Chapter 1: MEETING MAGNUS BANE
Chapter Text
New York smelled like something had died in a gutter and decided to haunt the city out of spite. But Isabelle kind of liked it. The streets were quiet, too quiet, which normally would’ve set off alarms, but her brother and his best friend were at it again, and as long as they were arguing, nothing felt too deadly. Yet. She walked a few paces ahead, whip safely around her wrist and Seraph knives tucked in the holsters around her thighs, senses half-focused. The other half was too busy enjoying the verbal slap-fight unfolding behind her.
“I swear,” Jace was saying, voice full of long-suffering glamour, “if one of you tracks demon ichor into the Institute again, I’m turning training into pain. You’ll both be demoted to the fire escape.”
She smirked. “Ooh, roughing it with the pigeons. How will we survive.”
“I’m not joking,” he said, flipping his hair back like he was starring in a shampoo commercial. “Last time, it stained the grout.”
Her brother, bless him, actually answered. “I cleaned it. I used gloves.”
“You used my gloves,” the Shadowhunter with the golden hair snapped. “Do you know how rare dusk-cured lambskin is? It needs to be blessed by someone who’s never sworn. That’s months of paperwork. For cleaning. Cleaning!”
Isabelle bit her lip to keep from laughing. “That explains the shrieking,” she offered.
“That explains everything,” Jace agreed, throwing a dramatic look skyward. “Also, your brother reorganized the weapons wall. Again.”
She turned halfway, raising an eyebrow. “He what?”
“I optimized it,” her brother said defensively, pausing to scan the shadows near an alley. “Blade length, weight balance, visibility—”
“You put my Seraph blades next to the throwing axes!” the blond cut in, voice climbing in disbelief. “You know how I feel about edge clutter!”
Isabelle tried not to laugh. “I’ve seen you treat your own injuries with less drama.” She jabbed.
“I clean those blades with ritual oils,” he said, clutching at his chest. “They deserve to be respected. Curated. Not shoved into some chaotic, genre-bending pile of nonsense.”
“It was alphabetical,” her brother muttered.
Her mouth dropped open. “You alphabetized the weapons?”
“By name,” he added, which somehow made it worse.
She shook her head, grinning. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
He didn’t respond, but the look he gave her was pure sibling offense, mixed with a flicker of confusion, like he wasn’t sure if she was mocking him or had genuinely lost her sense of judgment. The look he gave her was so typically him, mildly offended, vaguely confused, like the very idea of being called cute was a personal affront to logic. She almost laughed. But under the surface, it hit that familiar spot in her chest. He really didn’t see it, did he? Always hidden under oversized jackets, sleeves too long, hoods up when they didn’t need to be. Muted colors. Neutral everything. Like dressing down could make him disappear, like if he blended in, no one would expect too much, or look too closely. It made her ache sometimes, how blind he was to himself. He had no idea how striking he was. Strong. Sharp. Beautiful. The kind of face that made people pause mid-sentence, the kind of heart that made them stay. Not that he’d let them approach long enough for them to see that. She just wished he did. But this wasn’t the moment for heart-to-hearts. So she just bumped his shoulder and smiled like she hadn’t noticed the way he looked away. So instead, she just smirked and elbowed him lightly.
“Still cute,” she muttered. Let him deal with that.
“You’re the reason we didn’t have friends growing up,” Jace said dryly.
“I had friends.” And Isabelle understood he was talking about them both, which was unbelievably sweet and uncommonly sad.
“You had plants and moral superiority,” his Parabatai chimed in.
Isabelle laughed, not bothering to argue. He’d been like this since they were kids, quiet, serious, and absolutely exhausting. And she’d loved him for it since that afternoon he found them both limping home from a rooftop dare, treated their bruises in silence, and finally said, One of you is going to break their neck for attention, and I’m not apologizing at the funeral.
“You love us,” she said, bumping her shoulder lightly into his.
He didn’t look at her. “You’re functional. That’s not the same thing.”
“Oh, please,” Jace said, adjusting the strap of his sword with an infuriatingly smug grin. “You grew up with us. That’s emotional exposure by default, brother.”
Alec snorted, eyes forward. “It’s a housing arrangement. And a tragic lack of better options.”
The younger boy leaned in just enough to be annoying.
“What makes it even more tragic is that you secretly love us and can’t function without our chaos.”
Isabelle smirked. “You’re part of the chaos, genius.”
“I am the chaos,” Jace replied, with the confidence of someone who absolutely believed it.
He opened his mouth for another snarky reply— Then stopped. She noticed it too, the shift in his posture. Subtle. Tense. His voice dropped.
“Something’s coming.”
The joke died in her throat. Her whip slid to the ground with practiced ease, her body shifting into stance before the thought fully formed. She scanned the shadows without a word. Jace sighed as he unsheathed his Seraph blade, all elegance and flair even in a fight.
“Right when I was winning the argument,” he muttered.
“No you weren’t” Alec said eyes fixed and bow drawn.
Isabelle didn’t answer. Something was wrong with the air—too still, too thick. No wind. No distant traffic. Just the faint buzz of a streetlamp dying somewhere behind them and the collective tightening of breath. Her brother’s voice was quiet but certain:
“Left. Rooftop.”
They all turned. Fifty feet down the block, something dropped from a building with a wet, chitinous crunch. It landed in a crouch, limbs too long and too thin, unfolded like broken fingers trying to mimic a human pose. It wasn’t human. The thing stood eight feet tall when it rose, insectoid and lean, its carapace a greasy black-green that glistened under the streetlight. Its head was the worst—elongated, eyeless, split by a maw full of slick, clicking teeth. Four clawed arms flexed open with a sound like cracking ice. One glistening sac pulsed visibly along its back, greenish liquid shimmering inside. Poison. Obviously.
“Gross,” the young woman said flatly, already rolling her shoulders as she struck her whip.
“I’ve seen worse,” the hotheaded blond boy said, drawing his Seraph blade with a grin so bright it was almost charming, if not for the way his eyes gleamed.
Then he charged.
“Idiot—!” Alec hissed, already moving to higher ground.
Isabelle followed just a beat after, whip flashing, more deliberate in her pace—but not hesitating. She peeled off to the right to flank, high heel boots skimming across cracked pavement as the demon hissed and lunged forward with a stuttering burst of speed. Jace met it head-on. Adamas met claw, the clang of it sharp and violent. He ducked low, spun beneath one of its hooked arms, and slashed across its midsection. A splash of dark fluid hissed against the street, eating into concrete with an acidic sizzle.
“Don’t let it bleed on you!” she called.
“You say that every time!” he shouted back, laughing.
Alec didn’t say a word, of course he didn’t. Just moved, silent and precise, arrow already drawn but not loose. Not yet. She knew that posture. Knew that angle of his focus. He wasn’t aiming at the demon. He was watching him. The golden idiot. All muscle and madness, throwing himself into the fight like pain was optional. And Alec? Alec was already three moves ahead; every breath held like he could will control into someone who’d never once entertained the idea. She didn’t have to guess. She knew what her brother was doing, tracking every reckless swing, every too-close dodge, every moment the blade missed that poison sac by a heartbeat. He couldn’t focus on the demon. He didn’t have the space for it. Because he wasn’t in the fight. Not really. He was watching the margins. Calculating exactly how to keep their best friend alive. Again. She swore under her breath and peeled off to flank—whip ready, jaw tight. Someone had to actually attack the damn thing. So she did, cutting low and fast, sliding in beneath its guard and driving her whip deep into the crook of its joint. The demon shrieked, high-pitched and stuttering, but didn’t fall. Its claws came down fast, nearly catching her shoulder, but Jace was already there, knocking the blow aside with the flat of his blade.
“Watch it!” he barked.
“I had it,” she snapped.
The demon twisted, swung a back claw directly at Jace’s side, too fast, too wide.
“Move!” Alec shouted, already releasing the arrow.
It struck the claw dead-on, just enough to jolt it off trajectory. It skimmed past armor instead of piercing flesh. The blond Nephilim glanced back and flashed him a grin like he hadn’t just almost lost a kidney.
“See? I told you you loved me!”
“I’ll love your funeral if you don’t focus!” Alec shot back.
The demon reared, the sac on its back beginning to pulse and swell.
“Oh no,” Isabelle muttered. “That thing’s about to pop.”
“Time to end this,” Jace said, and before either of them could stop him, he vaulted off a nearby bench, sprinted up the side of a parked truck, and launched himself into the air.
“DON’T YOU DARE—” Alec started, but it was too late.
Adamas flashed. The blade came down in one clean, brutal arc, slicing straight through the pulsing sac. The poison burst backward in a fountain of acid—just as he twisted and kicked off the creature’s shoulder, landing hard in a roll that burned across the pavement. The demon shrieked once, staggered, and collapsed into a twitching heap, melting into its own acidic death. The oldest sibling was already beside him.
“You idiot,” he said, breath shaking. “You stupid, reckless—are you burned? Let me see.”
The younger boy blinked up at him from where he was sprawled on the street.
“I’m fine.” “You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
Isabelle walked over, wiping ichor off one of her knives. “You two finished? Or should I leave you to your inevitable post-battle marriage proposal?”
They both glared at her. She smiled. Behind them, the demon sizzled quietly into nothing, its body collapsing in on itself with a final wheeze of acidic smoke.
They stood still for a beat longer, catching breath, checking weapons, shaking off adrenaline like water. Then Jace gave a satisfied nod and turned back toward the street.
“Well. That was disgusting. But I looked fantastic doing it.”
“Covered in poison,” Isabelle muttered, following his lead.
“Just the right amount of poison.” He said with a smirk.
They fell into step again, the patrol route pulling them past a row of cracked brownstones and a busted hydrant gurgling faintly into the gutter. The distant noise of sirens thinned and faded, the city stretching out strange and quiet around them.
“That demon,” Alec said eventually, eyes still scanning the shadows, “I haven’t seen anything like it before. The body shape, the toxin, nothing matches.”
“Same,” Isabelle said.
“Makes three of us.” Jace adjusted the strap of his gear, exhaling through his nose.
Alec’s eyes narrowed. “Let me see your arm.”
“I’m fine,” Jace replied immediately, not looking at him.
“You’re checking your gear like it’s bitten you.”
“It got on me, not in me.”
“Let me see anyway.”
The blond Shadowhunter rolled his eyes with the practiced ease of someone who’d had this conversation a hundred times. He held out his arm, turning it under the streetlight to show a long streak of black-green fluid smeared along the bracer of his jacket. The leather was scored, but not torn through.
“Didn’t touch skin,” he said. “See? All good. You may now return to worrying about something else.”
The eldest Lightwood didn’t look convinced, but he nodded once, eyes lingering a second longer than necessary. They kept walking. Five steps. Ten. Then Jace stumbled. He caught himself on a street sign, knuckles white against the metal. Isabelle was at his side in half a breath.
“Hey.”
“I’m—” He paused, blinking slow. “Okay. Probably.”
Alec was already in front of him, voice low and sharp. “You’re not okay.”
“Just a little... dizzy,” Alec’s Parabatai said, frowning like that fact surprised him. “Weird.”
Isabelle touched his shoulder, then his wrist. “Your pulse is up.”
“I didn’t get hit.”
Alec’s eyes dropped to the smear of poison again. Then lower, just beneath the edge of the bracer, where a faint red welt had begun to spread over his forearm.
“You did,” he said tightly. “Through the seam.”
Jace looked down, tried to focus on the mark.
“Well, that’s unfair.”
And then he slid down the pole, one knee buckling as Isabelle caught his weight on instinct.
“I’m fine,” he mumbled, though his voice had gone loose at the edges.
"No,” Alec said, already kneeling beside him, “you’re not. Sit still.”
“Wasn’t planning to do the tango,” he muttered, head tipped back against the signpost.
Alec was already rolling up the bracer, inspecting the red patch with grim focus. The skin around it was starting to look irritated, flushed and warm. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Isabelle did it for him.
“That poison’s not just corrosive.”
Jace blinked up at them both. “On the plus side... I still looked fantastic.” Then his eyes slipped shut.
Isabelle didn’t hesitate. She caught him under the arms while Alec moved in beside her, already ducking under his weight with practiced precision. Together, they hauled him up, his boots dragging as they shifted his weight between them. He was still breathing. Still conscious, barely. But heavy. Slower than he should’ve been.
They turned down the nearest alley that would lead them toward the Institute. Isabelle stole a glance sideways. It wasn’t until they were half a block in that she saw Alec’s face. Not the usual calm. Not his battle-read focus or his sharp, calculating stillness. This was tighter. Jaw set, eyes flicking to their brother every other second. He looked like someone recalculating a disaster they should’ve prevented. Which, knowing Alec, he was. She hated that look. It was always quiet and always sharp and always pointed at himself. And somewhere in that quiet, brutal mind of his, he’d already decided this was his fault. A breath later, Alec broke the silence. His voice was low.
“The poison. It spread fast.”
“Too fast,” she said, adjusting her grip. “What the hell was that demon? A drop and he’s out?”
He nodded once, but she saw his throat tighten. She went on.
“We’ve fought venomous before. None of them act like this. They splash, contact, seep-through. Not designed to kill instantly.”
“No,” Alec said quietly, eyes fixed ahead. “It’s designed to linger. Slow. Quiet. Make you think you’re safe.”
Jace groaned softly between them, head rolling slightly. Alec immediately tightened his grip, steadying him.
“Stay with us,” he muttered.
“He’s going to be fine,” she said, voice firm now, almost defiant. “We’re almost home.”
But even as she said it, her hand brushed the warm patch on his jacket, right above where the poison had soaked through.
“Don’t touch it!” Alec said with that brotherly tone he could muster in dire situations. The one they would actually listen to, not the one that just made them want to push a little wee more.
The church swallowed them in silence the moment the heavy doors shut behind them. Isabelle’s boots echoed off the worn stone floor as they half-carried, half-dragged their unconscious brother through the old nave, the weight of him slumped between them. Stained glass windows cast dull slivers of moonlight through dust-thick air. The scent of old incense and cold stone filled her nose—so familiar it barely registered anymore.
“Alec,” she said under her breath, not because he needed prompting, but because she could feel how close he was to unraveling.
He didn’t respond. His grip hadn’t loosened once. They turned into the side hall, toward the makeshift infirmary. What used to be the sacristy now held every salve, spell, and sharp object their tutor could pack into the stone walls. The place smelled like dried sage and metal and something sour beneath it all, tonics gone bad, probably. Potions expired or experimental. The room hadn’t changed since they were kids. One half looked like a hospital that had survived a siege—metal trays, old lights, gloves and gauze stacked with obsessive care. The other half was pure alchemy—open books, glass jars, bunches of herbs hanging from iron hooks, and dozens of handwritten notes pinned up like battle plans. Neat chaos.
They reached the heavy table at the center, solid oak, dark-stained and scored with the ghosts of old emergencies. Together they lifted the unconscious Nephilim onto it, careful not to jostle him. He made a sound, faint and dazed, but didn’t wake. Isabelle slipped off his jacket while Alec unbuckled his bracers with hands that looked steadier than they were. She watched him out of the corner of her eye. Alec wasn’t speaking. His silence was brittle, too still, too held in. He kept his eyes fixed on the task in front of him, but she could see how hard he was working to keep everything else locked down.
She’d seen it before. She’d seen it in the smallest things, the quick glances Alec tried to disguise as nothing, the silence that followed when their friend leaned too close or stretched in his undershirt without a care. The kind of quiet fluster Alec buried so deep it barely left a mark, except she always noticed. The thing he wouldn’t admit even under threat of death, because Alec wasn’t the kind of boy who let himself want anything too loudly. And definitely not someone. But Isabelle had eyes. And a brain. And a memory of every time Alec had watched him fall and flinch like it was happening to his own skin. She’d never said anything. Not because she didn’t care, but because he wouldn’t have known what to do with kindness.
The door creaked open behind them. Hodge stormed in, barefoot, shirt askew, already frowning like they’d dragged in a bomb.
“What happened?” he barked, crossing the floor in three strides and bracing his hands on the table.
Isabelle stepped back to give him room, trading a quick look with Alec, whose jaw was still locked in that silent fury.
“Demon,” she said. “Some kind of insectoid thing. Had a poison sac on its back. We killed it. He got splashed.”
Hodge peeled back the sleeve Alec had already torn open, eyes narrowing at the red, spreading welt along the young man’s arm. The skin around it had gone hot and blotchy. His brow creased.
“It didn’t even touch him directly,” she added. “One drop, maybe two, through a seam in the bracer. That’s all.”
Hodge swore under his breath. “How long from exposure to collapse?”
“Less than two minutes,” Alec answered tightly.
That made Hodge still.
“That’s—no. That’s not how standard demon toxins work. Not even with Higher Demons. He’d be sweating, fevered, nauseous first. Not just—”
He broke off and turned toward the far wall, already pulling open the cabinet of long-distance runes and emergency sigils and made a quick bandage.
“I’m calling for the Silent brothers,” he said. “Now.”
Isabelle swallowed and looked down at her friend, still pale, still breathing shallow. Then over at Alec, who hadn’t moved from his side. This wasn’t standard. And everyone in the room knew it. Hodge left with urgency, his footsteps echoing down the corridor and vanishing behind the closing door. Silence settled in his place. Heavy. Tense. Isabelle stayed where she was, eyes flicking from the still form of their best friend to Alec, who stood rigid beside him. Hands folded behind his back like he didn’t trust them to stay steady.
“He’s strong,” she said softly. “You know he is.”
Alec didn’t answer.
“He’s bounced back from worse. Remember the wyrm nest? He walked on a broken leg for half a mile just to finish the mission.”
“You don’t get it,” he said, voice low and even, but brittle around the edges, “I know what he’s going to do before he does it. I should’ve known he’d be careless. I should’ve stopped it.”
She gave him a small, crooked smile. “You two fight like twin blades—one breath, one motion”
He looked away again, jaw working silently. She didn’t push. She let the quiet settle again, thinking maybe he needed stillness, maybe just her presence beside him would be enough. But it wasn’t. He moved, restless, pacing the short edge of the room. Checking the bandage Hodge had applied, even though it hadn’t shifted. Looking for something to do. Something to fix. He wouldn’t sit still. She watched him, quiet and steady. He couldn’t wait in silence. Not when it was someone he couldn’t bear to lose.
The wait stretched on like a curse. Hodge had been gone nearly forty-five minutes. Long enough for the moon to shift in the high, stained-glass windows. Long enough for Isabelle to memorize every groove in the floor, every rise and fall of their friend’s chest. Alec hadn’t sat once. When the doors finally creaked open again, she was already halfway to them. Hodge entered first, his expression grim but steady. Behind him came one of the Silent Brothers. If he’d been human once, Isabelle couldn’t see it. Tall, narrow, with robes that trailed behind him like smoke. His skin had the sheen of polished chalk, his eyes sewn shut by thick thread, as was his mouth. His head was covered with the ample hood of his brown robes. He moved like time, gravity and about any laws of physics didn’t apply to him. She tried not to flinch as he passed. He said nothing as he entered the infirmary. Just swept in, gaze flicking once to their unconscious friend before gesturing silently for them to leave. They obeyed. Alec hesitated, but only for a heartbeat.
Now they sat just outside the closed doors, backs pressed to the cold stone wall. Alec hadn’t spoken since. She heard the murmurs of what the Brother was doing inside. The scent of incense drifted faintly through the doorframe, bitter, sharp. Time blurred. And then it stopped. The door opened. The Silent Brother stepped through as if no time had passed at all. His face betrayed nothing. Not compassion. Not grief. Not hope. Nothing but the quiet finality of someone too old to pretend surprise ever again. Alec stood up instantly.
“Well?”
The Silent Brother’s voice rolled like distant thunder inside of their minds. “The poison has bound itself. Rooted past the threshold of what may be unraveled. Its rhythm is in him now.”
Isabelle stood too. “So… can you fix it? Like you usually do?”
“I cannot.” The words were clean and hard inside their heads. “My magic speaks in the tongue of the Angels. This wound is born of another. It does not recognize the power of the Angels.”
“Then what do we do?” Alec snapped. His voice cracked slightly. “We’re not just letting him die.”
The Brother tilted his head, face turned on Alec.
“It is not death yet. But the river runs swiftly.”
He stepped forward. The light shifted oddly around him.
“You seek remedy in the wrong dialect,” he continued. “The venom is Shades formed. It was crafted, in a world where the hand of the Eternal has been forgotten. You need hands that speak the blood-language of Hell. That shape power through bargain and bone.”
“Warlock magic,” Isabelle said.
