“No,” said Etta, her cheek pressed against his shoulder. “No. If I could have it all my own way, I’d want a little more time with you. But I wouldn’t stop the clock for it.”
Strange and painful reminders came to Magnus every now and then, when he had become accustomed to Raphael as the always irritated and irritating housemate who had been wished upon him. He would be surprised with a reminder of what he already knew: that Raphael’s clock had been stopped, that his human life had been viciously wrenched away from him.
Magnus was constructing a new hairstyle with the aid of Brylcreem and a dash of magic when Raphael came up behind him and surprised him. Raphael often did that, since he had the silent tread of his vampire kind. Magnus suspected that he did it on purpose, but since Raphael never cracked a smile, it was hard to tell.
“You’re very frivolous,” Raphael remarked disapprovingly, staring at Magnus’s hair.
“And you’re very fifteen,” Magnus shot back.
Raphael usually had a retort for whatever Magnus threw at him, but instead of a reply Magnus received a long silence. When Magnus looked up from his mirror, he saw that Raphael had moved over to the window and was looking out onto the night.
“I would be sixteen by now,” said Raphael, voice as distant and cold as the light of the moon. “If I had lived.”
Magnus remembered the day when he had realized that he was no longer aging, looking in a mirror that seemed colder than all other mirrors had before, as if he had been viewing his reflection in a shard of ice. As if the mirror had been responsible for holding his image so utterly frozen and so utterly distant.
He wondered how different it was to be a vampire, to know down to the precise day, the hour, the minute when you stopped belonging to the common warm and changing course of humanity. When you stood still, and the world whirled on and never missed you.
He did not ask.
“You people,” said Raphael, which was how he referred to warlocks, because he was quite the charmer. “You stop aging randomly, don’t you? You’re born like a human is born, and you’re always what you are, but you age like a human does, until you don’t anymore.”
Magnus wondered if Raphael had read those same thoughts on Magnus’s face.
“That’s right.”
“Do you think your people have souls?” Raphael asked. He was still staring out the window.
Magnus had known people who thought he did not. He believed he did, but that did not mean he had never doubted.
“Doesn’t matter,” Raphael continued before Magnus could answer. His voice was flat. “Either way I envy you.”
“Why so?”
The moonlight poured in on Raphael, bleaching his face so he looked like a marble statue of a saint who had died young.
“Either you still have your souls,” said Raphael, “or you never had them, and you do not know what it is to wander the world damned, exiled, and missing them forever.”
Magnus put his hairbrush down. “All Downworlders have souls,” he said. “It’s what makes us different from demons.”
Raphael sneered. “That is a Nephilim belief.”
“So what?” Magnus said. “Sometimes they’re right.”
Raphael said something unkind in Spanish. “They think they are such saviors, the cazadores de sombras,” he said. “The Shadowhunters. Yet they have never come to save me.”
Magnus looked at the boy silently. He had never been able to argue against his stepfather’s convictions regarding what God wanted or God judged. He did not know how to convince Raphael that he might still have a soul.
“I see you’re trying to distract me from the real point here,” Magnus said instead. “You had a birthday—a perfect excuse for me to throw one of my famous parties—and you didn’t even tell me about it?”
Raphael stared at him silently, then turned and walked away.
Magnus had often thought of getting a pet, but he had never considered acquiring a sullen teenage vampire. Once Raphael was gone, he thought, he was getting a cat. And he would always throw his cat a birthday party.
It was soon afterward that Raphael wore a cross around his neck, all night, without crying out or exhibiting any visible signs of discomfort. At the end of the night, when he removed it, there was a faint mark against his chest, as of a long-healed burn, but that was all.
“So that’s it,” Magnus said. “That’s great. You’re done! Let’s go visit your mother.”
He had sent her a message telling her not to worry and not to visit, that he was using all the magic he could to save Raphael and could not be disturbed, but he knew it would not keep her away forever.
Raphael’s expression was blank as he fiddled with the chain in one hand, his only sign of uncertainty. “No,” he said. “How many times are you going to underestimate me? I’m not done. I’m not even close.”
He explained to Magnus what he wanted to do next.
“You are doing a good deal to help me,” Raphael said the next night as they approached the graveyard. His voice was almost clinical.
Magnus thought but did not say,
“You don’t need to be grateful,” Magnus said instead. “I’m not doing it for you.”
Raphael shrugged, a fluid easy gesture. “All right, then.”
“I mean, you could be grateful occasionally,” Magnus said. “You could tidy up the apartment once in a while.”
Raphael considered this. “No, I don’t think I will.”
“I think your mother should have beaten you,” said Magnus. “Frequently.”
“My father hit me once, back in Zacatecas,” Raphael said casually.
Raphael had not mentioned a father before, and Guadalupe had not mentioned a husband, though Magnus knew there were several brothers.
“He did?” Magnus tried to make his voice both neutral and encouraging, in case Raphael wanted to confide in him.
Raphael, not the confiding type, looked amused. “He didn’t hit me twice.”
It was a small graveyard, secluded and far away in Queens, hemmed in by tall and dark buildings, one warehouse and one abandoned Victorian home. Magnus had arranged for the area to be sprinkled with holy water, blessed, and made sacred. Churches were hallowed ground but graveyards not so.
All vampires had to be buried somewhere, and had to rise.
It would not provide a barrier like the Institute of the Shadowhunters, but it would be hard enough for Raphael to rest his foot on the ground.
It was another test. Raphael had promised not to do more than touch his foot to the ground.
Raphael had promised.
When Raphael lifted his chin, like a horse taking a bit between its teeth, and charged right onto the holy ground, running and burning and screaming, Magnus wondered how he could ever have believed him.
“Raphael!” he shouted, and ran after him, into the darkness and onto the sacred earth.
Raphael sprang onto a gravestone, landed balanced on it. His curly hair was blown back from his thin face, his body arched, his fingers clawed against the marble edge. His teeth were bared from vicious tip to gum, and his eyes were black and lifeless. He looked like a revenant, a nightmare rearing up from a grave. Less human, with less of a soul, than any savage beast.
He leaped. Not at Magnus but at the perimeter of the graveyard. He came out on the other side.
Magnus chased after him. Raphael was swaying, leaning against the low stone wall as if he could barely stay on his feet. The skin on his arms was visibly bubbling. He looked as if he wanted to claw off the rest of his skin in agony but did not have the strength.
