. It could be hundreds more years before he returns. Or it could be tomorrow.” He trailed off. In the corner, a wastebasket slowly tipped over and spilled its contents across the uneven planks of the floor.
“So you’re going to fake your own death. Doesn’t that seem—hasty?”
“Do you understand,” Ragnor roared, “what it would mean for Sammael to return to his full might? If he returned to Lilith, and they joined their power together? It would be war, Magnus. War upon Earth. Total destruction. No more bottles of Tokay! No more albatrosses!”
“What about other seabirds?”
Ragnor sighed and sat down next to Magnus. “I have to go into hiding. I have to make Sammael think I’m gone where nobody can ever reach me. Ragnor Fell, the expert on dimensional magic, must disappear forever.”
Magnus processed that for a moment. He stood and walked out of the bedroom to regard the devastation Ragnor had wreaked upon his living room. He liked this house. It had been a place that felt like a second home for more than a hundred years. Ragnor had been his friend, his mentor, for many more years before that. He felt sad, and angry. Without turning back, he said, “How will I find you?”
“I’ll find you,” said Ragnor, “in whatever new persona I adopt. You’ll know me.”
“We could have a code word,” said Magnus.
“The code word,” Ragnor said, “is that I will tell the story of the first night you, Magnus Bane, consumed the Eastern European plum brandy known as slivovice in the Czech tongue. I believe you sang a song that night, of your own composition.”
“Maybe no code word,” said Magnus. “Maybe you can just wink or something.”
Ragnor shrugged. “It should not take me long to reestablish myself. I wonder who I shall be. Anyway, if there is nothing more—”
“There is,” Magnus said. He turned and found that Ragnor had gotten up from the desk and come to join him in the living room. Magnus said quietly, “I need the Book of the White.”
Ragnor began to chuckle and then broke into a heartier laugh. He slapped Magnus on the back. “Magnus Bane,” he said. “Keeping me drowning in Downworld intrigue to my fake last breath. Why, why could you possibly need the Book of the White now?”
Magnus turned to face Ragnor. “I need to wake up Jocelyn Fairchild.”
Ragnor laughed again. “Amazing. Amazing! You not only need the Book of the White, you need to find it before Valentine Morgenstern. My friendship with you has always been a rich tapestry of terrible things happening, Magnus. I think I’ll miss it.” He smiled. “It’s in Wayland manor. In the library, inside another book.”
“It’s hidden in Valentine’s old house?”
Ragnor smiled even wider. “Jocelyn hid it there. Inside a cookbook. Simple Recipes for Housewives, I believe it’s called. Remarkable woman. Terrible choice of husband. Anyway, I’m off.” He began to make for the door.
“Wait.” Magnus followed and tripped over what turned out to be a statue of a monkey cast in brass. “Jocelyn’s daughter is on her way to ask you about the book right now.”
Ragnor’s eyebrows went up. “Well, I can’t help her. I’m dead. You’ll have to pass on the information yourself.” He turned to go.
“Wait,” Magnus said again. “How, um… how did you die?”
“Killed by Valentine’s thugs, obviously,” said Ragnor. “That’s why I’m doing this now.”
“Obviously,” murmured Magnus.
“They were looking for the Book of the White themselves. There was a scuffle; I was killed.” Ragnor looked impatient. “Do I have to do everything for you? Here.” He stomped past Magnus, pointed at the back wall with his left index finger, and began to write on it in fiery Abyssal script. “I’ll write it on the wall for you so you won’t forget.”
“Really? Abyssal?”
“ ‘I… was… killed… by… Valentine’s… goons… because… they…’ ” He paused and glanced at Magnus. “You never kept up your Abyssal, Magnus. This will be good practice for you.” He turned back to the wall and resumed writing. “ ‘Now… I… am… dead… oh… no.’ There. Easy enough for you.”
“Wait,” Magnus said a third time, but he didn’t actually have anything to ask. He grabbed at a random glass jar, tipped over on top of the mantelpiece. “You’re not taking your”—he peered at the label and cocked an eyebrow at Ragnor—“horn polish?”