The Brother’s crippled eyes didn’t leave Alec.
“You have known the name before it was needed,” he resonated in their minds. “He walks threads that wind toward this moment still. He will come anon or heaven’s soldier will perish and join those fallen in the silent city.”
Alec’s voice had gone quiet. “Ok, so we get a warlock.” He turned his gaze towards Hodge “Who? And where?”
The Brother did not move an inch. “Call upon the warlock Magnus Bane.”
The Brother looked through Alec like he was seeing in his mind’s eye a version of him that hadn’t happened yet. Or perhaps already had.
“He will find the tether,” the Brother started “If you can bear what he unravels” and he added “And his heavy billing.”
Then, without another thought, he turned and disappeared down the hall as silently as he’d come. Leaving behind only the silence, and the name glowing in their minds.
Magnus Bane.
The Brother’s footsteps had faded, but his words still hung in the air like smoke. Isabelle turned slowly toward Hodge, who had remained in the corner during the whole exchange, arms crossed, brow furrowed like a man bracing for the consequences of inevitability.
“Do you know him?” Alec asked.
Hodge just sighed, pushed a hand through his thick hair, and nodded.
“I do,” he said. “Everyone in the inner circles does. Bane is the High Warlock of Brooklyn. Probably self-proclaimed though,” Hodge gave Alec a look. “He’s one of the oldest warlock registered in the country. Possibly the most powerful still breathing. Lives like a phantom, dresses like a prince, and curses like a sailor. He doesn’t do favors. He doesn’t do charity work. And he does not like the Clave. He calls us the Emotionally Constipated Crusade.”
Alec crossed his arms. “I don’t care if he hates us. He’s the only one who can help, so I’ll drag him here myself if I have to.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Hodge let out a dry chuckle.
“That’s a charming visual, but I should warn you, Magnus Bane does only what he wills.”
Alec didn’t blink. “I’ll find a way.”
Isabelle arched a brow. But Hodge just shook his head, stepping forward.
“You’re determined; I get it. And normally I’d tell you to go ahead and try your luck. But with him, you’ll need more than grit and good intentions.”
Alec narrowed his eyes. “Then what?”
Hodge’s mouth twisted into something between a grimace and a reluctant smirk. “Money,” he said. “A lot of it.”
“Warlocks don’t run on gratitude,” Isabelle said knowing a lot more about Downworlders than Alec did. “They run on contracts. Gold. Promises with teeth.”
“And Magnus Bane, he’s got expensive taste.” Hodge added.
Alec glanced toward the infirmary door, jaw set like stone.
“Whatever the cost,” he muttered “the Clave won’t let their most promising warrior die? They’ll pay, right?” he asked eyes big with childish hope.
**********
Alec didn’t speak a word on his way out of the Institute. Just threw his coat over his shoulders, buckled his Seraph blades into place, and walked out into the cold, late-night stretch of New York with purpose boiling under his skin. The address was a forty-five-minute trip. That wasn’t long enough, not to prepare, but he didn’t need time. He needed results. And if the Silent Brother and Hodge were both pointing him to that Magnus Bane, that meant there weren’t any other options. Which… figured. Of course, the only person who might be able to fix this was a warlock. A Downworlder. Alec kept his hood up as he moved through the streets, boots quick against the concrete. His thoughts followed him like a second shadow, louder than his footsteps, faster than his breath. He didn’t trust warlocks. He didn’t hate them, he didn’t much think anything about any Downworlder, but they made his skin itch. Power without regulation. Allegiance without anchor. They were wanderers, collectors, half-scientists, half-predators. You never knew what drove them. Curiosity. Greed. Spite. Sometimes hunger, if the rumors were true. And Magnus Bane? Magnus Bane seemed to have a reputation. Eccentric. Powerful. Dangerous. Which was another way of saying: untouchable and unwilling to play by anyone’s rules. Hodge had said he was the most powerful warlock in the country. That could mean anything. Alec didn’t put much stock in boasts. Power didn’t impress him. Results did. Alec clenched and unclenched his gloved fingers as he paced down another block, mentally playing out every possible version of what was about to happen.
Scenario one: The warlock refused outright. Wouldn’t even open the door. Sent him back with a curse, or worse, a riddle.
Scenario two: he opened the door, smirked, and demanded something vile in return. Blood, servitude, some sacrificial lamb. Warlocks loved leverage.
Scenario three: he offered help, but only on conditions Alec couldn’t possibly provide just to spite him. Or something that would cost more than it seemed.
He didn’t like any of them. He imagined the High Warlock as mostly human, but warped, something wrong stitched just beneath the skin. Maybe a claw where a hand should be, or horns sprouting through his hairline like bone outgrowths left to fester. A mouth too wide, or teeth too sharp for someone pretending to speak like a man. That kind of repulsive blend, human enough to unsettle, not enough to trust. Maybe his apartment would smell like sulfur and dried flowers. Maybe he’d be charming in that slippery way predators sometimes were—always smiling, never blinking like a snake. He sighed and checked the address again. Uptown Brooklyn. Residential. Quiet. The building he was approaching now looked… clean if a little left unkept. Not a sigil or bloodstain in sight. That somehow made it worse. He adjusted the collar of his coat, took the hood down and mounted the steps. One hand hovered near the blade strapped under his jacket. Not to use it, he wasn’t stupid, but comfort was comfort.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself, drawing a breath.
This was for his friend. For the boy he couldn’t save on his own. He lifted a hand toward the brass-plated intercom and pressed the button. A brief buzz echoed, followed by a pause, and then—
“My wards said annoying presence detected—who is it?!”
Alec blinked at the speaker.
“I’m cloaked in silk and serenity,” the voice continued. “If this is a delivery, I hope you brought wine. And if it’s one of those infernal neighborhood surveys again, I will hex your clipboard.”
Alec stared at the intercom, briefly considering turning around. Then he cleared his throat.
“It’s Alec.” Somehow, even his name sounded like an apology.
A beat.
“...What’s an Alec?”
He exhaled slowly.
“I need your help.”
“Oh, darling, everyone does,” The warlock drawled. “Try harder.”
“I’m of the Clave.”
“Oh no. Try less.”
Alec bristled, his voice tightening. “This is official business. You’re being summoned under sanctioned directive. I advise you to answer the door, immediately, or face repercussions.” He winced the moment the words left his mouth. He sounded like he was reading off a pamphlet.
There was a silence. Alec regretted the phrasing instantly. His shoulders sank just a fraction.
“Please,” he added, barely above a murmur.
Another long pause. Then the line clicked dead. Alec frowned, staring at the intercom like it might light itself on fire. Great. He’d blown it. Should’ve led with money. Or at least threats with more spine. He turned slightly, half-expecting the door to remain closed forever. Instead, it opened. And there stood the one he assumed was Magnus Bane himself, leaning one shoulder lazily against the frame like he’d just stepped out of a fashion ad and into a theatrical performance. He was nothing like Alec expected. No horns. No scales. No claws. And no questionable hygiene.
The man before him looked about twenty, though Alec knew that meant absolutely nothing but for feline eyes. He was tall, just enough to make Alec feel it, and built like someone who never missed an opportunity to show off the lean definition of every muscle. His silk shirt was deep emerald and gaped scandalously low on his chest, revealing an expanse of smooth, golden skin and the upper curve of sculpted pecs Alec had no business noticing. But he did. All at once. And it was very much Alec’s problem. His brain lagged behind the moment, trying to reconcile the raw, unbothered opulence in front of him. His dark hair was swept up and back in a style so precise it looked sculpted, like gravity had simply agreed to get out of its way. A face so beautiful it felt like an intentional offense. Sharp jaw, smooth skin, high cheekbones dusted with the faintest shimmer. Glitter traced the line of one elegant eye, eyeliner sharp, it was the kind of eyeliner that made eye contact feel like a dare. His features were unmistakably Asian, and his expression was full of wicked amusement—as though he knew exactly what he was doing.
And worst of all—he was looking directly at Alec like he’d already read every thought he wasn’t proud of. Alec’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. He could feel the heat rising in his face, mortifying and immediate. By the Angel, he hated everything about this.
Magnus Bane smiled.
“Oh,” he said, giving Alec an appraising once-over. “You’re the please.”
**********
Oh, now this was interesting. This was not what Magnus had ordered—but he might just keep it anyway. The boy standing on his doorstep looked like someone had shoved a cherub through military training and forgotten to tell him he was gorgeous. Six feet, maybe a breath more, with a fighter’s frame that hadn’t yet settled into full adulthood but still managed to carry itself like a weapon. Tight shoulders, tight jaw, posture just shy of defensive. Solid shoulders. Narrow waist. Compact muscle, restrained movement, like someone trained to make every inch count. Magnus appreciated that. He always did enjoy a finely cut silhouette. But it was the face that stopped him. That particular, dangerous combination of things he’d always had a taste for: dark, slightly unkempt hair falling in thick pieces like it had clearly never met a comb it respected, and eyes, those eyes, blue and storm-swept beneath thick lashes. Eyes that made confessions without realizing it. Magnus had a type, and this one ticked every box with aggravating ease.
The rest of him, regrettably, was a walking funeral. Black hoodie, unflattering jacket, combat trousers. Function without a shred of flair. His clothes were a threat to joy itself. Criminal, really. That body—lean and muscular, a young warrior’s build—deserved better wrapping. And that face… good grief. Beautiful in the way things were when they didn’t try to be. Clean lines, a sharp cheekbone, a slight downturn to the mouth, plump lips worn by anxious nibbling. A face carved out of stubbornness and poor emotional decisions. Magnus caught the look in the boy’s eyes, the kind that hovered between awe and alarm. His gaze flicked to Magnus’ exposed chest, lingered, then darted away so fast it could have set off alarms. The flush that followed lit up his neck like someone had spilled rosewater across marble. That silk shirt always got things done. Magnus tilted his head, a slow smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. So earnest. So disastrously easy to read. Like a diary someone left unlocked on a gilded desk. He could practically hear the inner monologue: Don’t look. You’re looking. Stop looking. Oh no, he saw me looking.
Delicious.
There was something pure about the way he tried so hard to compose himself. Like he still thought dignity was an achievable state. Magnus could feel the temptation rising in his chest—light and cruel and deeply entertained. Yes, he thought, gaze sweeping the boy again. A slow grin curled at Magnus’ mouth. He was already wondering just how long he could keep that pretty face glowing red before the boy combusted. Magnus let the silence stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable, then gave a languid once-over that somehow managed to be both theatrical and invasive.
“Well,” he said, voice smooth as velvet and twice as smug. “You’re definitely not my dinner delivery. Let me guess: the Clave finally realized sending contempt and threats was less effective than sending tall, pouty boys.”
Magnus braced for a lecture or some stiff little command, but the boy surprised him. Alec opened his mouth, floundered slightly, then said stiffly, “I need your help.”
Magnus clutched his chest in mock awe. “Oh no. A Shadowhunter asking for my help? Should I faint now, or wait until you beg?”
“I’m not here to beg,” Alec muttered.
“That’s a shame.” Magnus leaned closer. “You have the mouth for it.”
Alec’s ears lit up so fast it was like someone flipped a switch behind his neck. Magnus bit back a grin, pleased.
“Let me guess,” he said, waving a hand. “Something dire. Something noble. Something about the greater good.” He wrinkled his nose. “I hate the greater good. Always so noisy and self-important.”
“It’s serious,” Alec said, trying to sound firm, but the crack in his voice made it come out more like a plea.
The warlock’s eyes sparkled.
“Everything is serious to your lot. That’s why none of you dress well.”
Alec looked like he wanted the ground to open and swallow him, preferably into a hell dimension where shirts didn’t fall open quite so far. Magnus, very much enjoying himself, clicked his tongue.
“So tell me, darling, what problem does your sanctified murder club need solved so badly they sent the shy pretty one to my door?”
Alec stood there like a blade—unbending, a little too serious for someone so young, and clearly holding himself together through sheer force of will. Magnus would’ve admired it more if it weren’t so utterly exhausting to witness.
“It’s my friend,” the boy said at last. “He was poisoned. Something we couldn’t identify. Our healer couldn’t help. They said we need a warlock.”
“Of course they did.” Magnus tilted his head, feigning curiosity. “And out of the city’s many disappointments and magical freelancers, you came to me? How flattering.”
“I was told you’re the most powerful,” Alec replied, steady. Too steady. It made Magnus want to poke at him until he wobbled.
“Mmh,” Magnus said. “True, but I don’t usually work with institutions that put stakes before personalities.”
“He’s dying.”
Magnus resisted the urge to roll his eyes. They always were. Dying, cursed, possessed, tragically inconvenienced, it was always something. That’s what they came to warlocks for. That or love potions, because why woo when you can whine?
“I’m still not hearing anything compelling,” Magnus drawled, already turning back toward the darkness of his building’s entrance. The click of his shoes against the floor was perfectly timed, like punctuation to his disdain. “Other than a vague inclination to pity.” He let the silk of his shirt shift dramatically as he moved, no point wearing silk if you weren’t going to weaponize it.
“You’ll be paid,” Alec offered.
The words sounded like they cost him more than gold. Magnus paused, lifted an eyebrow. “Darling, your entire institution couldn’t afford a button from my worst coat.”
He expected that to be the end of it. A dramatic sigh, a slammed door, and a very long bath. But the boy didn’t budge. Then Alec said,
“Then I’ll give you whatever you want.”
Magnus stopped moving. He turned, slowly, deliberately, until they were facing each other again. That flush hadn’t gone away; in fact, it had deepened. But the boy’s eyes were steady, and full of something far rarer than charm or desperation. It was offering. And not even for himself. That was interesting. Magnus stepped in closer, letting the air between them hum with tension.
He could feel Alec’s breath hitch. Could practically hear the thoughts unraveling behind those storm-colored eyes. He saw a hundred other members of the Clave in his memory. Faces blurred by time. People who wanted power, or leverage, or his obedience or simply his death. People who came with threats and false politeness and flattery slick as blood. But this one—this baby demon hunter in a hoodie—offered himself without guile. Without knowing the cost. Just... offered. For someone else’s life.
“Anything?” Magnus asked letting the word wrap around his teeth like wine, his voice a low thread of silk and implication.
“If you save him,” Alec said.
No hesitation. No blush in the tone, even if his face looked like it might spontaneously combust. Edom. He meant it. No bargaining. No veiled threat. No attempt at control. Just quiet devotion wrapped in terrible fashion and a painfully sincere sense of duty. And Edom, wasn’t that inconvenient. Magnus sighed. Loudly.
“You know,” he said, tapping one lacquered nail against his chin, “this is usually where I demand something obscene. Public groveling. A personal anthem. Perhaps a favor sealed in blood.”
“If that’s what it takes.”
He wasn’t bluffing. Magnus cursed internally. Not because he didn’t have the upper hand, he always did, but because the boy didn’t even know he was putting his own neck on the block. That kind of loyalty always made him twitchy. He turned before it showed.
“Lucky for you, I’ve got a weakness for handsome martyrs,” he said, “And you’re wearing self-sacrifice like it’s going out of style.”
Behind him: silence. Delicious, stunned silence.
“Wait,” Alec stammered, “does that mean—?”
“Yes, yes, blue eyes, before you start swearing eternal fealty and embarrassing us both,” Magnus said “I’ll come. Just let me find something less... dry-clean only.”
With a flick of his fingers he was wearing a deep green brocade with a flourish. And then, just to twist the knife a little, he glanced back at Alec and gave him the kind of grin that should’ve come with a warning label.
“But don’t think this is charity,” he said, voice lowering to a velvet purr. “I will bill the Clave reasonably and you still owe me something scandalous. I’ll pick wisely.”
Alec turned briskly toward the walkway, already moving with that hunter’s efficiency, all mission and momentum. Magnus didn’t move. He simply raised one elegant brow, watching Alec like the boy had just suggested they ride a bus.
“Wait,” Magnus said flatly, “you were planning to walk?”
Alec stopped, glancing back. “It’s only about forty minutes—”
“Oh, sweet stormcloud,” Magnus cut in, tone edged with mock horror. “You really thought I was going to hoof it through midtown in these boots? With you brooding beside me like some tragic footman?”
Before Alec could retort, or even process, the warlock had already swept one hand through the air. A rip shimmered open in front of them, swirling with soft blue light, elegant as silk unraveling in midair.
“Try to keep up,” Magnus said casually. And then, just before stepping through, he looked back with a grin that belonged on someone far less well-intentioned. “Unless you’d rather hold onto me. Portals can be so disorienting your first time.”
Alec straightened. “I’m a Shadowhunter. I think I’ll be fine.”
“Oh,” Magnus murmured, eyes glinting with mischief. “Then maybe I should be the one hanging tightly on to you.”
Alec made a noise that might have been a scoff or a cough or an internal scream escaping sideways, but he stepped forward anyway, shoulders squared, gaze a little too determined. He didn’t reach for Magnus. But his fingers twitched. And that was enough to make the warlock grin all the way through the portal. By Edom this boy was too pretty to be this tense. I’ll fix that eventually.
**********
The portal spat them out onto the cracked stone path just outside the old cathedral’s iron gates. The building loomed, weathered and ancient, all pointed arches and grim stained glass. Magnus stared up at it with the kind of expression usually reserved for moldy leftovers.
“Well,” he said, flicking invisible lint from his sleeve, “isn’t this charming in a death-cult-chic sort of way.”
Alec was already moving toward the doors but slowed a step. He turned toward Magnus with a hint of hesitation.
“Is it… safe for you to enter?” he asked, gesturing at the sanctified grounds. “I mean—you’re a warlock.”
Magnus blinked. Then smirked. “Darling, that’s vampires,” he said, sashaying forward with deliberate elegance. “And I’d think someone raised in holy bunkers might have his Downworld lore a bit sharper.”
Alec muttered something under his breath. Probably an apology. As Magnus followed him through the threshold, he took in the cathedral’s dim interior: stone walls, rough-hewn beams, tall windows that filtered in saintly light as if it were rationed. No color. No flair. No indulgence.
“Mercy,” he murmured. “It looks like that cathedral had a breakup and never emotionally recovered.”
Alec didn’t respond. Probably used to the drafty gloom. Probably thought it inspiring. Magnus rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, as though the very air inside might flatten it.
“I’ve seen crypts with better lighting,” he added, gaze trailing over the timeworn pews and barren altar. “All these vaulted ceilings and not a single chandelier worth fainting under.”
He let out a theatrical sigh. “What do you people have against color? Do you people think beige is too edgy?”
Alec didn’t stop walking, but his ears had gone red again. Magnus noted it with delight. He trailed just a step behind him now, gaze dipping—unapologetically— to the way that combat-grade fabric clung, tragically unaware it was wrapping a masterpiece of an ass.
“Horrible lighting,” he said again, more to himself this time, eyes lingering. “Don’t mind me, just appreciating the only decent curve in this entire establishment.”
Alec stiffened slightly but didn’t comment. Magnus grinned like a man enjoying his own private opera.
By the time they reached the heavy wooden door that led to the Institute’s makeshift infirmary, the warlock’s tone had sobered just enough to match the air.
“Lead on, angel boy,” he said softly, brushing a hand down Alec’s arm as he passed. “Let’s see if we can stop your tragedy from becoming a cliché.”
The infirmary was a strange hybrid of practicality and relic—stone archways cradling shelves of antiseptics and ancient grimoires, sunlight slanting through stained glass onto surgical steel and cauldrons of brewed poultices. Magnus stepped through the doorway with all the reverence of a man entering a garage. A girl looking impossibly like Alec stood immediately from where she’d been crouched by the bedside, her sharp heels clicking on the stone. Tall, poised, and perfectly composed in a burgundy jacket cinched at the waist and tailored like armor, she was every bit the glamazon war general—minus the bloodshed.
“Magnus Bane,” she said, offering a firm, clear-eyed nod. “Thanks for coming.”
His brows lifted. Not in surprise—he didn’t do surprise—but in mild appreciation. “Well,” he said, giving her a once-over with the grace of a connoisseur admiring sculpture. “High heels in demon territory? That’s commitment. I insist we coordinate outfits next time.”
Isabelle’s smile tilted. “Can’t fight like hell if you don’t feel good doing it.”
Magnus grinned, eyes flicking from her to Alec with open amusement. “You know, the resemblance is uncanny—same cheekbones, same tragic black-on-black obsession.”
Isabelle didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, we’re siblings. I got the style instincts, he got… austerity.”
Alec crossed his arms, posture sharpening. “I dress for practicality.”
