Born to Endless Night (Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy, #9)

Jace was holding the baby somewhat awkwardly. His golden head, his hair full of fluff and dirt from lying down on the floor dealing with crevices, was bowed over the baby, staring down into the baby’s solemn little face.

The baby was dressed, Magnus saw. He was wearing an orange onesie, and the feet of the onesie were shaped to look like little fox paws. Jace rubbed one of the fox paws with a brown hand, fingers scarred like a warrior’s and slim as a musician’s, and the baby gave a sudden, vigorous wriggle.

Magnus rushed forward, realizing he had moved only when he was halfway across the room. He also realized that everyone else had lunged forward to catch the baby too.

Except Jace had kept hold of the baby despite the wriggle.

Jace looked flat-out terrified for a minute, then relaxed and looked around at everyone with his usual air of mild superiority.

“He’s fine,” Jace told them. “He’s tough.”

He looked toward Robert, clearly remembering Robert’s early words, and bounced the baby gingerly. The baby flailed, one small fist bouncing off Jace’s cheek.

“That’s good,” Jace encouraged. “That’s right. Maybe a little harder next time. We’ll have you punching demons in the face in no time. Do you want to punch demons in the face with me and Alec? Do you? Yes, you do.”

“Jace, honey,” Maryse cooed. “Give me the baby.”

“Want to hold the baby, Clary?” asked Jace in the tone of one offering an enormous treat to his lady love.

“I’m good,” said Clary.

The Lightwoods, including Jace, all stared at her with a kind of sad wonder, as if she had just proven herself tragically insane.

Isabelle had leaped down from the stool at the same time they had all rushed forward, ready to catch him. She looked at Magnus now.

“Are you going to kneecap your parents so you can hold the baby?” Magnus asked.

Isabelle laughed lightly. “No, of course not. Soon his formula will be ready. Then . . .” Isabelle’s face changed, set with terrifying determination. “I am going to feed the baby. Until then, I can wait, and help you guys come up with the perfect name for him.”

“We were talking about that a little as we came in from Alicante,” said Maryse, her voice eager.

Robert made another of his lightning-swift, cat-footed, and unsettling moves, this time to Magnus’s side. He put a heavy hand on Magnus’s shoulder. Magnus eyed Robert’s hand and felt deep unease.

“Of course, it’s up to you and Alec,” Robert assured him.

“Of course,” said Maryse, who never agreed with Robert on anything. “And we don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with. I would never want the little darling to have a name associated with—sadness rather than joy, or for either of you to feel like you have to do this. But we thought since . . . well, warlocks pick their own surnames a little later, so ‘Bane’ is not part of a family tradition . . . We thought you might consider, in memory but not as a burden . . .”

Isabelle said, her voice clear: “Max Lightwood.”

Magnus found himself blinking, partly in perplexity, but partly because of another feeling he found much less easy to define. His vision had blurred again and something in his chest had twisted.

The mistake the Lightwoods had made was ridiculous, and yet Magnus could not help but be stunned by their offer, and how genuine and sincere it had been.

This was a warlock child, and they were all Shadowhunters. Lightwood was an old, proud Shadowhunter name. Max Lightwood had been the Lightwoods’ youngest son. It was a name for one of their own.

“Or if you don’t like that . . . Michael. Michael’s a nice name,” Robert offered into the long silence. He cleared his throat after he spoke, and looked out of the attic windows, into the woods surrounding the Academy.

“Or you could hyphenate,” Isabelle said, her voice a little too bright. “Lightwood-Bane or Bane-Lightwood?”