“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, Yes, because there were times when I was as desperate as you, and as miserable, and as convinced that I had no soul. People had helped him when he’d needed it, because he had needed it and for no other reason. He remembered the Silent Brothers coming for him in Madrid, and teaching him that there was still a way to live.
“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.
“Well, you did it,” Magnus remarked. “By which I mean you almost gave me a heart attack. Don’t stop now. The night is young. What are you going to do to upset me next?”
Raphael glanced up at him and grinned. It was not a nice expression.