“Darling,” Magnus said, deadpan, “You wear practicality like it’s a badge. I see camouflage. I call tragedy.” Magnus turned to Isabelle with a dramatic sigh. “You poor thing. Growing up next to cheekbones like that and not a single matching outfit to speak of.”
Alec sniffed lightly, tone cool. “This is an infirmary. Not a runway.”
Magnus leaned toward Isabelle, just enough for Alec to hear, and stage-whispered,
“If your brother doesn’t loosen up soon, I may be forced to lick the tension out of his spine.”
Alec choked on air. Isabelle just raised a brow.
“I mean that in the most therapeutic way,” the warlock added, utterly unapologetic.
Hodge cleared his throat from the far side of the room. Magnus’ expression turned cool the instant his eyes landed on the older man.
“Starkweather,” he said, not a greeting so much as an observation.
“High Warlock Bane,” Hodge replied, with the enthusiasm of a man chewing nails.
Magnus turned his back without another word, denying the siblings any hint of the thundercloud tension between them. But his smile faltered for a beat. Just one. Then his eyes settled on Alec and Isabelle again, flicking back and forth like something was clicking into place. The hair. The posture. The eyes. Oh. He knew exactly whose children they were. And if it weren’t for Isabelle’s sharp grace and Alec’s uncertain, unearned softness, he might’ve turned on his heels right there. He moved to the bedside where a blond very young Shadowhunter lay pale and unnaturally still. The glam had faded from Magnus’ expression now, replaced by a clinical sharpness that made him look far older than he appeared. He laid two fingers gently on the boy’s pulse, murmuring something under his breath. Magic flickered around his hands like smoke rolling backward.
“Let’s see,” he whispered, and began his examination.
Alec stood near the foot of the bed, muscles tight, fingers curled and useless, watching as Magnus moved into position like he owned the space. All the pretense and glitter had bled from the warlock now, replaced by something cool, razor-sharp, and undeniably powerful. His fingers hovered just above Jace’s chest, and thin ribbons of light began to coil from his palms—slow and fluid, like smoke underwater. They sank into the boy’s skin in threads, pulsing faintly with each beat of his weakening heart. Alec had never seen warlock magic up close. He’d grown up hearing it described in reports and warnings, always abstract or dangerous. But this—this was precise. Intimate. It wasn’t chaos. It was control. And Magnus’ face—focused, calm, the slightest furrow between his brows—was completely different from the smirking flirt who’d followed him through the Institute doors. Alec couldn’t look away. He told himself it was because of Jace. Because he needed to understand. Because watching closely meant he could protect his friend if something went wrong. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way the light caught in Magnus’ lashes. The way his lips moved silently. The way his long, elegant hands worked with surety, like he could untangle death if someone just handed him the right thread.
Alec’s throat went dry. And then Magnus—without breaking his rhythm, without glancing up—tilted his head the slightest degree and murmured, “Careful, sweetheart. Keep looking at me like that and I’ll start thinking you want a private show.”
Alec flushed so hard he nearly stepped backward. Magnus winked. Then went right back to work, as if nothing had happened. Alec looked quickly to Jace, anything to redirect his brain. His friend looked worse than he remembered, and the guilt surged fast in his chest. Jace was usually the one who looked kissed by sunlight—peachy and warm, like he’d never known a grey day. Now he was practically translucent, his skin slick with sweat, lips pale and chapped. His lashes fluttered against cheeks pinched with pain, breath shallow and uneven. Every minute, he looked smaller. Alec wanted to reach for his hand, to say something steadying, but he hesitated. Because even now, with Jace lying there suffering, part of him was still caught on the shape of Magnus’ hands. The glow of his magic. The smug little curl of his mouth when he caught Alec watching.
The air around Jace shimmered faintly as Magnus’ magic deepened, his hands hovering just inches above the boy’s chest. Threads of deep blue energy coiled from his fingertips, slipping through cloth, skin, bone. It wasn’t immediate—this wasn’t surface-level healing. This was unraveling a foreign poison laced through the bloodstream like a webbed parasite. Magnus’ brows furrowed. The toxin clung stubbornly, resisting his magic in oily swirls. He followed it with precision, directing the light to dig deep, coaxing it out from between organs and nerves. Slowly, bead by bead, the foreign dark energy began to rise—thin tendrils of black mist pulled from Jace’s veins like threads from a tapestry. The boy’s body jolted once, then eased as the mist burned away in the air. Sweat dried on his skin. His breathing, once shallow and uneven, began to steady. The greyish hue to his complexion softened, replaced with a faint golden-peach flush. The boy’s color was returning, faintly now—warmer, flushed with the first signs of life again. Magnus’ gaze lingered a moment longer than intended. Blond. Golden. Built like someone who enjoyed fighting far too much for it to be mere duty. Unlike Alec—sharp, lean angles born from discipline and purpose—this one was broader, sturdier. Like someone made to run headfirst into danger just to see if it would flinch. His jawline, even slack in unconsciousness, had a classical strength to it. Perfect symmetry, striking brows, fine lashes that only made his face look more masculine, more cut from sunlit marble than anything soft or delicate. He was beautiful, undeniably so. The kind of beauty that was easy to recognize, mass-produced by the gods and handed out to the bold and stupid. Magnus could admire it. Briefly. In the way one might admire a sword that’s very good at being a sword. But it wasn’t the kind of beauty that fascinated him. He preferred complexity. A crooked smile. A storm behind the eyes. A shape that didn’t beg attention but earned it anyway. He preferred the ones who didn’t know they were handsome and turned red when you reminded them.
Magnus exhaled. “There,” he said, voice low and vaguely irritated. “Fixed him up. Try not to let him throw himself at death quite so often.”
As the last curls of magic dissolved, Jace stirred. His lashes fluttered once, then again, and his lips moved into a faint smirk as he croaked,
“Look who's back and still ridiculously good-looking”
Alec was already at his side, crouched down before anyone else could move. His hand reached out, brushing a curl from Jace’s brow, then settling against his cheek. There was no hesitation in the touch, just a quiet desperation he couldn’t voice. He looked as though he might have collapsed if Jace hadn’t opened his eyes. Jace blinked blearily at him and added,
“Leave it to you lot to fall apart the one time I take a power nap”
“You’re unbelievable,” Alec muttered, but the way he looked at him made it sound like a compliment.
Isabelle leaned in behind them. “He means he was one minute away from pacing a hole in the wall.”
“I mean, obviously,” Jace said, with a weak smile that tried to be smug. “Someone’s gotta keep the tall, silent, and emotionally repressed on his toes”
Alec rolled his eyes, but his thumb stroked Jace’s cheek once, gently, like he couldn’t help it. And Magnus watched. From across the room, he took in the soft curve of Alec’s body leaning in, the tenderness in his fingers, the steady, aching affection etched into his jaw. His stomach curled, not with sickness, but something thornier. Unexpected. He straightened his cuffs unnecessarily.
“Charming,” he muttered. “Stunning performance. I give it four sobs out of five.”
No one heard him, or if they did, they ignored him. He turned abruptly and walked toward the door, his boots echoing softly against stone.
“I need a word with the Tutor,” he said over his shoulder, voice cool. “Now.”
Hodge followed without speaking, his expression unreadable. Outside the room, the warlock leaned against the corridor wall with arms crossed, the flicker of blue still fading from his fingertips. He didn’t speak immediately. He just stared straight ahead at the empty hallway, jaw tight, and said nothing. The soft echo of teenage voices died away, replaced by the low hush of stone halls and the quiet hum of tension he hadn’t yet exhaled. He didn’t look at Hodge right away. Just leaned against the wall with the casual posture of someone who’d like to pretend none of this concerned him.
“Well,” he said after a beat, brushing an imaginary fleck of dust from his lapel. “That one’s not dying. Not today.”
He finally turned his eyes to the tutor. “What he fought was a demon, yes. But not from any hell dimension I know—and believe me, I’ve been to all the charming ones. This wasn’t something that crawled out of the usual infernal pits. Not the Nine. Not even the fringe rot-gates you idiots never manage to keep closed.”
His gaze sharpened. “No signature. No bleed pattern. The energy didn’t carry the stink of sulfur or damnation—it carried something else. New. Wild. Like a door cracked open somewhere it shouldn't exist. Something I don’t have indexed yet. Which, frankly, is rude”
He smiled, thin and almost bored. “Of course, I healed him. The magic still works. All demons ultimately come from the same fallen rot, no matter what corner they crawl from. But whatever this one was—it didn’t follow the usual map. You’re playing with a knife you didn’t know was in the drawer.”
Hodge remained quiet, the lines around his eyes tightening. Magnus arched a brow.
“Just figured you should know. Not that the Clave ever listens until the world’s actively on fire. You lot love your dramatic timing. Well it’s your problem now. My job was saving the handsome idiot. Consider it done. Though I do recommend your little Clave not bungle this investigation as catastrophically as it usually does. It’s getting embarrassing. I’d recommend doing it before another one shows up and tears through more of your underaged army.”
He pushed off the wall with a fluid roll of his shoulders and turned, steps already retreating down the corridor. But then he paused, one hand resting lightly on the curve of the archway. Without looking back, he said,
“You'll find the bill somewhere between absurd and worth every cent.” And after a short pause “And really—who decided you were qualified to oversee a trio of hormone-saturated, half-trained demon magnets?”
A beat.
“That’s bold,” he added, voice rich with biting amusement. “And deeply concerning.”
Then he disappeared into the shadowed hall beyond, his coat trailing behind him like the closing act of a far more stylish play than anyone here deserved.
**********
Chapter 2: The Unsaid and the Unseen
Notes:
Nowadays with AI, you can find lots of pictures of fantasy characters on Pinterest from people who create them from the books they like. I picked some as I see the characters of TMI and I put them here: https://ibb.co/dw8K95RC
I made the one of Maryse with AI, but that's the only one that came out as I wanted. Those apps are not as easy as it seems to use.
If anyone wants to share how they picture the characters, please do.
Chapter Text
The attic had once been a bell tower, long since emptied of its chimes. The room was sun-drenched and still, dust drifting in lazy halos between the exposed beams. The air smelled faintly of wood polish, old sweat, and church incense that never quite faded from the stone. Now, the vaulted beams echoed only with the shuffle of boots on worn floorboards and the sharp exhale of breath between strikes. The floor creaked faintly with each step, wood absorbing the thuds of movement as Jace and Alec circled each other across the training floor. Shafts of sunlight angled through high windows, dust catching in gold spirals as the sparring staves cracked together again. Alec pivoted low, sweeping his staff in a clean arc that Jace leapt over with infuriating ease. He landed on light feet, spun, and countered with a grin sharp enough to be illegal.
“You’re slower today,” Jace said, mock sympathy laced in every word.
Alec narrowed his eyes. “You nearly died forty-eight hours ago.”
Jace rolled his shoulders, still loose, still too confident. “And now I’m nearly back to perfect. Miraculous recovery. Thank your boyfriend.”
Alec stepped back. “He’s not—”
Jace was already lunging. They locked again, staff to staff, strength pressed into wood and arms trembling under strain.
“Take it slow,” Alec said, breath hitching. “You’re pushing too hard.”
“I’m fine,” Jace snapped, pulling back with enough force to stagger Alec. “If you’re not going to take me seriously, at least try to look like you’re sweating.”
They circled each other. Sunlight cut through the slats, striping the floor in gold. Alec’s next swing went deliberately soft, but Jace twisted in and grabbed him instead, dragging them into a grapple that knocked them both off-balance. Alec’s breath left him in a rush as Jace half-laughed, half-wheezed. And then they crashed to the floor—hard, graceless, all tangle of limbs and labored breath.
Alec landed first, back hitting the mat with a dull thud, but all he could register was the sudden weight of Jace above him. One hand planted against Alec’s chest, firm and splayed over his heart like he could feel it pounding. Their hips bumped—too low, too direct—and Alec’s thigh slid instinctively between Jace’s, the heat of it unmistakable even through their gear. For Jace, it was just a pin. A clean move. Training. But Alec’s pulse spiked violently. Every nerve seemed to light up at once, a flush burning up the back of his neck. Jace didn’t even notice—of course he didn’t. He was already grinning, breathless and careless, smug in that way he always was after getting the upper hand. Alec didn’t move. Couldn’t. His whole body had gone tight with restraint. The pressure of Jace’s palm. The shift of his thigh against Alec’s. The smell of him—soap and sweat and heat. For a suspended second, the world narrowed to contact and the thunder of blood in Alec’s ears. His heart hammered against Jace’s hand like it was trying to give him away. And Jace just laughed, oblivious.
“I feel amazing,” he said, eyes still on Alec. “I should go out tonight. Find someone fun. Celebrate the whole not-dying thing.”
Alec felt it like a bruise beneath the ribs. “You’re still recovering.”
“I’m not made of glass,” Jace shot back. “And I’m pretty sure someone out there would appreciate me not being dead. Maybe I’ll flirt with that dryad bartender again. She was cute.”
Alec rolled away, sitting upright with a scowl. “You know fraternizing with fae and other species is strictly prohibited. It’s dangerous and—”
“Here it comes,” Jace said, grinning as he sat up beside him. “The gospel according to Alec Lightwood: thou shalt not mingle with the peasants.”
“They’re not our kind.”
“They’re good enough for fun.”
“They don’t live by our rules. They’re unpredictable. It’s irresponsible.”
Jace snorted. “You’re so prickly sometimes I’m amazed you can sleep on anything softer than barbed wire.”
Alec’s jaw clenched, he turned away, masking the ache with disdain. “You’re impossible.”
“What?” Jace asked, grinning. “Too charming?”
Jace nudged him with his shoulder. “Seriously. One night out with the plebs might loosen whatever’s been wound so tight in you since birth.”
Alec didn’t answer. Because the only thing wound tight in him right now was the ache of wanting someone who would never be his. And worse—the guilt of being seen too clearly by the one person who might. Jace shifted off him without ceremony, the moment already gone for him. He stood and offered a hand down, grinning like it was just another round won.
“Come on, broody,” he said, hauling Alec up with ease. “I’m hitting the showers. Gotta look halfway decent before I go throw myself into a night of questionable decisions.”
Alec tried not to flinch. Jace clapped him on the shoulder—warm, familiar, and utterly unaware—and strolled off with the loose-hipped swagger of someone entirely at ease in his skin. The attic felt quieter once he was gone. Alec stood still in the center of the mat, breath catching in his throat, jaw set like he could grit the ache out of himself. He’d lost count of how many times he told himself to stop wanting. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. Trying to shake it off, like it was just tension. And now, once again, he was left with nothing but the echo of footsteps and the slow, humiliating burn of want he couldn't extinguish. Not here. Not for him.
**********
Hodge’s office was a familiar kind of clutter—walls of ancient tomes stacked with less reverence and more necessity, loose maps pinned to boards, the faint smell of wax and ink hanging in the air. Alec slipped inside like he always did, hoodie slightly damp from his post-shower hair, hair still slightly curling at the ends, jeans hanging just right on his lean frame. He moved with casual ownership, fingers grazing book spines as he wandered, flipping open the occasional volume with distracted grace.
Hodge looked up from his desk, spectacles low on his nose. “Looking for something, or just rearranging my collection again?”
“Just making sure you’re not hiding the good intel,” Alec said, sliding a leather-bound bestiary shut. “Any word from the Clave?”
The question quieted the room.
Hodge sighed and set his pen down. “They won’t be sending anyone. Not now. Not with the lack of information.”
Alec turned. “Seriously? They’re not even curious about a demon that doesn’t trace back to the Nine circles?”
“They’ve diverted all their senior operatives. Losses have been… considerable. They can’t spare anyone else unless there’s a confirmed breach.”
Alec leaned against the windowsill, arms crossed. “So we keep patrolling and hope the next thing doesn’t bite harder.”
“They want detailed reports. Anything unusual, no matter how small. And you are not to engage recklessly.”
Alec snorted. “Have you met Jace? ‘Reckless’ is basically his middle name.”
Hodge gave a soft chuckle, eyes warm behind the glass. “Yes. And unfortunately, his record lives up to it.”
“I’ll go back to the spot,” Alec said after a beat, more to himself than anything. “The one where we were attacked. Just to poke around. See if there’s anything we missed.”
Hodge frowned. “Alone?”
“Isabelle and Jace are going out,” Alec replied. “Blowing off steam. They won’t be back till late.”
“And you think that’s safe?”
“it’s still early. Daylight makes it safe enough.” Alec pulled his hoodie over his head, dark hair sticking out at odd angles. “And I won’t do anything stupid.”
The older man studied him for a long moment, then gave a nod. “You don’t tend to.”
With a quiet word of thanks, Alec turned and stepped out. The hall beyond was quiet, the stone cool beneath his boots as he made his way through the church, heading for the doors that would spill him back out into the city.
The alley looked different in daylight. Cleaner. Smaller. The late afternoon sun bleached away the shadows that had once crawled across the brickwork and asphalt, but Alec still felt the echo of what had happened here—Jace's collapse, the rush of fear, the heat of battle. He stepped in slowly, eyes scanning every inch of ground. No sign of blood, no charred residue, no stray claw or tooth. Just an empty stretch of concrete littered with a few tossed wrappers and a forgotten umbrella. The demon, of course, was gone. They always were. Slain demons didn’t leave bodies—they evaporated, dragged back into whatever hell dimension had spit them out in the first place. Alec crouched near the wall, gloved fingers brushing against a faint scuff mark. Probably a boot. Probably Isabelle’s. He stood and paced the alley twice over, then moved into the next street, retracing the path they’d taken on the way back. He peeked into loading docks, slipped between dumpsters, checked rooftops by scaling an old fire escape and walking the ledge like a tightrope.
Nothing.
The city, for once, gave him nothing to grab hold of. No sulfuric burn in the air. No strange ichor soaking into brick. Not even the telltale shimmer of magic residue. He let out a breath and leaned back against the cool metal railing, gaze tilted toward the horizon where the skyline met a slowly goldening sky. It had been a long shot, anyway. Still, the lack of answers left a sour taste. Whatever dimension that demon had come from—it wasn’t one they’d dealt with before. And that fact alone made Alec feel like someone had stepped behind him and quietly moved the floor. He stayed a moment longer, letting the silence settle around him. Then he climbed down and headed back to the street, hands in his hoodie pockets, jaw tight. Alec didn’t head straight back to the Institute. He told himself he was just stretching his legs. Walking helped him think. The beginning of evening had turned the air pale and cool, and the streets were thinning, shops closing, traffic dimming to the slow rhythm of a city catching its breath before nightfall. He moved through it like a shadow, hood up, hands tucked into the front pocket of his sweatshirt, gaze low. He cut through a narrow alley, then took a left, then another without really charting a path. There was a demon to think about. A new threat. A hell dimension they couldn’t name. No backup from the Clave. And Jace—Jace was fine now, alive and grinning and training like he hadn’t almost died—but still, Alec’s mind ran back over the moment Magnus Bane’s magic had flared blue in the dark, over the way he’d just fixed it all with a single touch and walked away before Alec could say a single word. It had been sudden. Rude, even. And yeah, warlocks weren’t exactly known for their social graces, but Alec had been raised on rules. Protocol. Courtesy. So it would be the decent thing to drop by. To thank him. That was it. A gesture of basic respect. Proper closure. Not because he was intrigued. Not because the warlock had said things that stuck in his head like thorns, sharp and glittering. Not because Alec still remembered the low dip of that silk shirt and the flash of gold at his throat and the way his presence filled a room like perfume, like smoke, like something dangerous pretending to be delicate. It definitely wasn’t the way the warlock had looked at him like he was some intriguing puzzle waiting to be picked apart.
No.
This was about strategy. About maintaining an open line with someone powerful. And maybe the warlock would need to be called upon again. Maybe Alec could be the one to keep the channel warm. Keep things… civil. And by the time Alec finally forced himself to glance up, his breath caught. There it was. The building. The industrials tones. The environment around unkept. The tall glass doors reflecting the last gold rays of afternoon sun. Somehow, without making a single real decision, he’d wandered himself straight into the gravitational pull of Magnus Bane’s world. He stopped on the sidewalk, jaw tight. Maybe he could just—buzz. Say thank you. Leave. No lingering. No weird tension. Just good manners. That wasn’t weird. That was fine. Alec stood in front of the intercom longer than any reasonable person would. Hands in his hoodie pocket, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the panel like it might offer him a map out of this situation. It didn’t. This was a bad idea. Objectively. Terrible, even. The warlock probably wasn’t even home. Warlocks had lives. Expensive ones, from the look of the building. Alec had no idea what those lives included—bathing in moonlight? Designing perfume lines? Drinking champagne with ancient ghosts? He pressed the buzzer. Silence stretched for a moment. Then—
“Who dares disturb the hard-earned tranquility of New York’s most dazzling warlock? I was in the middle of something expensive and sacred—namely, a facial. This had better be good.”
