Malcolm, seeing them, waved. The vistors were white men in their forties with nondescript faces. Malcolm made a nonchalant gesture with his fingers, and they froze in place, eyes staring blankly.
“It always creeps me out when you do that,” Emma said. She walked up to one of the frozen men and poked him thoughtfully. He tilted slightly.
“Don’t break the movie producer,” said Malcolm. “I’d have to hide the body in the rock garden.”
“You’re the one who froze him.” Julian sat down on the arm of the couch. Emma slumped down onto the cushions beside him, feet on the coffee table. She wiggled her toes in their sandals.
Malcolm blinked. “But how else am I meant to talk to you without them hearing?”
“You could ask us to wait till your meeting is over,” Julian said. “It probably wouldn’t be a major risk to any lives.”
“You’re Shadowhunters. It could always be life-or-death,” said Malcolm, not unreasonably. “Besides, I’m not sure I want the job. They’re movie producers and they want me to cast a spell to ensure the success of their new release. But it looks terrible.” He stared glumly at the poster on the sofa beside him. It showed several birds flying toward the viewer, with the caption EAGLE EXPLOSION THREE: FEATHERS FLY.
“Does anything happen in this movie that wasn’t adequately covered in Eagle Explosion One and Two?” Julian asked.
“More eagles.”
“Does it matter if it’s terrible? Terrible movies do well all the time,” Emma pointed out. She knew more about movies than she wished she did. Most Shadowhunters paid little attention to mundane culture, but you couldn’t live in Los Angeles and escape it.
“It means a stronger spell. More work for me. But it does pay well. And I’ve been thinking of installing a train in my house. It could bring me shrimp crackers from the kitchen.”
“A train?” Julian echoed. “How big a train?”
“Small. Medium. Like this.” Malcolm gestured, low to the ground. “It would go ‘choo-choo’—” He snapped his fingers to punctuate the noise, and the movie producers jerked into life.
“Whoops,” Malcolm said as they blinked. “Didn’t mean to do that.”
“Mr. Fade,” said the older one. “You’ll consider our offer?”
Malcolm looked dispiritedly at the poster. “I’ll get in touch.”
The producers turned toward the front door, and the younger one jumped at the sight of Emma and Julian. Emma could hardly blame him. From his perspective, they must have appeared out of thin air.
“Sorry, gents,” said Malcolm. “My niece and nephew. Family day, you know.”
The mundanes looked from Malcolm to Jules and Emma and back again, clearly wondering how someone who looked twenty-seven could possibly have a niece and nephew in their teens. The older one shrugged.
“Enjoy the beach,” he said, and they marched out, brushing by Emma with a whiff of expensive cologne and the rattle of briefcases.
Malcolm stood up, listing a bit to one side—he had a slightly awkward way of walking that made Emma wonder if he’d once been injured and hadn’t completely healed. “Everything all right with Arthur?”
Julian tensed beside Emma, almost imperceptibly, but she felt it. “The family’s fine, thanks.”
Malcolm’s violet eyes, his warlock’s mark, darkened before clearing like a sky briefly touched by clouds. His expression as he ambled over to the bar that ran along one wall and poured himself a glass of clear liquid was amiable. “Then what can I help you with?”
Emma moved over toward the couch. They had made copies of the papers the faeries had given them. She set them down on the coffee table. “You remember what we were talking about the other night. . . .”
Malcolm put his glass aside and picked up the papers. “That demon language again,” he said. “The one that was on that body you found in the alley, and on your parents’ bodies . . .” He paused to whistle through his teeth. “Look at that,” he said, stabbing his finger at the first page. “Someone’s translated the first line. Fire to water.”
“It’s a breakthrough, right?” Emma said.
Malcolm shook his bone-white head of hair. “Maybe, but I can’t do anything with this. Not if it’s a secret from Diana and Arthur. I can’t get involved in something like that.”
“It’s fine with Diana,” Emma said. Malcolm gave her a dubious look. “Seriously. Call her and ask—”
She broke off as a man ambled into the room, hands in his pockets. He looked about twenty, tall, with spiked black hair and cat’s eyes. He wore a white suit that contrasted crisply with his brown skin.