Alec blinked, thrown, voice catching in his throat.
“It’s me,” he said finally, awkward and too soft. Then, realizing that probably meant nothing: “Alec… Alexander Lightwood. From the other night. The demon incident. You… healed my friend.”
Another pause. Then a satisfied buzz as the door unlocked.
“Penthouse. If you get lost, just follow the trail of my charm.”
The line went dead. Alec stared at the door for a second, pulse elevated, before pushing it open and stepping inside like he hadn’t just considered turning around four different times. As Alec stepped into the building, the heavy door thudding closed behind him, he glanced at the intercom panel once more. Only one name. Just one sleek, silver label etched in dramatic cursive: Magnus. No apartment numbers, no buzzers for neighbors, no residents packed into floors below.
He tilted his head back and stared upward through the stairwell’s spiraling void. Empty floors. All of them. “Of course,” Alec muttered. “Because why rent a penthouse when you can rule an entire building?”
He climbed the stairs, taking them two at a time—not because he was in a hurry, but because his nerves buzzed with too much energy to waste on a slow ascent. By the time he reached the top landing, his pulse had steadied but his unease had not. The door at the penthouse level looked nothing like the rest of the building. Towering and ornate, dark wood carved with swirling arcane patterns that gleamed faintly, like they'd been varnished with magic instead of polish. He raised his hand to knock. The door swung open before he could. Magnus Bane leaned lazily against the frame, one shoulder catching the light like he’d timed it. His outfit—or what could generously be called clothing—was an audacious masterpiece of silk, skin, and sheer. A thin, midnight blue robe draped from his shoulders, belted loosely at the waist, exposing an expanse of smooth, golden-brown skin, just barely held together by something that looked suspiciously like a velvet ribbon. Beneath it, wide-legged pants clung to his hips with scandalous ease, the fabric light enough to suggest more than it concealed. One bare foot peeked out, bejeweled at the ankle. The warlock’s eyeliner was darker than night, wings dramatic enough to inspire flight, and glitter dusted his cheekbones like stardust dared him to be subtle and lost. His nails were painted deep violet. The kohl around his eyes swept up toward his temples, sharp and theatrical, like he was auditioning to be worshipped. Alec stood frozen on the threshold, blinking up at him like a deer caught in ridiculously handsome headlights. Alec’s breath caught. His feet remained planted like someone had activated a stun rune under him. The warlock raised a brow and gave a slow once-over. “Well. At least you have the decency to blush properly.”
Alec opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “I—uh. I didn’t think you’d—” “
“Answer the door looking like temptation incarnate?” The warlock offered with faux innocence. “Darling, I live here.”
“Sorry—didn’t mean to interrupt… whatever this is.”
“You’re not,” The warlock said airily, stepping aside. “This is just what I wear when I’m bored and the lighting is flattering. Come on in. Try not to trip over your morals.”
As Alec passed him, face burning, the warlock murmured—mostly to himself, but not quietly—
“Edom help me, if he turns redder, I might actually behave.”
The penthouse caught Alec off guard. He’d expected something showy—gaudy gold trim, velvet drapes, a few dramatic candelabras for flair. And yes, there were flourishes: carved molding along the ceiling, an actual chandelier that glowed like bottled starlight, and artwork in frames too elaborate for comfort. But there was more warmth than pomp. Deep, cozy colors. Furniture that invited sinking rather than posing. Pillows and throws in rich fabrics. And books—hundreds of them, not just about runes or summoning or alchemy, but everything from political theory to modern essays and old myths. He found himself surprised. He wandered in a few hesitant steps, stopping at the sight of a couch that looked both too expensive and too comfortable.
“If you stay there much longer, I’ll assume you like being told what to do” the warlock called, appearing at his side with that unhurried grace. “Sit, sweetheart. Let’s pretend we’re civilized. Drink?”
Before Alec could respond, the man snapped his fingers. Two glittering cocktails appeared—one in each hand, glass rims kissed with sugar and steam curling off the surface. Alec blinked.
“Uh… thanks,” Alec said, inspecting it like it might bite.
The man smirked, already perched at the far end of the couch, though somehow close enough their knees nearly brushed. “Tell me if it’s too strong—I wouldn’t want to be the second thing making your cheeks that red.”
Alec took a sip. Fire hit his throat and bloomed across his chest, drawing heat into his cheeks so fast he almost coughed. He cleared his throat and tried to keep his expression neutral. It was a losing battle.
The warlock chuckled. “Adorable,” he said. “You’ve clearly never been corrupted properly. We should fix that.”
Alec scowled into his glass. “I came to say thank you,” he muttered, not quite meeting the warlock’s eyes. “For healing Jace.”
“How traditional,” The man mused, swirling his own drink. “A little gratitude, a little eye contact, a drink in a stranger’s den. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were flirting.”
Alec flushed deeper, jaw tightening. “I wasn’t.”
“That’s what makes it even more fun,” the warlok said with a wink, reclining back like he’d just been handed front-row seats to something scandalous.
**********
Magnus hadn’t expected to hear that voice again so soon—low, uncertain, tinged with reluctant purpose. But there it was: a quiet “It’s Alec,” delivered with that very particular brand of sincerity that always made Magnus’ lips twitch. He’d buzzed him up mostly out of curiosity. And a little because he hadn’t stopped thinking about that stiff, stoic boy with the big stormcloud eyes and posture like an apology. Certainly not because he found him fascinating. Definitely not because he wanted to see how far down his blushes went. And absolutely not because he had imagined—briefly, in the privacy of his bath—what that deadly serious face might look like undone. Then the boy had walked through the door, awkward and lovely and painfully well-behaved. The warlock had expected Clave—black and bland and a little broken. But the moment Alec stood uncertain in the middle of his home, Magnus felt something unexpected twist in his chest. Not lust, though that was there too—how could it not be, with a body carved by discipline and shame? But something softer. Something annoyingly... interested.
But then he said, “I came to thank you,” and something inside Magnus jolted. Because no one said that. Not to warlocks. Not to him. Alec had tossed them out like they meant something, and damn it if it didn’t get under his skin. Magnus nearly dropped his cocktail. The boy didn’t know how to flirt, clearly, and even more clearly wasn’t trying to. But Magnus wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse. There was a sweetness to it—a careful, clenched kind of politeness that people like Alec wore like armor. Magnus sipped his drink to keep from smiling too much. He wasn’t used to sweet. He was used to power plays, bedroom bargains, whispered names that meant nothing come morning. Most of the men and women Magnus invited into his home didn’t even make it to the couch before they started asking what was under his robe. This one barely managed eye contact. And still—he was here. Voluntarily. In his home. Perched at the edge of Magnus’ obscenely comfortable sofa like a soldier on foreign soil, as if even sitting in proximity to sin might compromise his morals.
Edom, he was adorable.
And not just adorable. Interesting. And Magnus didn’t do interesting. He did beautiful, bold, brazen. Sweet wasn’t his thing. Earnest wasn’t his thing. But now this solemn boy was sitting three inches away, pink-cheeked and trying so hard to act like the drink didn’t singe his insides—and Magnus couldn’t stop thinking about how fast he’d opened the door. He should absolutely not be entertaining thoughts about this boy. Not from the Clave. Not one with shoulders like penance and a mouth like a prayer. But Magnus had always been bad at rules. And maybe—just maybe—he wanted to see what it would take to make that polite mask fall. Not for sex. Not yet. But just to see who Alexander Lightwood was when he wasn’t choking on manners and Clave doctrine. So he leaned back, drink in hand, voice like velvet cut with wicked, and watched Alec squirm. The game had only just begun. Magnus reclined into the velvet cushions, his posture all idle elegance, but his gaze sharp as a pin.
“So. You introduced yourself over the intercom as Alexander Lightwood.”
Alec shifted, not quite meeting his eyes. “That’s my name. But everyone calls me Alec”
Magnus tilted his head, watching him over the rim of his glittering glass. “’Everyone’ sounds dreadfully pedestrian. Surely I qualify for something a touch more exclusive.” Alec blinked at him, confused.
“You walk in like a storm cloud and expect me to call you Alec? No, darling. That face deserves full syllables.”
Alec’s brow furrowed. “It’s just a name.”
“It’s not what you’re called. It’s how it sounds gasped at midnight.”
A moment passed. Magnus let the silence linger, then pounced, eyes glinting. “So how long have you been infatuated with your golden-haired little friend?”
The color drained from Alec’s face so fast it was almost impressive. “I—I don’t—what?”
Magnus raised his brows, deadpan. “Jesse, right?”
Alec’s posture snapped taut. “That’s none of your business.”
“That’s not a denial,” Magnus said, entirely unbothered. “And before you panic, no—I’m not a mind reader. Just a very old man who’s seen every type of lovesick stare, and yours is practically engraved. You watch him like he hung the moon and forgot to claim the patent.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Alec muttered.
Magnus only smiled. “I know when a boy’s never been kissed.”
Alec flushed to the tips of his ears.
“It’s a bit tragic, honestly,” Magnus continued, voice softening. “Not because there’s anything wrong with it—but because you clearly think you’re supposed to suffer in silence forever. Like loving someone means never being loved back.”
“I’m fine with how things are,” Alec said stiffly.
“No, you’re used to how things are,” Magnus corrected. “Big difference.”
He watched Alec’s eyes—how they dropped to the floor, how they darted toward the door. He could practically see the wheels turning. This was the part where Alec would retreat. Shut the moment down. Pretend none of this happened. Which made what Magnus did next feel both reckless and necessary.
“I’m not going to steal anything from you,” he said, quietly. “But if you’ve been waiting all this time for something to start… maybe someone should offer you the first step.”
He leaned in slowly, deliberately, as if giving Alec time to pull away. He didn’t. So Magnus reached up, cupped his cheek with fingers cool from the glass, and brushed their mouths together. It was the softest of touches. No pressure. No push. Just a whisper of skin against skin. Alec inhaled sharply, but didn’t move. Magnus lingered for a heartbeat more, letting the shape of Alec’s lips imprint on his. Then he pulled back, eyes flicking open to find Alec looking dazed.
“That,” he said, voice gentle and maddening all at once, “was just a friendly kiss. There. Now you’re cleared for step two.”
He stood, gathering the loose hem of his sheer shirt as if it required a regal flourish.
“Now, I have sigils to untangle and minor deities to argue with. But if you ever want to try the real thing, Alexander—no spells, no games—I might just let it mean something.”
And with that, he waved open the door with a flick of his fingers, throwing Alec one last wink as he stepped aside.
“Off you go. Before I decide to be inappropriate twice in one evening.”
**********
A week had passed since Alec returned from Magnus’ penthouse with color high in his cheeks and a jaw tight enough to crack stone. How had she known, well Alec was so abnormally far away in his thoughts that she hadn’t been able to help it, she had questioned him until he cracked. He hadn’t said much afterward—Alec never did—but something in him had shifted. Isabelle had known him too long, too well, not to notice. He’d thrown himself into their patrols with even more intensity than usual, staying out longer, asking more questions, chasing every whisper of an unfamiliar scent in the wind like it might hold a key to the new threat pressing at the edge of their world. Jace, of course, welcomed the chase with open arms and reckless swings. Their best friend was back to training at full tilt, shrugging off any lingering trace of poison like it was a mild inconvenience. And Alec—he hovered. Not obviously. But Isabelle had seen how often his eyes tracked Jace’s movements, how his breath caught when Jace moved too fast, too hard, like he might burn through what little time they had. They’d combed bars, questioned back-alley witches, sat through reluctant tea with elderly fae women who read omens in the shape of spilled sugar. And then finally, finally, a name had surfaced: Ragnor Fell. A warlock, reputed to know the roads between worlds better than anyone still breathing.
Evening had softened the sharp edges of the Institute. Sunlight filtered through the narrow window behind Hodge’s desk, making shadows stretch long across the floor. Isabelle leaned against the edge of a cabinet, arms folded, watching her brother fidget. Which, for Alec, meant the tiniest twitch of his fingers against his sleeve.
“We’ve been canvassing the usual suspects,” he said, voice steady but just a touch too clipped. “Midtown vampires, the lower Brooklyn pack, a couple seelie informants.”
“And the dryads,” Isabelle added, sweetly. “Don’t forget your new favorite bar, Alec.”
Jace snorted, slouched on the back of the old velvet settee, sharpening a dagger with the laziness of a cat cleaning its claws.
Alec barely rolled his eyes. “Point is—we finally got a name.”
Hodge looked up from his ever-present leather-bound ledger. “Let’s hear it.”
“Ragnor Fell,” Alec said. “Supposedly a warlock. Reclusive. Has a reputation for working with dimensional ruptures.”
Hodge’s pen stopped. His eyes flicked up, something tightening in his brow. “Ragnor Fell…” He leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Yes. I know the name. Green-skinned fellow. Old. Untrusting. Last I heard, he was deliberately unfindable.”
“Charming,” Jace muttered. “That should make getting him on the phone real easy.”
“We need to try,” Alec said. “If this demon didn’t come from one of the known nine realms, and it carried that kind of fast-acting poison—then this Fell might be the only lead we have.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then, Alec added—too casually—“Magnus Bane might know where he is.”
And there it was.
Isabelle didn’t turn her head. Didn’t smile. And yet, Isabelle didn’t miss the way Alec said his name. Or how his eyes flicked down toward the floor right after. And she certainly didn’t miss the faint pink creeping up his neck. She’d seen how Alec had acted after the warlock left. Not that he said anything. Alec never did. The telltale signs of someone trying very hard not to revisit a memory that kept replaying anyway. Magnus Bane had clearly made an impression. It had been years—years—of watching Alec carry something silent and sharp for someone who never looked back. And if she had to keep pretending she hadn’t noticed? She would. Because Alec’s secret was his, and she loved him far too much to ever break that trust. But she could quietly root for progress. And nothing said progress like awkward fluster and the subtle recalibration of a boy trying not to hope.
Jace, naturally, didn’t notice. “Fine by me,” he said. “I don’t like being impressed by people who dress like peacocks. It’s humbling. And irritating.”
Hodge was watching Alec more closely now. “You want to go to him.”
“It makes sense,” Alec replied. “He’s the High Warlock of Brooklyn. If anyone knows how to find Fell, it’s him.”
“Provided he’s not in the middle of some summoning and decides you’d make a nice ingredient.” Jace added unhelpfully.
Hodge’s eyes narrowed—not with suspicion, but something more thoughtful. He gave a long-suffering sigh, like a man who regretted mentoring teenagers with sharp objects. “You can try. But be careful. Warlocks of his age and power don’t like being bothered without good reason.”
“He wasn’t rude,” Alec said, perhaps a little too quickly. “He helped.”
“True,” Hodge admitted. “You’ll have better odds charming a demon into confession. Magnus Bane’s not known for his consistency.” His gaze lingered on Alec. “Still, be careful how you ask.”
“I’m always careful,” Alec replied, standing straighter.
“You’re always buttoned up,” Jace muttered. “Not the same thing.”
Isabelle caught her brother’s look—half warning, half not now. So she only said, “Well, if anyone can charm a warlock into being useful, it’s Alec.”
And as she followed him out of the room, she allowed herself the smallest, secretive smile.
**********
The street looked normal—eerily normal. Too clean, too quiet. The kind of hush that usually meant glamour was at work. Isabelle narrowed her eyes as the three of them turned the corner. The wards shimmered faintly at the edge of her vision, lifting just enough to let them see what others wouldn’t. Inside that invisible bubble, the front of Magnus Bane’s building was… lively. A group of Seelies lounged near the steps, draped in fabrics that moved like liquid metal. One had hair that shifted color with every step; another wore a coat stitched from translucent moth wings. A vampire leaned against the railing, bare-chested beneath a fur-lined cape, sipping something red and unidentifiable from a cut-glass goblet. The air smelled like magic and perfume and high drama.
“Well,” Jace muttered, taking it in. “And here I thought Magnus Bane was just a moody warlock in silk shirts. Turns out he runs Studio 54 for fae.”
Alec didn’t look at him. “I didn’t know.”
Isabelle tilted her head at her brother. His face was neutral—too neutral. They climbed the front steps. Alec pressed the buzzer. No response. Then, with a small mechanical click, the door unlocked. Inside, the marble lobby gleamed. Not just clean—enchanted. The light shifted with their movements, and the quiet hum of bass-heavy music pulsed through the floorboards, like it was part of the structure itself. They took the stairs. Isabelle was already slightly breathless by the time they reached the top floor. The penthouse door loomed large, dark, and carved with sigils Isabelle didn’t recognize. Alec stepped forward and knocked once, sharply. The door swung open instantly. The warlock stood framed in light and color—glittering, resplendent, and utterly indecent. His jacket was made of something that shimmered between fuchsia and gold depending on how he moved. It hung open, revealing a sheer mesh shirt clinging delicately to his chest, fastened with a series of gold pins that stopped just above his waistline. His pants were metallic and dangerously tight, and his makeup had gone fully theatrical—magenta liner, stardust glitter, and something glowing faintly at the corners of his eyes. He looked Alec over with a grin that could cut silk.
“Well,” The warlock purred. “And here I thought the universe had forgotten to send me something pretty tonight.”
Alec flushed just slightly. “We need your help.”
The warlock’s eyes crinkled, and for a heartbeat he looked genuinely pleased. Then Isabelle and Jace stepped into view behind Alec. The smile dimmed.
“Oh,” The warlock said, tone cooling by degrees. “Next time, just bring flowers instead of company.”
He stepped aside without further comment. The penthouse was even more lavish than Isabelle had imagined. The air shimmered with magic. The crowd inside barely noticed their arrival—pixies in velvet bodysuits, a nymph asleep on a fur-covered couch, two vampires dancing barefoot across a polished inlaid floor. No sign of werewolves. Probably by design.
A fae stumbled into Jace, sloshing glittery liquid onto his jacket. Jace stiffened instantly, hand twitching toward his side.
“Relax,” The warlock said, not even glancing back. “No need to start compensating in front of the pixies, they’re very judgmental.”
Alec gave Jace a look that might’ve meant please don’t ruin this, and to Isabelle’s surprise, Jace actually exhaled and let it go.
“This way,” the warlock said, plucking a floating flute off a tray without missing a step.
He led them through the lounge and down a hall tucked behind a curtain of stringed beads that chimed faintly as they passed. No stairs—just one long hallway that ended in a set of double doors. The warlock opened them with a flick of his fingers. The bedroom was more restrained than the rest of the penthouse—if only slightly. Dark wood, deep violet, soft candlelight, and a perfume that hung in the air. Isabelle stepped in and leaned against the wall, watching Magnus Bane settle into a low chair with one long leg crossed, gaze flicking between them with interest and just enough irritation to remind her that they had, in fact, interrupted something.
“Well then,” he drawled. “Let me guess—another near-death, another emergency, and naturally, I’m the only grown-up you know.”
**********
Ah. Ragnor Fell.
The name slipped from Alec’s lips. He’d half-expected the Clave to blunder eventually into that particular corner of the world—but not this trio. Not Alec, standing there like all those straight-backed ideals had somehow become flesh. Magnus kept his expression perfectly neutral, swirling his drink like he was mulling it over instead of deciding, instantly, to lie through his teeth.
“Ragnor Fell…” he repeated, all idle polish. “Sounds familiar. Might’ve heard the name in passing. Decades ago. Nothing recent.”
Lie. Perfect and clean. Because if they went sniffing around Ragnor, they’d spook him—if they were lucky. If they weren’t, they’d find themselves hexed into ornamental topiaries. He saw the way Isabelle narrowed her eyes, just slightly. Sharp girl. Not sharp enough to cut him open, but she saw the ripples in the surface.
“We thought he might know something,” Alec said, his voice a little quieter now, a little tenser. “About the new tear. He’s supposed to be an expert on dimensions”
Magnus sipped his drink again—mostly to avoid reacting too visibly. He didn’t hunt monsters for a living. He just mended the fallout when people like Alec poked the universe too hard and then looked surprised when it bit back. Still. The poison. The unfamiliar energy signature. The way the boy—Joyce—had barely survived it. That wasn’t just another tantrum from the Nine Hells. Which meant something weird was moving. And the Clave was, predictably, already late to the party.
“I could look into it,” he said aloud, lounging back further in his chair. “But if Ragnor Fell’s off the grid—and trust me, he prefers it that way—your little knight’s errand might hit a dead end.”
Alec opened his mouth, probably to ask what now, and Magnus cut in smoothly.
“I could summon something,” he mused. “A minor demon. Gossip-tier. The kind that flutters around rift edges and sniffs out the new magic before anyone else knows to panic.”
He let the idea hang for a second.
“Very illegal,” he added, lips curving. “But I won’t tell if you won’t.”
Alec actually hesitated, which was endearing. Always so cautious. So righteous.
“You’d really do that?” Alec asked, voice taut with surprise.
Magnus met his gaze and held it. Oh, sweetheart. For you, I’d violate two accords, three treaties, and my better judgment—before breakfast.
“For you?” he said aloud, smile tilting. “I’ll even use the nice chalk.”
He rose, jacket glittering as he moved. “Give me forty-eight hours. I’ll get the bindings in place. And I’ll choose something that won’t try to snack on your golden companion.”
Alec gave a stiff nod. Always soldiering, always polite. It would’ve been sweet if it weren’t so tragic.
Magnus made a little tsk of disapproval as they moved to leave. “Shame you can’t stay,” he said, gaze flicking back to Alec with open mischief. “Typical. Drop by, look devastating, vanish before the scandal starts.”
That earned him a blush. A soft one, but genuine. Alec didn’t move. Just stood there, gaze locked like he couldn’t quite remember what came next. James—the blond menace—tugged Alec by the elbow like a shepherd with a sheepdog on leash, guiding him toward the door. Magnus didn’t stop them. But he did lean lazily in the doorway and call after them as they stepped into the corridor:
“Try not to kill anyone on your way out. The pixies just learned synchronized choreography and I’d rather not lose another one to a Nephilim tantrum.”
The door clicked shut behind them, and the warlock exhaled into the velvet silence of his room. He still had his drink in hand. He still had half a party waiting. But his mind—damn it—lingered on Alec. That straight spine. That earnest frown. That impossible quiet yearning. He was stitched from rules, but there was wonder in him—barely hidden, barely safe. And now, he was off chasing shadows for a world that never deserved him. Magnus downed the rest of his drink in one tilt and summoned a grimoire to his hand with a snap. If he was going to summon something that knew about that dimension, he’d need stronger wards. And maybe a prettier shirt. Alec was coming back, after all.
**********
The penthouse looked different. Not subtly, not with the careful touch of a cleaner or a decorator with restraint. No—different in the way a stage changes between acts. The whole atmosphere had shifted. Gone were the violet velvets and silver-edged glam. The place had turned autumnal, almost storm-like in its opulence. Rich greens and burnished golds had replaced the jewel tones. Some of the same furniture remained, but reupholstered or rearranged. Candles flickered in tall, twisted holders; the scent was darker too, like sandalwood. The air felt ready. Expectant. Isabelle noticed it immediately. The warlock had changed the penthouse like he changed outfits—dramatically, thoroughly, and without apology.
“Does he do this every week?” she murmured.
“I don’t know,” Alec replied stiffly, staring a little too long at a golden mirror now shaped like a dragon curling around its own tail.
Jace snorted. “Guess the glitter palace has a subscription to seasonal mood swings.”
They stepped inside. The summoning circle took up half the lounge floor—an elaborate silver pentagram etched in precision, surrounded by small bowls of odd ingredients. Salt, ash, things that glittered or steamed faintly. A chalk ring completed it. Magnus Bane stood near the center, barefoot, wrapped in a cascade of crimson silk barely fastened at the waist, the fabric shimmering like molten rubies. He didn’t look like the one summoning—he looked like the offering.
“Oh, good,” he said, lips curling into a sly smile. “I was worried you’d forget our little date.”
“This really screams ‘nothing could possibly go wrong.” Jace muttered.
The warlock didn’t dignify that with a response. He clapped once. “Let’s begin. You know the drill. Hands. Circle. Think cooperative thoughts.”
They complied, stepping into the chalk ring, forming a closed loop. Isabelle felt Alec take her hand, cold but steady. Jace grumbled but held on to Isabelle and Magnus. Alec gave his other hand to the warlock, fingers brushing just a beat too long, and that was all it took—color climbed his throat like he regretted having skin. Magnus, of course, caught it instantly and smirked like it was a personal triumph, so self-satisfied Isabelle wanted to roll her eyes into another dimension.
“Tell me this doesn’t involve a group chant.” Jace said through gritted teeth.
“Only if you want the demon to rate your pitch.”
He began to chant. Not loudly, not theatrically, but with intent. The air shimmered. A pulse traveled through the floor. Glyphs lit up under their feet, humming with restrained energy. The space within the circle darkened. Then came a crack, like glass fracturing across the world, and a rush of wind. With a sound like breath caught in a scream, the demon appeared. Isabelle didn’t move. She didn’t dare. It wasn’t tall, but it had mass. It crouched, bones ridged under blackened skin, with eyes—too many of them—glowing a dull red. Its limbs were long, ending in claws like obsidian. The stench of brimstone filled the room.
Magnus stepped forward, unconcerned. “Charming. I was hoping for something hideous.”
The demon sneered. “You smell of old magic and too much vanity.”
“Flatterer.” Magnus turned slightly. “We’re looking into a breach. A tear from a dimension unfamiliar. One not from the nine hells we know. You felt it?”
The demon leaned its head. “Perhaps.”
“Less coy, more helpful,” The warlock snapped.
“One of the nine grows impatient,” it said, eyes flicking over the circle. “They want more.”
Magnus narrowed his eyes. “Which one?”
The demon smiled, all rows of jagged teeth. “Knowledge has a price.”
“You’re bound.”
“Bound,” the demon hissed, its many eyes glinting like drops of oil, “yes. Shackled by your pretty wards and your High Warlock’s posturing.” It tugged against the invisible chains, and the air rippled with the strain. The wards pulsed angrily in response, but the thing only grinned wider, all teeth and malice. “But don’t mistake restraint for generosity. I want something.”
Magnus exhaled, the sound sharp, controlled—his version of a sigh that could kill flowers. “Naturally. What currency, then? Blood? Souls? Firstborns? Do be original.”
The demon’s laugh slithered like smoke. “Secrets.” Its head tilted at an angle that made human anatomy look like a joke. “From each of them.” It gestured with a clawed hand toward the circle—toward Alec, Isabelle, and Jace—its grin splitting wider. “Something hidden. Something sharp. A truth that tastes like marrow. One per tongue.”
“Secrets?” Jace muttered, folding his arms, all irritation and brittle humor. “What is this? Demon Truth or Dare?”
“They feed us,” the demon crooned, voice rising and falling like a lullaby that could flay skin. “Your lies are crumbs, but your truths—” It drew the word out until it dripped like honey laced with venom. “—rare delicacies. Offer them, and I will tell you what you wish to know. Refuse…” Its grin widened into something that looked like hunger. “And let the cracks in your world bleed until it swallows you whole.”
Magnus tilted his head, lashes lowering to half-mast as he studied the creature. Power crawled beneath its skin like worms under glass, muted but not gone. Even bound, it thrummed with something old. Something patient. He felt Alec stiffen beside Isabelle, the tension rippling down the circle like a fissure.
“Demons do love their games,” Magnus said lightly, masking his unease with silk and venom. “Play along, darlings, and we might get somewhere. Or I can banish this charmer back to its hellhole and we’ll continue stumbling in the dark together. Your call.”
Jace groaned like a man accepting death via boredom. “Fine.” He lifted a hand with mock solemnity. “Sometimes I polish my gear twice. Not because it needs it. Because I like the shine.” His mouth quirked. “There. Scandalous.”
The demon’s laugh skittered along the wards, making them hum. “Gloss,” it purred. “Pretty, shallow gloss. But true.” Its eyes slid like oil to Isabelle. “And you, jewel-girl?”
Isabelle hesitated. Her fingers twitched against the whip coiled at her hip. Then, with a tilt of her chin sharp as a blade: “I’ve been seeing a Seelie soldier,” she said. “For six months. It’s serious.” The admission landed like a dropped blade, quick and clean, sparking in the circle’s taut silence.
Magnus’ brows rose—well, that was interesting—but before he could arch a quip, the demon turned. Slowly. All those slick, dark eyes pivoting toward Alec.
And the air changed.
Alec didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Not at first. He just… went still. His grip on Isabelle’s hand tightened until her knuckles whitened. The color leeched from his face, leaving him carved from frost and shadow, save for the wild flicker in his eyes—a glint like a trapped animal, raw and frantic.
Magnus felt it—like a wire pulled taut between his ribs and Alec’s heartbeat. Fear, sharp and metallic, pouring off him in waves. Magnus’ fingers twitched with the urge to shatter the circle, to burn the demon out of existence, to anchor Alec before he fractured. But that would mean losing the thread of answers dangling in front of them, and every second counted. Every choice was a blade.
The demon leaned forward, and the wards screamed like iron. “Your turn, little Nephilim,” it whispered, voice threading into the marrow of the room. “Tell me what festers under that angelic skin. Tell me the thing that keeps you awake while the others sleep.” Its grin bared needle teeth slick with shadows. “Bleed truth for me.”
“No.” Alec’s voice cracked like a whip, startling in its force after so much silence. His head jerked in a sharp, frantic shake. “No.”
Magnus saw his throat work, saw his jaw lock against a tremor, saw the war in his eyes—duty strangling terror, love strangling both. His chest ached with it.
“Alec,” Isabelle whispered, but her voice was distant under the pounding in Magnus’ ears.
The demon’s laugh oozed into the cracks. “Oh,” it purred, drawing the syllable into a pike dripping venom, “such sweetness. Such ripe, desperate fruit.” Its head tilted, eyes flaring white-hot for a blink. “I can taste it from here. That shame. That hunger.” Its voice dropped to a hiss that rasped like silk tearing. “Tell them. Or let me dig it out with claws and teeth—”
“Enough.” Magnus’ tone snapped like a thunderclap, raw power lacing every syllable, making the circle blaze white. The demon jerked against its bonds with a sound like laughter strangled into a scream. Smoke curled off its limbs as the wards seared, but it grinned through the pain, lips splitting in joyless hunger.
Alec stumbled back so fast the chalk line smeared under his heel, his pulse a drum Magnus could feel even across the space. Wide blue eyes locked on the demon for a heartbeat longer—then tore away. And Magnus knew. Knew Alec wasn’t running from the monster in the circle. He was running from the one coiled inside his own ribs.
“Alec—” Magnus started, low, sharp—but the boy was already moving, breath hitching ragged, his boots a staccato rhythm pounding toward the door.
The demon’s voice chased him like smoke. “Run, little truth,” it crooned, laughter splitting into static. “Run while you can.”
The door slammed.
Magnus stood very, very still, power thrumming under his skin like a second pulse, his hands curling against the urge to tear the demon into ink and ruin. Because the sound Alec had made—that broken crack of denial—was still echoing through the bones of the room. Through the bones of Magnus himself.
The glyphs flickered and died. Alec's footsteps had barely faded down the hall when the pentagram pulsed once—then cracked. A jagged line tore through its center like broken glass, light sparking at the edges. The air went dense, hot. Then the demon smiled. It didn’t vanish. Instead, it surged forward, smoke and muscle and too many teeth, shrieking as it pushed against the lines that should have contained it. The warded circle flared bright, then flickered like a dying star. Magnus’ voice cut through the room, sharp and commanding. His hands snapped up, fingers burning with magic as he tried to reinforce the barrier. Copper lines on his clothes sparked to life, weaving like circuitry across silk, his feet braced wide on the floor. But the demon pushed harder. Sweat broke on Magnus’ brow, and the lights around the room dimmed as if his magic was pulling from every source available.
“Don’t just stand there!” he barked between clenched teeth.
Jace didn’t need telling. He was already moving, twin seraph blades out in a blur of white light. He slashed low at the limbs that slipped from the circle—too-fast limbs that burned and reformed like smoke. Beside him, Isabelle’s whip cracked, glowing with runes, wrapping around one of the demon’s arms and pulling it back with a snarl of resistance.
“Thought this was a low-grade demon!” Jace shouted.
Magnus gritted his teeth. “That was before it decided to host a tantrum.”
Another pulse hit—a deep, gut-shaking thrum that rippled through the circle like the heartbeat of something monstrous. The floor shuddered, hairline cracks spiderwebbing across the scorched runes as if the wards themselves were splintering under strain. Isabelle gritted her teeth, throwing her weight back on the whip that bound the demon’s arm, electrum snapping taut like a lifeline as claws raked the air, inches from freedom.
The creature surged against its invisible cage, its laugh a jagged rattle that scraped bone. Smoke poured off its limbs where the wards burned, but the bonds trembled, thinning with each wrenching pull. Another second—two at most—and it would rip through.
Magnus moved.
Not a flick of fingers. Not a lazy flourish.
He slammed both hands out, blue fire snapping from his palms like chains of lightning, striking the circle in a blazing arc that roared like a living thing. His voice followed—low and guttural at first, then climbing into a howl of syllables too old for mortal tongues, a language that split the air and flayed the walls with power. The runes carved into the floor blazed white-hot, lines of searing brilliance spidering outward as if the earth itself had caught fire.
The demon convulsed, shrieking—not in pain, but in pure incandescent fury—as the circle cinched tight, molten light coiling like a serpent around its limbs. Magnus’ arms shook with the force of it, every muscle drawn taut, veins standing out under skin as sparks tore up his sleeves. The smell of ozone and scorched stone filled the room, choking, burning, thick as smoke.
“Magnus—” Isabelle’s voice was distant over the roar, her whip vibrating like a live wire in her grip. Jace had braced at the far edge of the room, seraph blade raised, but there was nothing for adamas to cut—only raw power boiling like a storm with Magnus at its heart.
He shouted one final word—a sound like a blade dragged across the fabric of the world—and drove both hands down. The blast that followed detonated in silence so sudden it was deafening. Blue fire collapsed inward, folding space like paper. The demon’s form twisted, limbs tearing into ink and shadow before it was sucked screaming into the rift that birthed it, leaving nothing but a crater of blackened runes seared into the wood.
The wards guttered out in a cascade of sparks. The circle’s hum faded into a ringing stillness.
And then Magnus swayed.
The strength bled from him all at once, as if the magic had hollowed him out from the inside. He staggered back two steps, catching himself hard against the edge of the desk. His palms slapped the wood, slick with sweat, his breath sawing ragged through clenched teeth. Blue fire still flickered along his fingers in twitching aftershocks before snuffing out in threads.
Isabelle dropped her whip and crossed to him in a heartbeat, eyes wide, but Magnus lifted one hand—shaking—to wave her off. His lips were bloodless, jaw tight with something that looked like defiance. But up close, his glamours couldn’t mask the truth: the sheen of sweat diamonding his brow, the tremor in his arms, the faint bruise of exhaustion purpling under his cat-gold eyes.
“Fine,” he rasped, though his knees buckled as the word left his mouth. He slumped into the nearest chair with the grace of a felled king, one hand pressed to his temple, knuckles bone-white. Sparks hissed weakly between his fingers before dying altogether.
“Well,” he said hoarsely, voice dry and brittle as paper. “That went spectacularly smooth.”
Jace looked around, blades still out. “Is it gone?”
“For now,” Magnus muttered, straightening with effort. “Though you can kiss that summoning circle goodbye. It’ll take weeks to rebuild.”
Isabelle took a step toward him. “You okay?”
He waved a hand, though it trembled. “Marvelous. Just drained enough to nap through the next equinox.”
He turned toward the scorched remains of the pentagram, face shadowed. “I won’t be calling that particular informant again any time soon. And if this truly ties back to one of the Nine—”
He broke off, eyes darker than before.
“We’re in deep shit.”
**********
The Institute loomed quiet as they stepped through the doors, but Jace was anything but. His temper simmered low under his skin like a blade too long in the forge. He stormed through the halls, boots echoing on polished stone.
“Alec!” he called, throwing open door after door.
Behind him, Isabelle trailed, her arms crossed and expression stony.
“Could you stop acting like a lunatic for five seconds?” she asked.
He whirled on her. “And do what instead? Let it go? Pretend he didn’t drop our hands mid-summoning like he was a rookie channeling for the first time?”
Her brows arched, unimpressed. “You want to scream because you’re scared, Jace. Not because he failed. You know that.”
“I know,” Jace snapped, then added, nastier than he meant to, “Go suck Seelie lips or whatever you’re doing lately.”
She froze mid-step, something wounded and sharp passing over her face before it hardened again. “Screw yourself, Jace,” she said quietly, and turned away down the corridor.
He let her go.
The attic was quiet, the kind of quiet that thickened the air. When he pushed the door open, Jace’s steps slowed—because there Alec was, sitting on the edge of the mats where they sparred almost daily. Hoodie up, sleeves tugged over his fists, shoulders slumped. Jace’s anger flickered. That miserable look, the shut-in expression Alec could pull like a slammed door, it made it damn hard to yell at him. He walked closer, the anger returning not as fire this time, but as hurt.
“What the hell happened back there?” he said, his voice low but cutting. “What secret could be worth almost unleashing a demon into a warlock’s bedroom?”
Alec didn’t answer. Just stared at the floor like it might swallow him if he stared hard enough. Jace crouched in front of him, looking up into that familiar face—tense, shuttered, pale in the evening light.
“Was it Magnus?” he asked, quieter now. “Is that the big secret? That you like him, and you couldn’t say it while he was watching?”
That got Alec to look up, eyes wide and startled. “He’s a man,” he said defensively, like that somehow explained everything.
Jace shrugged. “And?”
Alec blinked. “Why would you even think that I…?” He shook his head. “That’s not—”
Jace stood and dropped beside him. “So it’s not Magnus. It’s the part where you like guys.”
Still silence. Jace could hear his own heartbeat in the pause.
“You really thought I didn’t know?” Jace said. “We’ve been bonded since we were twelve, Alec. I know what your heartbeat sounds like when you lie. I’ve seen you look. Hell, I’ve seen you not look at anyone for years and call it duty.” Alec didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Jace let his head fall back against the wall, breath slow. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Alec stared at his knees like they were all he trusted.
“You didn’t ask,” he muttered finally.
Jace let out a soft, tired laugh. “That’s your excuse? That I didn’t ask?”
He looked sideways at him. “You’re not afraid of demons, Alec. Not really. But this—you were willing to risk everything to avoid this coming out.”
Alec looked up, stricken.
“So what’s stopping you?” Jace asked, quietly now. “Why not Magnus? Apart from the whole being-a-warlock, drama-soaked, high-maintenance disaster”
Alec shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m trying,” Jace said and paused “Is it because of me? Because you think you’re in love with me?”
Alec stood suddenly, like the question had physically launched him upright, Jace nearly startled.
“Is there a group chat I’m not in? One where you all psychoanalyze me?” he snapped, pacing now, hands in his hair.
Jace watched him with something like sadness. He’d always known Alec kept things buried. He just hadn’t known how deep the grave went.
“You didn’t let yourself want anything else,” he said. “You convinced yourself it was me so you wouldn’t have to look at anyone else. Because wanting me didn’t require doing anything. It just let you stay still.”
Alec turned away, jaw tight.
“But you looked at Magnus,” Jace added softly. “A lot.”
Alec’s scoff was wounded. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Then kiss me.”
The words dropped like a stone between them.
Alec turned, stunned. “What?”
Jace stood. “You think you’re in love with me? Then kiss me. Prove it.”
“I’m not going to kiss you just to make a point,” Alec muttered, rolling his eyes.
Jace stepped forward. “Fine,” Jace said quietly. “Then I’ll do it.”
He stepped in close and lifted his hands, cupping Alec’s face like it was something breakable. For a second, Alec didn’t move. Then Jace leaned in and pressed his lips softly, carefully, against his. It was soft. Not romantic, not really—not for Jace. But it wasn’t careless either. The gentlest shove out of the dark. He pulled back slowly.
“So?”
Alec stared at him, a little sheepish. A little pink. “You… kiss like a straight guy.”
Jace laughed. “And you kiss like someone who should really stop lying to himself.”
**********
Magnus felt Alec the moment he entered the building. His wards whispered the boy’s name into his senses—Alexandre, with all the subtlety of a confession. He didn’t need to answer the intercom. Just nudged the lock open with a flick of thought and left the door ajar. If the boy wanted in, he would come. And if he didn’t… well. That was its own answer. The stairs creaked. Hesitant steps, not frantic. Good. Magnus lay half-reclined on the velvet couch, one leg slung over the other, head tipped against the cushion. He didn’t open his eyes. Just let Alec come to him.
There was a knock. Timid. Then, after a pause, the voice—quiet, uncertain. “It’s Alec. Can I come in?”
Magnus couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips.
“Darling,” he called back, voice syrup-smooth, “you can always come in. I don’t bite—unless asked.”
And oh, the way that made Alec’s aura stutter. Delicious. Footsteps crept forward. Magnus cracked one eye open and saw him—tall, slender, and stiff as a deer at the treeline. So serious. So endearing. Still standing like he wasn’t sure if he’d be welcomed or hexed.
Magnus waved a hand lazily. “Closer, Alexander. I don’t like beautiful things standing so far away.”
Alec inched forward, hands stuffed in his hoodie sleeves like a child skulking in a place he didn’t belong.
Magnus sighed. “Come here. I don’t plan on breaking anything tonight, especially not you”
That got him another step. Then Alec sat, carefully, on the very edge of the couch. His back just brushed against Magnus’ knee.
Magnus let his gaze drift down to him. “If you’re here to summon anything else, you better be prepared to put out. I don’t do charity work without incentive.”
A faint, predictable flush rose on Alec’s cheekbones. Magnus adored the way he always blushed like no one had ever flirted with him in his life. Maybe they hadn’t. Fools.
“Be serious,” Alec muttered.
“I am. Just… fashionably unserious,” Magnus replied, smirking. But his gaze lingered on Alec’s hands. Fidgeting. Fingers circling, twisting. The lower lip caught between teeth. All nerves, all restraint. It made something inside him ache and want to kiss the hesitancy out of him.
“Well then,” he said softly, “why are you here, darling?”
Alec took a breath. “Jace told me what happened after I left. With the demon. And you.”
So that was it. Guilt. Magnus tilted his head, considering him.
“Yes,” he said, in mocked anger. “Your dramatic exit did result in a tiny bout of demonic mayhem. I had to do actual work. It was horrifying.”
Alec stiffened.
“But,” Magnus added, softening upon the signs of acquiescence,” I try to be furious, and then you go and behave like a proper gentleman. Rude.” Alec looked at him like he was absurd. Maybe he was. Who cared?
“Is there anything I can do?” the boy asked.
That earnestness again. Magnus sighed. “You could strip. Or feed me grapes. Or read me smutty poetry.”
Alec raised an eyebrow, giving him a glance of perfectly curated exasperation.
Magnus chuckled. “Fine. There’s something, actually. Old practice. Your kind used to do it for warlocks—when we pushed too far. When magic hollowed us out.”
Alec leaned in slightly. “What is it?”
“Energy sharing. A small offering. Nothing painful. Not unless I make it so” He winked.
“And how does it work?”
Magnus hesitated. Not because he was unsure—but because he wasn’t certain Alec would want it, those practices had long been considered distasteful and unworthy of those of the Clave.
“Well you have to open yourself to me, no reserve.” There, was he becoming the shy one now? “You don’t have to” Magnus’ voice was suddenly more careful. “I’ll survive. I always do. Drama just makes it more stylish. But you don’t owe me anything.”
“I’ll do it,” Alec said firmly.
Magnus blinked. Again offering with such thoughtless candor. Magnus couldn’t bear this any longer.
“There are many methods,” he said. “But I prefer this one.”
He sat up fully, took Alec’s hand—warm, calloused, uncertain—and held it gently in his. His other hand came to Alec’s face, thumb brushing the sharp line of his jaw.
“Don’t flinch,” he murmured.
And then he kissed him. It wasn’t lust. Not entirely. It was a coaxing, a quiet sort of hunger. His lips pressed soft and deliberate, letting the warmth build slowly. He traced Alec’s bottom lip with the barest touch of tongue—just enough to taste, to ask. He felt it then: the first pull of energy. A golden thread unwinding from Alec’s core, slipping into Magnus’. Not stolen—offered. Magnus deepened the kiss a little, just enough to draw out the thread, to let it weave between them. And Alec… didn’t pull away. His breath had caught in his chest, but he stayed.
When Magnus finally pulled back, he didn’t let go of Alec’s hand. The energy continued to flow—less sharply now, a gentle stream instead of a wave.
Alec narrowed his eyes. “We didn’t need to kiss, did we?”
Magnus put on his most innocent expression. “We absolutely needed to.”
Alec gave him a look that could’ve scalded.
The warlock smiled, wicked and warm. “Not for the magic. But come on—we’re two absurdly attractive men, alone on a couch. Not kissing would’ve been a crime against nature.”
He didn’t say it, but he thought it: And I’ve been waiting for that moment since the last time we kissed.
After about ten minutes, the shift became visible. Alec’s skin—normally the soft, ethereal white of untouched porcelain—had gone even paler, if such a thing were possible. The boy’s posture slumped ever so slightly, and his eyes, those storm-tossed blue eyes, had lost focus, blinking slowly as though the world had gone slightly out of sync. Magnus, feeling the current of vitality still flowing between them, gave it another beat before he released Alec’s hand gently and shifted to sit more upright. Alec leaned back against the couch without complaint, exhaling like his bones had gone too heavy to hold.
“Thank you,” Magnus said, brushing a strand of hair off his own forehead. “I do feel much better. Like I’ve aged backward three days. Maybe even four.”
He was already drawing in a breath to say something wholly inappropriate—something along the lines of, “Of course, if you wanted to keep touching me, I wouldn’t object”—when a soft thump interrupted the moment. A cat leapt gracefully onto his lap. Alec startled slightly, blinking down at the creature with open surprise.
“You have a cat?” he asked, dubious, as if this challenged the entire framework of Magnus’ being.
Magnus arched a brow, stroking soft fur with lazy fingers. “Of course I have a cat. This is Chairman Meow. He’s one. He’s very judgmental.”
Alec’s expression twisted between disbelief and dry amusement. “Is he… actually a cat? He’s not… people, is he?”
Magnus gasped with mock offense. “Please. If I were going to hex someone, I wouldn’t waste the spell turning them into something cute and fluffy. I’d transform them into a dramatic coat I could wear to court.”
Alec tilted his head, frowning slightly—as if genuinely considering the plausibility.
“He’s very small for one year old,” Alec said.
Magnus looked down at his lap. “He’s the perfect size. Bite-sized indignation and fluff.”
Alec’s lips twitched—almost a smile. He tentatively extended a hand. The cat sniffed him, meowed once, then turned its back in the way only cats—or extremely stylish warlocks—could pull off convincingly.
“He missed dinner,” Magnus sighed. “Excuse me while I uphold my sacred duties as his devoted servant.”
Alec chuckled. And Magnus stopped. Because by the stars, he had never heard Alexander make a sound so close to laughter. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t carefree. But it was real—and something in it made Magnus’ chest go soft.
He stood with exaggerated hauteur, cat in arms, and threw Alec a scandalized look over his shoulder. “What, exactly, is so funny?”
Alec gave him a long-suffering glance. “I just didn’t picture the High Warlock of Brooklyn battling demons, throwing opulent parties, and then feeding his very small cat at a precise hour.”
Magnus narrowed his eyes. “He is a very normal-sized cat.”
Alec held up his hands in surrender. “Of course.”
Still muttering to himself about being unfairly judged and mean people giving cute cats complexes, Magnus carried the Chairman to the kitchen, hearing faint movement behind him as he prepared the bowl. The gentle clink of dishes, the contented purr of the cat, and—for once—silence in his own head. By the time he returned, the light in the penthouse had dimmed even further, and the music had quieted to nothing but the hush of magic humming at the walls. Alec was fast asleep on the couch, one arm slung over his eyes, the other draped along the cushions. Completely out. Magnus stopped in the doorway, eyebrows lifting.
“Well,” he murmured to himself, “He’s sleeping in my apartment. Not with me—but we’re making progress.”
He summoned a light throw from the back of an armchair and laid it gently over Alec’s frame, tucking it around his shoulders with surprising care. Then, after a pause, he lifted Chairman Meow and placed him at Alec’s side. The cat settled instantly. Magnus stood there for a moment longer, watching them—boy and cat, both oddly beautiful in their own solemn way. Then he turned and padded barefoot to his own bedroom, trailing a final flick of magic behind him to extinguish the lights. Tomorrow could wait. Tonight, the boy was safe. And for some impossible reason, that mattered.
Chapter 3: Burn Slow
Notes:
This chapter contains Explicit Sexual Content
Chapter Text
The dining table groaned under the weight of grimoires, sigil-etched tomes, and half-drunk tea gone cold. Magnus sat cross-legged on one of the carved wooden chairs, sleeves rolled up, ink on his fingers, scribbling notes in a swirling, ancient script. The research wasn’t exactly thrilling—some prickly heir wanted a necro-barrier recalibrated—but it kept his hands busy.
His eyes, however, kept wandering.
Alec was still asleep on the couch, curled on his side like he’d been placed there with delicate hands. One arm tucked under his head, the other resting loosely over his stomach. His ridiculous hoodie had ridden up slightly, revealing a slim stretch of waist above his jeans, all pale porcelain skin and quiet vulnerability. His breathing was slow and deep, chest rising and falling with a rhythm Magnus found strangely grounding. Chairman Meow had claimed his perch on Alec’s legs and was dozing there like royalty. The hunter’s face, usually sharp with tension, had softened. Younger. Vulnerable. Honest. The scene was so domestic, so disarmingly peaceful, it made something in Magnus ache—like warmth, like breath, like a reminder of what silence could feel like when it wasn’t just emptiness. He hadn’t chosen solitude out of spite. He liked his own company. But now... with Alec breathing quietly a few feet away, solitude felt a little overrated.
He tore his gaze back to his notes. But didn’t stop glancing. Eventually, Alec stirred. His brows drew together as he blinked at the room—confused for a moment, then wary, then finally recognizing where he was. He sat up slowly, brushing sleep from his face and blinking toward the table.
“I… didn’t mean to crash,” he murmured, voice low and sleep-rough. “Sorry.”
Magnus smiled without looking up. “Nonsense. I probably took too much energy from you. I should be the one apologizing. And I’m fairly sure my cat claimed you as furniture sometime during the night.”
“Did I sleep long?”
“Fourteen hours,” Magnus said, finally glancing up with a quirked brow. “An impressive commitment to unconsciousness.”
Alec looked down. Chairman Meow was now curled in the space he’d vacated, purring contentedly. “I... slept fourteen hours?” Alec flushed. “I just… didn’t mean to impose.”
“Roughly. A feat, really. But you needed it.”
Alec pushed to his feet in alarm. “I’m late. I’ve got a history lesson.”
Magnus smirked. “The horror. Imagine, being late to a monologue on ancient treaties and outdated battle strategies.” Magnus looked up at that. “And yet you still plan to go? Saintlike behavior. Has anyone considered canonizing you?”
Alec gave a weak smile and moved toward the door. He paused mid-step, eyes catching the notes and books strewn across the table. “You’re working,” he said, tone half-accusing, half-curious. “Should I ask if it’s anything illegal?”
Magnus tilted his head, a glimmer in his eye. “Who’s asking? Alexander Lightwood, representative of the upright and unyielding Clave ready to flay me? Or the very-soon-to-be boyfriend?”
That stopped Alec in his tracks. He swallowed and then said, shy but steady, “I’d like that.”
Magnus’ grin went wicked. “Like to flay me?”
Alec rolled his eyes, ears pink. “The second thing.”
“Well, lucky for us both,” Magnus murmured, capping his ink bottle, “I’d like that too. We should go on a date. Something terribly scandalous. You can frown at my choice of dessert.”
Alec looked quietly delighted. “You’ll call me?”
“I will. I’ll even text. With emojis. I'm nothing if not a modern gentleman.”
Alec nodded and stepped back again toward the door, then hesitated.
Magnus cocked his head. “If you’re planning to just stand there looking like an apology in boots, you should know history doesn’t wait.”
Alec let out a soft laugh—real, warm, unguarded. It filled the room like sunlight. He left with a murmured goodbye. And Magnus, alone again, stared at the now-empty couch, the dozing cat, the front door. Then he smiled. As soon as the wards pinged to let him know Alec had crossed the threshold of the building, Magnus snatched his phone from the pile of half-charred notes and glitter-dusted grimoires.
He tapped the screen, already grinning. The moment the line picked up, a crisp voice answered, “Catarina Loss.”
“Meet me at our café in Manhattan. Three p.m. sharp. It’s a vital emergency!”
He hung up before she could respond. Though he did hear the beginning of her familiar death-rattle sigh and the words: “If you’re calling me again for some stupid—”
Click. He dropped the phone onto the table with a flourish, dramatically brushing imaginary dust from his hands. Chairman Meow blinked up at him from the couch, tail flicking in sleepy disapproval.
Magnus leaned down and tapped the cat lightly on the nose. “We’re going to get you a new daddy,” he informed him solemnly. “So behave. Or at least pretend.” The cat yawned.
“Same,” Magnus muttered, stretching with a feline roll of his own. “Now, where did I put that obsidian-threaded waistcoat and the cologne that smells like good decisions and bad intentions...?”
**********
The coffee was bitter, hot, and enormous. Just the way Catarina liked it—especially when dealing with Magnus’ theatrics. She sat at her usual spot on the café terrace, legs crossed, coat draped over the back of her chair, and sunglasses shielding her from the afternoon sun. Her foot tapped against the base of the table as she stared down at her watch. One minute to three. And right on cue, a shimmer of illusion peeled back across the street, and Magnus sauntered into view like he owned the pavement. Not an ounce of urgency on him. Just smugness. Smug in heels, silk, and sin. Catarina sighed into her cup. He dropped into the seat across from her like this was brunch and not the “vital emergency” he’d so dramatically declared on the phone.
“Hello, dearest,” he purred. “I met a boy.”
Catarina narrowed her eyes and began to stand. He caught her wrist before she could walk off. “Don’t leave,” he whined. “It’s important.”
She dropped back into her chair with a thud and muttered, “It better involve blood or curses.”
Magnus beamed. “He’s handsome. Broody. Deeply repressed. The whole tragic hero aesthetic, you know I have a weakness.”
Her eyebrow arched so hard it nearly left her forehead. “You interrupted my work at the hospital—where I’m saving lives—so you could tell me you’re infatuated with some pretty boy?”
“It’s different,” he said, dreamily.
She rolled her eyes and took a long sip of her coffee. “It always is.”
“No, truly,” Magnus leaned in, resting his chin in his hand like a teenager gossiping. “He’s from the Clave.”
That got her full attention. “A Shadowhunter?”
“I know,” he said, delighting in her horror. “It’s terribly forbidden. Very tragic. Possibly doomed.”
“You say that like it’s a selling point.”
“Everything’s a selling point if you say it with the right tone,” Magnus replied, grinning. “We’re going on a date. Soon. I need help planning it.”
“I save lives, Magnus. I don’t plan dates.”
He clasped his hands together. “Come on. Just one suggestion. One little idea.”
Despite herself, Catarina found her lips twitching. There was something in his eyes—not just his usual mischief, but a softness she hadn’t seen in years. Not since Adrienne.
Not since she died.
Not since the day Magnus came to her with trembling hands and hope in his voice. An Omega, powerful and radiant. A miracle, they’d both thought. The child had never come to be, and Adrienne had vanished from the world too soon. Catarina had examined her body herself, found no cause, but suspected the toll of trying to carry life as an Omega may have played a part. Whatever the truth, it had broken everything in Magnus. He’d been fire and poison ever since. Still vibrant. Still wicked. But cold, too. Closed. And now here he was, talking about dates. Even if it was doomed—especially if it was doomed—she was glad to see him want something again.
“So where are you taking this poor soul?” she asked, feigning boredom.
“Somewhere memorable,” Magnus said, tapping his lip. “Something delicate and dramatic. Like a rooftop garden. Or an illegal moonlit picnic on a fae barge.”
“You can’t kiss him in front of the Unseelie guards.”
“Who said anything about kissing?” he said innocently. “It’s slow burn. Serious. No sex until his mother likes me.”
“His mother? From the Clave?”
Magnus nodded solemnly. “I need approval. I might bake.”
Catarina snorted. “Bake arsenic into her tea, maybe.”
“He’s a Lightwood” he said. Catarina chocked on her coffee staring into his eyes like he’d gone mad.
“A lightwood!?”
His expression turned a little wistful. “This one’s different. He says ‘thank you’ and means it. He blushes like it’s a magical defense mechanism. And he looked at me like I wasn’t just something wicked. Like I was… worth trusting.”
Catarina watched him, the corners of her mouth softening. “Just be careful, Magnus. The Clave doesn’t exactly send gift baskets to Downworlders they disapprove of. Appart from being useful tools for them we bear little importance in their eyes”
“I know,” he said. “I’m not stupid. Just… stupidly flamboyant.”
She let the silence stretch a little, then leaned back. “So. Rooftop garden?”
“Or a vampire opera,” he mused. “Too much?”
“Way too much.”
“But deliciously dramatic.”
And despite herself, Catarina smiled.
**********
The familiar metallic clink of buckles and sheaths echoed through the arming room. Isabelle fastened the last strap on her thigh holster and glanced over at her brothers. Alec was unusually quiet, methodical in his movements. His jaw tight, eyes unfocused. Sulking, she thought with amusement. Positively brooding.
Jace noticed it too. He leaned against the weapons rack, twirling a dagger. “What’s the long face for? Is it the lecture about skipping history again? I mean, you’re never awake during those anyway.”
Alec didn’t even look up. “I was told to be more accountable.”
Jace snorted. “You? You’re the poster boy for rule-following.”
“Maybe,” Isabelle cut in with a smirk, “it’s about what happened last night.”
Alec looked up, deadpan. “You both are annoying.”
She grinned wider. “It’s one of my best qualities.”
They stepped out into the night, the heavy church doors creaking behind them. The city air was cool, damp with the promise of rain. As Alec zipped up his jacket, his phone buzzed. He checked it—and froze. Isabelle, of course, peeked over his shoulder before he could angle it away.
Magnus: Friday. 6 p.m. My penthouse. Wear the cocktail hoodie. I’ll try not to be indecent. Promise. 😘
Alec fumbled to shove the phone back into his jacket, ears pink. She nearly cackled. Alec made a face, half embarrassment, half mockery, and shielded the screen like he might actually stick out his tongue at her.
She couldn’t help herself—she poked his side, then pinched his arm affectionately. “You’re going on a date,” she sang under her breath. “Our Alec. Dating.”
Jace, a few steps ahead, didn’t comment. Didn’t even glance back. His shoulders were set, movements sharp as they stepped into the darkened street. Something was off. Isabelle could feel it in her spine.
She looped an arm around Alec’s elbow, resting her head briefly on his shoulder as they walked. “You nervous?” she whispered.
He shook his head, but the flush on his neck betrayed him. It was sweet. And more than that—it was right. She’d been waiting years to see Alec do something for him, not for the Clave, not for Jace. Jace, meanwhile, was a full ten feet ahead, scanning alleys like he expected to find a demon in every shadow.
“Short route tonight,” he called without turning. “No need to stir anything up.”
Isabelle blinked. That was… odd. Alec glanced at her too, his brow furrowed.
“Since when do you care about stirring things up?” she asked. “You’re usually the one begging for just one more lap in the worst neighborhood.”
Jace didn’t respond.
Isabelle tightened her grip on Alec’s arm. “What’s eating him?”
He gave a tiny shrug, but his eyes were on Jace. And hers were, too. Jace kept throwing glances over his shoulder—not obvious ones, but just enough for Isabelle to notice the pattern. Quick checks, all directed at Alec. She hadn’t seen Jace like this in… ever. He was usually all swagger and recklessness on patrol. Tonight, he was guarded. Watching Alec like he might vanish. Jealous, she thought suddenly. Not romantically—no. But something close. Possessive. Alec had been his shadow since they were ten. Always there. Always waiting. Alec had followed him into chaos with quiet, unwavering loyalty. And now, Alec didn’t tell him things. He disappeared overnight. He had other people. Other priorities.
The bang came from nowhere—a trash lid clanging across concrete. Jace reacted instantly, blades drawn, stepping in front of Alec in a shield-like stance that startled both her and her brother. Isabelle’s whip flew to her hand. Alec tried to draw his bow but hesitated—Jace was too close to move around. But it was just a cat. The lid spun to a stop. The tabby dashed into the shadows. Jace exhaled slowly, easing his stance. Alec tried to step forward, but Jace’s body was still too close. Isabelle frowned. Weird.
She looked down and noticed her own hand—gripping Alec’s arm like she’d been ready to drag him to safety. He was staring at it too, puzzled. She let go, cleared her throat. “Reflex,” she muttered.
Alec nodded, but the look he gave her said: What was that?.
The street settled into stillness again.
As they continued walking, Alec said under his breath, “Magnus has a small cat.”
Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “Of course he does. Let me guess—it shoots sparks and walks in sync with the planets?”
Alec was quiet, then: “No. Just… really small.” And there was something so pure about that—that she had to reach over and squeeze his arm again.
Jace said nothing. But Isabelle kept watching him. Watching the way his eyes lingered on Alec. How his steps slowed just enough to stay close. How he didn’t look away for long. Something was definitely wrong with him.
They returned to the Institute in record time—twice as fast as their usual patrol route. Not because they were tired. Not because they’d found anything alarming. Just because Jace had been marching like a man on a mission, and Alec, predictably, fell in step behind him. Isabelle followed out of instinct more than decision.
No one had said Jace was in charge. He just moved like gravity, and Alec, being Alec, moved like something caught in its pull. The moment they crossed through the gates, Jace muttered a clipped “Goodnight,” and disappeared down the hall without so much as a glance back. His tension had been a silent thing the whole evening—coiled tightly beneath the surface, manifesting in clenched fists and quick glances over his shoulder. Not at threats. At Alec. Alec gave her a look that might’ve been confusion, or concern, or just tiredness. It was hard to tell with him sometimes. Isabelle watched him vanish, then turned toward her own room. She showered, toweled off, and still damp-haired and wrapped in her favorite fleece, tiptoed across the hall into her brother’s room. He wasn’t out of the bathroom yet, so she climbed onto his bed and settled into the pillows like she owned the place. Which, let’s face it, she kind of did. He was still in the bathroom, the water just shutting off. She climbed onto his bed, curled her legs up beneath her, and waited. Alec emerged with a towel slung low around his hips and a smaller one scrubbing his wet hair. He stopped short at the sight of her lounging like a cat among his pillows.
He rolled his eyes. “Seriously?”
Her grin bloomed. “Obviously. Spill. What happened last night?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Uh-huh.” She watched a light flush cover his cheeks.
“I helped Magnus. He was drained after the summoning. I let him take what he needed from me. It left me worn out so I fell asleep.”
The way he said it made her arch a perfectly shaped brow. It sounded… loaded. And she was pretty sure he didn’t even realize it. She decided—mercifully—not to tease him about it. He towel-dried his hair with more force than necessary, then started sorting through his wardrobe. Black. Dark grey. Almost-black. Brown so dark it might as well be black.
Isabelle wrinkled her nose. “You know you’re going on a date, not infiltrating a vampire nest, right?”
Alec looked over his shoulder. “I don’t know anything more than what you saw in the text.”
He hesitated a beat. “Now turn around, please.”
She sighed dramatically but did as asked, muttering about Damn prudes.
A rustle of fabric followed, and the soft thud of drawers. She imagined him trying to coordinate his wardrobe like a covert mission. Tactical hoodie acquired. Mission: Survive Warlock Courtship underway.
“So,” she said after a moment, voice casual, “what’s going on with Jace?”
A pause.
“I don’t know,” Alec said eventually, voice muffled. “He’s just… off.”
Isabelle turned back around. Alec was now wearing a long-sleeved tee and joggers.
“He’s been weird since you came back from Magnus’,” she said. “Staring at you. Hovering. Even tonight—he practically body-blocked you from a raccoon.”
Alec blinked. “It was a cat.”
“Still.”
He pulled a brush through his hair. “Maybe he’s just being careful. We’ve seen a lot of demon activity lately.”
“Jace doesn’t do careful. Jace does reckless and charming and dramatic mid-air flips while yelling bad one-liners.” She tilted her head, watching him. “Something’s shifted.”
Alec paused mid-brush. She was looking at him strangely.
“What?”
“I don’t know” she said “There’s something about you…”
**********
Morning crept in quietly. Pale light filtered through the stained-glass slats near Alec’s ceiling, painting lazy colors on the floorboards. He lay in bed a moment longer than usual, listening to the hollow silence of the church. Then he pulled himself upright, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and started moving through his morning routine like a clockwork soldier—folding his sheets, tucking his pillow under the bed frame, pulling on a clean black training tee and joggers. His mind, however, refused to stay in line.
Magnus.
The memory hit like a spell with poor aim—wild, unexpected, and still somehow burning on his skin. That kiss… It had been heat, curiosity, mischief—and something else Alec wasn’t sure he had a name for yet. Jace had never gotten under his skin like this. Magnus left him feeling cracked open and rewired. Magnus had been—
A spark against the dark.
He splashed water on his face in the bathroom, gripping the porcelain sink tighter than necessary. Get a grip, Lightwood. He was going on a date tomorrow. He needed to keep his mind clear, his instincts sharper than this. As he padded back into his room to gather his things, he reached automatically for the small brown bottle on his desk. The one with the cork top and the dark, bitter-smelling liquid his parents had insisted on since he was thirteen. He fumbled. The bottle slipped between his fingers, bounced once on the wooden floor—and shattered.
“Damn it,” he muttered, crouching quickly.
The potion spread fast, seeping into the cracks of the floorboards with a sharp herbal tang that always made his stomach turn. He stared at it, frozen for a moment. That was his last dose. And he was already two days behind. Hodge was going to kill him. Or worse—lecture him about discipline and tracking and schedules, as if Alec hadn’t spent his entire life trying to live up to those exact things. He’d have to ask for more. Preferably without admitting how low he’d let it get. He grabbed an old towel from the corner of the room, blotting at the floor. As he worked, his thoughts drifted—again—of course, he cut his hand on the damn shards of glass unable to just focus. Today he had training. Then breakfast and a shower. Then several hours buried in the Institute library trying to chart the spread of dimensional breaches tied to the Nine. Isabelle had declared, with dramatic flair, that this was clearly Hodge’s way of punishing them for being young and beautiful. Jace would skim two pages and get distracted by a weapons catalog or some book he seemed to fancy. After that: tutoring. Three hours of it. And then—of course—patrol. Alec exhaled and made his way up to the attic.
The floor creaked familiarly beneath his steps. The weight of swords, the cool scent of steel, the uneven shadows slashed across the training mats—everything here grounded him. He slid into stance, stretching out his limbs, trying to shake the weight of restless thoughts.
But still, somewhere behind his ribcage, the memory of Magnus’ kiss glowed warm and wild, like a candle he wasn’t ready to snuff out. Tomorrow was the date. Until then—discipline. Alec found Isabelle already stretching in the attic, braid swinging over her shoulder as she adjusted her stance. No sign of Jace.
“He’s training in the garden today,” Isabelle said, not even glancing over. “Said he wanted space.”
Alec blinked. “Space from what?”
She shrugged innocently—too innocently. “From people, apparently. Must be the full moon or something.”
He didn’t let his face react, but he could feel the tightness just behind his eyes. Space. Sure. Not that it mattered. Jace wasn’t his. Never had been, but he was his Parabatai. The little sting that flared up betrayed him enough to Isabelle, who was now watching him like he was a cracked porcelain doll.
“You good?” she asked as they took their stances. “You sure you’re up for this?”
Alec arched an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Isabelle hesitated, lips twitching with something unsaid. “No reason. Just… don’t push yourself, okay?”
They went through the motions, but Alec could tell she was holding back. Not by much—just enough to be obvious if you knew her well, and Alec did. Every time he grunted or exhaled too harshly, she paused, brows creasing in concern.
“Izzy,” he said flatly as they reset. “Did I sprain something and forget about it?”
“You sure you’re not sore from, I don’t know, certain activities?” she said grinning.
Alec gave her a glare that should’ve scorched the paint from the walls. “We kissed. I didn’t bench press a warlock”
She grinned, pleased with herself. “Just checking.”
After training, they made their way to the kitchen. Hodge was already there, sipping tea and pretending not to be judging them all. Jace stood at the counter, back straight, slicing an apple with a blade like it had personally offended him. His shoulders twitched when Alec entered. Alec grabbed a plate and piled it with enough food to sustain an army. Isabelle poured herself coffee and grabbed a few strawberries.
She nudged Alec with her elbow. “Should I get you a second plate or just bring the whole pantry?”
“Training burns calories.”
Jace glanced over, tension practically vibrating off him. “You okay?”
Alec gave him a bland look. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Jace frowned, eyes sharp. “I can smell blood.”
Alec blinked. “Does this mean you’re part of some goth wildlife now?”
“Your hand.”
Alec looked down. Right—still bandaged. He hadn’t rewrapped it after training. “It’s just a scratch. Really. No need for dramatic gasps.”
Jace muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Be careful,” and ate the apple slice with the grim determination of someone proving a point.
Alec raised an eyebrow. “Coming from the human bruise factory?” Isabelle snorted into her coffee.
Later that evening, on patrol. The city buzzed beneath their boots as they leapt across rooftops and slipped down alleys. Isabelle walked beside Alec, arms swaying freely, clearly basking in the rare freedom of being outdoors after a full day of research and tutoring.
“I forgot what the sky looks like,” she said, tilting her head up. “It’s not covered in parchment and dread.”
“Let’s not romanticize it too much,” Alec said dryly. “We’re still surrounded by potential murder.”
“Still better than another hour with that dusty book Hodge thinks is a treasure trove of insight.”
Jace walked ahead of them, unusually quiet. He hadn’t made a joke in twenty minutes. Which, for Jace, was basically a crisis.
She leaned closer to her brother, resting her chin briefly on his shoulder. “He’s brooding harder than usual. You think it’s the weather?”
Alec didn’t respond, but his eyes followed Jace’s back with a wary kind of curiosity. Just as she was about to tease him again, a sound cracked through the alley ahead. A scuffle. Voices. Growls. They approached with practiced caution and turned the corner into chaos. A vampire with smeared crimson lips stood with his back to the wall, fangs bared in a cocky grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Two werewolves flanked him in a tense half-circle, shoulders hunched, hackles raised. Their eyes gleamed with a sickly amber glow, and their growls rumbled like a low earthquake through the narrow alley. Garbage rattled in nearby bins from the tension vibrating in the air. The scent of blood was thick—metallic, fresh, and raw.
Jace stepped forward without hesitation, his silhouette slicing through the gloom, blades already gleaming at his sides. “Daddy’s home,” he said in a low, dangerous purr. “Everybody play nice.”
Alec groaned under his breath. “You really need to retire that line.”
“Shut up,” Jace muttered, eyes fixed on the wolves like a hawk about to strike.
Alec stepped beside him, hands raised in a calming gesture. “We don’t want a fight. Just talk. Whatever happened here, we can de-escalate.”
One of the wolves growled louder, its lips peeling back over jagged teeth. The other prowled sideways, claws digging into the asphalt with each tense step. The air crackled with hostility.
Jace muttered, “They don’t want to de-escalate. We should just put them down and be done with it,” his voice low but seething.
Alec shot him a sharp look. “Jace.”
“I’m calm,” Jace said through gritted teeth.
“You’re not calm.”
“I’m calm enough to fight.”
“Yeah, that’s not the same thing.”
But it was too late. The werewolves launched as one. One lunged for Jace with a roar, claws slashing toward his midsection. The other—a massive grey blur—hit Alec full force, knocking the breath from his lungs and sending him sprawling to the ground. The pavement scraped his palms as he hit, and the world tilted as the wolf landed atop him with a weight like a falling tree. But instead of mauling him, the beast paused. Its nose dipped, sniffing down his neck, across his chest, as if searching for something. Alec froze, his pulse thundering in his ears.
“…What the hell?” he whispered, too startled to even reach for his blades.
The wolf’s breath was hot against his skin. And it wasn’t attacking. It was inspecting him. Sniffing him. Like a scent on him didn’t belong.
“Okay,” Alec said carefully. “This is weird. Personal space, buddy.”
He tried to push the wolf back gently. “We’re not enemies. You can just… scamper off, please?”
Jace threw the other wolf off with a snarl of his own and slashed its side. It yelped and fled. The wolf atop Alec froze, ears perking up. Then, as if spooked, it darted after its companion. The vampire was long gone.
Isabelle was at Alec’s side in seconds. “Are you okay?”
He sat up, brushing dust from his shoulders. “Fine. He just needed to sniff me, apparently.”
Jace appeared, wild-eyed. “You sure?”
Alec smirked. “Apparently diplomacy is still undefeated.”
Both Isabelle and Jace rolled their eyes at the same time.
“You sound smug,” Isabelle muttered.
“Because I’m right.”
“You had a werewolf on your chest.”
“And I lived.”
They continued the patrol. But Isabelle couldn’t shake the feeling that Jace’s pacing had shifted again—closer, tighter, watching. Something in him was coiling tighter every time Alec laughed. Something had changed in their dynamics but she couldn’t grasp what it was.
**********
Alec tugged at the collar of his shirt for the fifth time in under two minutes. It was a bit tight. Last he wore it, he’d been fifteen and had a bit less muscle. Starched and neat and foreign against his skin, like it knew he had no business pretending to be comfortable in it. He checked the mirror again. White, short-sleeved button-up, sleeves cuffed, the fabric snug enough to show his shoulders but not tight enough to make him look like he was trying. His dark jeans were clean, slightly fitted, and—thank the Angel—still within the comfort zone of not looking like they required a backup pair of lungs just to breathe. He’d skipped the hoodie, though his soul had wept for it. No sign of Hodge. Alec hadn’t seen the man since patrol the night before. His door had been shut all day with strict instructions not to be disturbed. Probably just as well. Alec didn’t exactly want to kick off his first date by getting scolded about broken potion bottles and skipped doses. The door to his room creaked open and he nearly jumped out of his skin.
“By the Angel, Isabelle! Knock!”
She leaned on the frame, arms crossed, amused. “Relax. It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before.”
He glared. “Not since I was six, you didn’t.”
“That’s not my fault you went all prude and broody after that.”
He grabbed his watch off the desk and gave her a warning glance. “What do you want?”
“To save you from yourself.” She strolled in and flopped onto his bed. “You’re not wearing that.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Jeans and a white shirt? Really?”
“It’s clean. It fits. It’s fine.”
“You look like you’re going to a lecture.”
Alec sighed and turned to face her. “It’s this or the hoodie. And no, I’m not going to wear whatever slinky leather thing you were about to suggest.”
She gave him an exaggerated pout. “Just once I want to dress you like a real person.”
“Real people wear pants,” he muttered, but she caught the small upward twitch of his lips.
When he reached for his boots, she pounced. Before he could react, she sprayed perfume directly at his face.
Alec hacked into his sleeve. “Isabelle!”
“What? It’s subtle. Barely floral.”
“I smell like a soap commercial.”
“You’re welcome.” She gave him a wink. “Now go. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
He shot her a withering look. “That’s not a comforting list.”
As he walked down the Institute’s steps and out into the evening air, Alec tried to center himself. This wasn’t a mission. It wasn’t a patrol. It was just… a date. With the most dangerously beautiful man he’d ever met. Who had kissed him. Twice. And called him pretty like it was a compliment and not a setup for mockery. He swallowed hard and buzzed the intercom outside Magnus’ building. The speaker crackled.
“Get your charming ass upstairs.”
The door unlocked with a satisfying click. Alec took the stairs two at a time, half from nerves, half from not wanting to give himself time to turn around. The penthouse door opened before he could knock. Magnus looked like he could ruin you with a kiss or save you with a smile, and Alec wasn’t sure which he wanted more. His hair was slicked in a mohawk shimmering with faint gold dust. He wore a sharp, asymmetrical jacket that blended midnight blue and molten bronze, open just enough to show the glimmer of a rune-shaped necklace resting against bare skin. His black pants clung like they were custom-stitched by the Angel. Alec forgot how legs worked.
Magnus’ lips curled, slow and pleased. “Darling… you clean up dangerous.”
Alec blinked, cleared his throat. “You, uh… You look beautiful.”
That earned him a different look—surprised, fond, a little stunned. Like Alec had said something too honest, too sincere, and therefore entirely disarming.
Magnus tilted his head. “Careful. If you keep saying things like that, I might think you mean it.”
Alec met his gaze. “I do.”
For a breath, Magnus didn’t move. Then he stepped aside, gesturing inward with a flourish. “Come in. The night awaits. And I promise”—he leaned in, murmuring near Alec’s ear—“nothing too indecent. Unless you ask nicely.”
Alec fought the shiver down his spine and stepped in, heart hammering.
Magnus finished the final two things he needed to do before stepping out—one, grabbing the wallet he always forgot, and two, adjusting the faint shimmer ward at the threshold so it wouldn’t startle Alec when the door closed behind him. It wouldn’t do to start a first date with magical static. He turned back just as Alec was stepping over the threshold, eyes already fixed on him. And not just fixed. Pinned. Magnus blinked. A spark of delight twisted low in his belly. Alec wasn’t looking so much as devouring. His gaze dragged through Magnus’ whole figure. His eyes snagged at Magnus’ chest, then moved higher, trailing along the line of his neck, the brush of gold against his collarbone, and—oh, there it was—rested with longing, hesitation, and something humble on Magnus’ mouth. Back to the lips. Always back to the lips. Well then.
Ten out of ten for subtlety, my dear Lightwood.
Magnus smiled slowly, letting the grin unspool like smoke. Internally, he gave himself a very dignified pat on the back. The look had worked. The jacket had been a gamble—too casual and he’d lose the mystique, too dramatic and he’d scare the poor boy off. But this? This had Alec looking at him like he was dessert in a famine. And that was very dangerous. He had sworn—sworn to himself—that tonight would be a respectable affair. A public venue, a drink, a walk. Demure. Charming. Hands possibly held. Lips maybe kissed at the end of the night if the stars were right and Alec didn’t bolt halfway through.
But Alec was looking at him like Magnus had already pinned him against a wall and promised sin. That stare—so concentrated, so focused it might as well have been a neon sign flashing PLEASE KISS ME—made Magnus’ restraint flicker like a candle in the wind. So he stalked forward, slow and purposeful, a panther who knew his prey was going nowhere. Alec froze, breath catching in that lovely, slender throat. Magnus watched the way he swallowed, how his fingers twitched at his sides like he didn’t know whether to reach out or retreat. The thrill of it—this exquisite tension—coiled in Magnus’ chest.
“Keep looking at me like that,” he said, voice a purr barely above a whisper, “We’re going somewhere public tonight but I will throw you down, crowd be damned.” Alec’s eyes widened. His breath hitched.
Magnus stepped closer, almost nose to nose now. “Behave,” he warned, though he knew full well he was past the point of listening to himself. “Just a kiss. And then you’re going to be very, very good for the rest of the night.”
Alec made a sound—half-choked, half-aghast. Didn’t move. Just stared up at him like Magnus was the moon and the boy had forgotten how to breathe. That was all the invitation he needed. He kissed him. Not gently. Not sweetly. He took his mouth. One hand caught Alec by the waist, the other reaching to grasp the curve of his jaw, Magnus leaned in and wolfed down the tension that had been simmering between them for days. The impact of it shoved Alec back against the door with a quiet thud. The boy gasped—barely—but that was all Magnus needed to press deeper, the taste of Alec’s mouth dragging a low, greedy sound from his throat, the boy responded like he was burning up from the inside. Edom, Alec’s nearness carried something that clawed at the back of Magnus’ mind—feral, commanding, like something buried under flesh and spellwork. It didn’t ask. It demanded. Magnus tilted his head, licking at the seam of Alec’s lips until they parted with a soft surrender. His tongue swept in, slow at first—then more pressing. He tasted him, learned him. Brushed their tongues together like a caress, like a claim. Alec let out a faint, stunned noise, and Magnus swore he could feel it echo down his spine. Alec’s hands clenched in the fabric of Magnus’ jacket, docking himself. His body arched slightly forward like it wanted to disappear into Magnus’. And oh, Magnus wanted to let him.
Hells, he could kiss this Shadowhunter forever. But this wasn’t the plan. With effort so monumental it felt like splitting his own soul in two, Magnus pulled back. Not because he wanted to—he absolutely did not—but because if he didn’t, this would end with Alec on his back and Magnus on his knees, and the charming rooftop bar he’d reserved would go completely to waste. Alec leaned forward, chasing more. His lips were red and wet, his expression so utterly dazed that Magnus had to clutch his own wrist to keep from diving back in.
“Right,” Magnus said hoarsely, rubbing at his mouth like it might bring him back to his senses. “So much for demure.”
Alec opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked deliciously wrecked. He blinked slowly, like he’d just remembered what century it was.
Magnus chuckled, reached down, and took his hand. “Come on,” he said gently “Come, darling. The night awaits. And I need air before I do something very unchivalrous.”
Still stunned, Alec let himself be led. And Magnus, trying to ignore the way his heart was still racing, smiled smugly to himself.
**********
The air outside was cooler now, tinged with mist and the faint smell of wet stone. Magnus walked in silence beside Alec, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, the click of his boots on pavement louder than it had any right to be. Behind them, the soft golden glow of the restaurant faded, swallowed by the dark Manhattan night. It had not gone how he’d hoped. He’d imagined something flirtatious, elegant, easy—candlelight and slow wine, their knees brushing under the table. He’d picked the place because it was chic and quiet, tucked into a row of converted brownstones and known for its fae-crafted cocktails and steak charmed to taste like your favorite memory. But the moment the first Seelie at the corner table noticed Alec’s runes, everything had shifted. They hadn’t yelled. No one had thrown things. But the silence had soured. Eyes turned. Magic dimmed. One vampire had muttered something loud enough to carry. Another had left. The server’s smile had tightened until it snapped completely. Alec had barely seemed to register it. Sat straight-backed and composed, answering Magnus’ jokes with gentle amusement, his gaze steady, unshaken. Magnus had tried to laugh through it. But he'd felt it all. Every look. Every weighty pause. And he hated how much it had hurt—because it hadn’t been about him. It had been about Alec. And Alec hadn’t deserved it.
Now, walking beside him, Magnus felt the quiet between them pulse with things unsaid.
He broke it first. “My cat would’ve probably hexed that waiter. Just for the tone.”
Alec’s eyes flicked toward him. “Your cat hexes people?”
“He wants to. It’s about the principle.”
Alec’s mouth quirked. “What principle?”
“That customer service should not come with a side of speciesism.” Magnus sighed and shook his head. “I should’ve known better. A Nephilim and a Downworlder walk into a bar—it’s not the start of a joke. It’s a riot waiting to happen.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Alec said.
“It matters to me.”
Alec glanced at him again. There was no irritation in his face, just calm. “I didn’t come out for the food.”
Something about the way he said it tightened Magnus’ chest. So calm. So sure. So unbothered by a situation that would’ve left most people flustered or defensive. Magnus could tell he meant it. A pause. The sounds of the city shifted. And then, like the world had a sense of drama Magnus would’ve normally appreciated, a low growl echoed from the alley to their right. A demon stepped from the shadows. Large. All angular limbs and serrated skin, its gaping jaw lined with two rows of needle-teeth. The reek of sulfur hit first, followed by the glint of eyes that shimmered a sickly yellow under the streetlight. Magnus didn’t think. But Alec moved.
One solid arm pressed across Magnus’ middle and pushed him back, firmly behind him, as Alec stepped between him and the demon. The shift was immediate. Gone was the flustered boy who overthought every word. In his place stood a soldier. The stance was practiced—low, balanced, sure. The runes on his neck glowed faintly, and his expression hardened into something Magnus hadn’t seen before: focus, honed and absolute. Lethal grace wrapped in muscle and certainty. Magnus’ breath caught. That arm across his body had been steady. Strong. Commanding. It wasn’t fear or impulse—it was instinct. Alec had shielded him as if it had never occurred to him to do anything else. The boy who melted under compliments, who flushed when Magnus flirted, who avoided eye contact when he said anything vaguely suggestive—this Alec wasn’t unsure. This Alec was magnificent. Magnus couldn’t stop watching.
Every motion as Alec drew his blade was fluid (and where had that been hidden?). Efficient. The lean muscle beneath his shirt shifted and tightened, outlined by fabric, the blade catching light like silver lightning as it moved into his hand. He circled once, calculating. Waiting. Then, without warning, he burst forward. The demon lunged. Alec dodged with a twist so fast it left Magnus dizzy. Blade struck skin, black blood splattered the pavement. The demon screeched and swiped—missed. Alec turned, ducked, drove the blade deep into its side and twisted. It howled, writhed. Magnus pressed a hand to his lips. Half in horror, half in awe. Then, with one final strike—clean, sure—the demon crumpled into ash. Silence returned.
Alec stood in the middle of the street, chest heaving just slightly, face lit by the flickering glow of a nearby neon sign. His blade dripped darkness. His expression was calm, but his body was still humming with the aftershock of violence.
Magnus stepped forward, half-breathless. “Well.”
Alec turned to him, brows raised.
Magnus grinned. “That was… deeply arousing.”
Alec blinked. “What?”
“I mean—terrifying.” Magnus trailed his gaze down Alec’s chest. “Are you always this heroic or is it just when I’m watching?”
Alec rolled his eyes, wiping the blade and slipping it away. But the corner of his mouth quirked upward.
“I can’t help it,” he said simply. “Comes with the job.”
“Right.” Magnus stepped closer, a little breathless still. “And here I thought I’d be the one sweeping you off your feet tonight.”
“You still can,” Alec said.
And then—he reached down and took Magnus’ hand.
No hesitation. Magnus glanced at their fingers entwined, then up at Alec’s face, calm and unreadable except for the faintest blush on his cheeks. And just like that, something loosened in Magnus’ chest. The date hadn’t gone as planned. But Alec had kissed him hello, shielded him from danger, killed a demon without blinking, and was now walking hand in hand with him down a dark Manhattan street like it was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe the rest of the world couldn’t stomach the idea of a warlock and a Nephilim. But Magnus? He was already halfway gone for the man holding his hand. And from the quiet way Alec’s thumb brushed along the back of his knuckles as they walked, maybe—just maybe—that went both ways.
**********
The door clicked shut behind them. Magnus barely had time to turn around before Alec was on him—close, urgent, powerful arms embraced his waist, and face tilted up advancing with resolve. His eyes searched Magnus’ for a heartbeat, then Alec leaned in and kissed him. Alec initiated the kiss and Magnus couldn’t deny him access. Magnus’ spine sang with electricity. This was new—Alec, not pulled, not nudged, but reaching for him. Choosing. His kiss was slow, sure. Their mouths met like flint and tinder: soft friction, the promise of flame. Magnus groaned low, curling a hand around the back of Alec’s neck as their tongues found each other, slick and sweet, caressing each other like slow dancing.
The aura that had followed Magnus all night—a strange, low hum at the base of his thoughts, that whisper of old magic and pulsing want—struck. He had kept it at bay for hours, buried it beneath careful conversation, timid smiles, and the sharp self-control that only someone practiced in flirtation-as-defense could muster. But now it came clawing up through his skin, wrapping around him like smoke, hungry and voltaic. A tide swelling inside his ribs and cracking through his self-control. Magnus deepened the kiss and gave in, transforming it from an end to a beginning. And Alec—beautiful, tightly-wound Alec—did too. They stumbled back together, hands tugging at clothes in frantic, clumsy movements, desperate for a touch. Alec’s jacket hit the floor. Magnus’ tore at the hem. Fingers ghosted over skin and muscle, searching. Wanting. Magnus pushed and pulled, maneuvering them toward the bedroom, pressing kisses to Alec’s jaw, his throat, his collarbone. Alec gasped, arms winding around Magnus’ back. It was messy, heated, breathless.
Magnus pushed Alec onto the bed. For a moment, Magnus just stared. Alec sprawled across the sheets, chest heaving, eyes wide and dark with want. He looked undone, wrecked and wild with need. Flushed. Like a sin waiting to be committed. Magnus let his hands drop to his belt, unfastening it slowly, teasing himself as much as the boy watching him. Piece by piece, his clothes fell to the floor caressing his body on the way down—first the jacket, then the pants, fingers dragging slowly down his waistline, his skin catching candlelight. Alec didn’t look away. His gaze followed every motion, and Magnus could feel it like a caress over his bare skin. He was shaking with the need to touch. To taste. And Magnus thought this might be the time the younger man would combust finally.
He climbed onto the bed, straddling Alec, bending down for another kiss—this one hungrier, deeper, wet and open and laced with the kind of heat that didn’t end in words. Magnus’ tongue mapped Alec’s mouth, coaxed moans from his throat. And then he was dragging his lips down the Nephilm’s neck, pressing kisses to the pulse point, then lower. Each time Alec gasped, Magnus nipped. Each time Alec whimpered, Magnus licked to soothe it. He tugged at the hem of Alec’s shirt, and the boy helped pull it over his head, arms shaky not really able to figure out how clothes worked anymore. Magnus ran his palms over the bare chest, skin warm and trembling. He bent to lick at an awaken nipple while kneading the other and the skin there felt so soft Magnus could’ve draped himself in it, and Alec shuddered beneath him like a bow pulled too tight.
“You’re stunning,” Magnus murmured, voice hoarse with reverence.
Alec tried to answer, but it came out as a choked breath. And the boy was so far gone now, Magnus didn’t know how he managed to keep himself under control just by the sight of him. Probably that fragrance in the air, baiting him, purring inside his ear to keep going. Magnus trailed lower, kissing along Alec’s ribs, his hips, the smooth skin of his stomach reaching muscles clenched tighter than they ever were even in the roughest battles. Magnus was enjoying himself so much he knew he was doing something wrong because anything right couldn’t possibly feel so good. Alec’s thighs were tense beneath his hands—coiled muscle trembling with restraint. Magnus nudged them apart, kissing the inside slowly appreciating the view of a perfectly shaped member just as the rest of its owner, savoring the way Alec’s breath hitched with every touch. And damn, if he wasn’t going to have a lot of fun with this particular part in the near future… But now the primal scent was dictating him to stay focused and he executed. Then—He took Alec in his mouth covering with warmth the length and pressing his tongue on the tip, caressing.
A long, low moan rolled from Alec’s lips. His hips jerked, but Magnus’ arm came across his waist, steadying him. The other hand wandered, fingers ghosting lower, gently exploring smooth abs, teasing the waistline, always lower where a quoin needed to accustom. And Magnus set on getting this body ready to be adored. The boy was all heat and tension, every twitch betraying how new this was. Magnus moved carefully, reverently, mouth working in tandem with his probing fingers, reading every reaction like scripture, coaxing with his mouth the boy into opening for him. And Alec shattered. He came with a cry, legs trembling, hands tangled in the sheets. Magnus gently released him, kissing the crease of his thigh as he pulled away. Alec laid boneless, flushed, glowing with sweat and something deeper. Magnus traveled slowly backwards tracing the way he now knew like his own skin.
He leaned up, brushing hair from Alec’s forehead, planting a kiss there like a benediction, whispering sweet nothings. Alec didn’t speak. Magnus chuckled softly and laid beside him, cradling his jaw as he kissed him again, slow and tender, letting the boy time to recover. The energy between them crackled, electric and heavy with promise. But the heat hadn’t left. And when Alec showed signs of consciousness Magnus lied upon him and claimed his mouth again and Alec responded so carelessly. The warlock shifted his hips and started on a slow movement, segments coercing others to rise once more.
Magnus nudged Alec’s thighs apart again with his knee, guiding their bodies together. Their skin slid with sweat, and Alec’s arms wrapped around Magnus’ shoulders, holding him close. The warlock rocked gently against him, their bodies grinding, one rhythm feeding another. Magnus was drowning in the sensation. Alec’s hands—so unsure at first—were now everywhere: clutching, roaming, desperate for contact and warmer than the deepest pit of Edom. And Magnus wanted to give him everything. Every piece of him. Every pulse. And he could feel between them response. He kissed Alec’s neck, breathing in the boy’s scent—feral, ancient, wild. Something deep. Something that owned him. He whispered, voice husky, asking to be let in. Alec’s eyes flicked open, dark and dazed. He nodded. Magnus moved slowly—coaxing, easing, murmuring words in a tongue forgotten to most. Alec’s legs curled around him, strong and sure, imbeding him. The trust in that gesture almost undid Magnus.
But he had to be gentle, there were bounds behind the yearning, exhorting a lack of experience, a certain youth and a taste of fear. And the fragrance blessed him and he could feel his own, humbled and consumed with the need to be praised. He embedded himself ready to possess this man while this aura wrapped all over his body, possessing his mind. Magnus started to kiss Alec again soothingly, cajoling while he entered him languidly. Slow. Deliberate. Not an invasion—a worship. And it was deliciously slow and unbothered.
Alec gasped, back arching. Magnus stilled, waiting, reading. His hands stroked the younger man’s sides, grounding him, lips brushing against his ear. Then—motion. Gentle, smooth, reverent. A rhythm born not of urgency but of awe. They moved like prayer. Alec met him, breathless and shivering, eyes wide. He whimpered Magnus’ name, and Magnus kissed him to swallow it. His pace remained slow, even when instinct begged him to speed up. This was not about hunger. He was half buried in bliss but feared to hurt. But Alec wanted more—needed more. His legs flexed, heels digging into Magnus’ back, drawing him deeper. Strong legs kept him there, deep within. Magnus groaned. He surrendered, gave Alec what he asked for, still keeping the reverence intact.
And when Alec sat up with the sheer power of his calves, muscles straining, and rode him—hells, Magnus saw stars. He let the boy take control, every shift of his hips like a command written in fire. Magnus kissed every inch he could reach. Alec traced kisses on his neck messy and marking possession moving slowly up and down his length, and Magnus came to know, Alec liked it slow, inch by inch, like he’d make it last forever. Alec bit his shoulder—hard nothing gentle—and the warlock nearly lost himself. He rolled them again, settling Alec back onto the sheets, guiding his pace faster. Alec cried out as Magnus grabbed him and stroked, faster now, each thrust timed with his hand. Tension built—thick, trembling. Then Alec broke as he came again, body clenching tight around Magnus. Magnus followed seconds later, a shudder ripping through him, filling his lover and collapsing beside him in the aftershock.
They lay tangled together, breathing ragged. The storm inside the room finally quieted, content. And Magnus—flushed, sweaty, lips bruised—looked down at Alec’s wrecked, contented face, and thought that was definitely not supposed to happen.
Chapter 4: Bearing
Chapter Text
Magnus woke to sunlight. It was a rare thing, to sleep through dawn without a single nightmare or the restless tossing that usually plagued him. His penthouse was quiet, the kind of quiet only late morning could bring—when the city was already busy beneath his wards and the world outside was someone else’s problem. He smiled before he opened his eyes. It started at the corners of his mouth, unbidden, then stretched into something soft and smug. His body ached in that delicious, well-used way—like pleasure had wrapped around every bone and muscle during the night and had refused to let go. He reached out instinctively, one hand patting the sheet beside him.
Nothing.
His fingers hit cold cotton. No warmth. No skin. No sleepy, awkward limbs. Just air. Magnus’ eyes flew open. The other half of the bed was empty. Neatly so. The pillow undented. The blanket smoothed. Magnus sat up fast, heart pounding. He’d left. Panic cracked through his ribs like lightning. Edom, had he scared him? Had he gone too far? Had he pushed too hard, taken too much? The boy was young. New. That kind of young that held secrets in bones too old for his age but innocence in every gesture. And Magnus… Magnus had devoured him. Like a starving man who had mistaken hunger for possession. Alec had given himself freely, yes—but how much of that had been eagerness and how much had been momentum?
Magnus shot upright, every inch of contentment dropping out of him in one swoop like a guillotine blade. He threw the blankets aside and swung his legs over the bed, scrambling for his robe and his dignity. “Shit,” he muttered to himself, pacing once to the window and back again, eyes searching every corner of the apartment like Alec might reappear from under the table with an apologetic shrug.
Nothing.
Then—
A note.
It was stuck, of all places, to the inside of the bedroom door. The handwriting was tidy, almost painfully careful.
Didn’t want to wake you. Got called to the Institute. See you tonight?
Magnus stared at it. He read it twice. A third time. The relief hit him like a flood, crashing into his chest and sliding down to his knees. He leaned his forehead against the doorframe and let out a breathless laugh.
“Emotional whiplash before coffee. Delightful,” he mumbled. “My favorite.”
He touched the note again like it might disappear. But the warm rush that followed didn’t dull the gnawing shame that curled its fingers around Magnus’ ribs. That wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Not the first time. Not for someone like Alec. The echo of Alec’s body still hummed through the sheets, the memory of his touch and the scent of him lingering in the air.
Magnus walked into the bathroom like a man going to trial. Every movement was deliberate. Measured. The warlock in him wanted to rationalize everything—pleasure was consent, desire was permission, Alec hadn’t hesitated—but the man in him, the person who remembered being young and afraid and trying not to be, knew better. He turned on the water. Scalding hot. Punishing. As the spray hit his skin, he leaned forward and pressed both palms to the tile, bowing his head beneath the stream.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he whispered.
He’d behaved like some teenager. A boy with no control, with no boundaries. He had wanted to take things slowly. To court Alec properly. To hold his hand more often. To walk beside him and watch the world shift beneath the boy’s feet as he learned to love out loud. But instead, he'd acted like a predator. An indulgent, impulsive idiot who couldn’t hold himself back. Alec deserved tenderness. Exploration. Not to be plunged into a world he hadn’t even figured out if he wanted to live in. And if Magnus hadn’t been so damned weak…
He leaned back and closed his eyes under the stream, letting the water rinse away the scent of last night. But it wouldn’t touch what clung to his thoughts: Alec’s lips trembling beneath his, the way the boy had whispered Magnus’ name like it was something holy. The way his legs had curled around Magnus’ waist and begged him silently to stay.
Hells, now Magnus felt like a man who had stolen something sacred. He turned off the water. Toweling off, he didn’t bother with magic. He wanted to feel the weight of it. The sting of too much too fast. He crossed to his mirror, bare feet slapping against the marble floor. His reflection met him like an accusation. Tousled hair.
He stared at himself.
“You are a gentleman,” he told his reflection flatly. “You are calm. Collected. Responsible. You are not going to turn a vulnerable, beautiful, too-good-for-you Shadowhunter into your personal addiction.”
A beat.
He squared his shoulders.
And then he turned slightly, catching a glimpse in the mirror—and stopped.
“What the hell—”
There was something, over his left shoulder in the crook, faintly glowing in the soft morning light.
Magnus screamed.
**********
Twelve-hour shifts were hell, even by warlock standards. Catarina sipped her coffee in the dim glow of the nurses’ station, propped against the counter with bags under her eyes and irritation buzzing beneath her skin. The hospital was finally quiet. No more bleeding mundanes, no children coughing curses out of their lungs, no psychotic werewolf uncle attacking his own pack with a spoon. Just her, her coffee, and a brief moment of peace.
Then her phone rang. She glared at the screen. Magnus it said. She let it buzz once, twice. Picked up on the third, flipping it to speaker. “Catarina Loss,” she answered flatly.
“Meet me at my place as soon as you can!” came the familiar voice, rich with drama. There was a beat, then he added, lower, sultry and grave, “It’s a vital emergency.”
And before she could tell him exactly where he could shove his emergencies, he hung up. She glared at the screen. Catarina groaned aloud. Magnus’ emergencies ranged anywhere from chipped nails to "the Nine have finally arrived and brought snacks." And somehow, both were delivered with the same breathless dramatics. It was close to eleven when she arrived at his penthouse, walking straight in without knocking. The wards shimmered with his signature—honey, ozone, and far too much ego. The smell of expensive candles and subtle spellwork always clung to his home like a second skin. Magnus was pacing like a cat in a thunderstorm, biting his thumbnail, robes askew, hair too perfect to be anything but panic-groomed. Fidgeting. Real, anxious energy coming off him in visible waves.
“This better be good,” she warned, tossing her bag onto the couch. “If I miss my nap for one of your ‘spiritual revelations’ about sequin placement again, I will hex your nipples off.” She said by way of greeting, collapsing into an armchair with her coffee still in hand. “Because I just spent twelve hours elbow-deep in lung goop, and I swear on every god I’ve ever half-believed in—”
“You have to promise to let me explain the whole thing before interrupting.”, Magnus snapped.
She arched a brow. “I make no such promises”
“I went on my date last night”
“Fine. Go on, tell me about the devastatingly handsome Nephilim who fluttered his lashes and ruined your life. So how did it go?”
Magnus frowned recalling. “Well—it went badly.”
“Because he ghosted you or because you showed up wearing mesh and eyeliner again?”
He glared. “Because I took him to a downworlder-owned restaurant, and the second everyone realized he was a Shadowhunter, they turned on him like jackals. It was vicious. He didn’t blink. Just straightened his back and refused to leave on some dumb principles. Said they didn’t get to chase him out. Took my hand across the table like daring anyone to make him drop it.”
Catarina’s mouth twitched.
Magnus nodded, solemn. “Like a romantic hero in a trashy novel. You had to be there. It was gallant. Ridiculous. And weirdly hot.” Magnus sighed, wistful. “He got hit on three times but he didn’t really notice not even when I had to make my hands glow to send them away.”
She smirked. “Should’ve taken him to that sushi place in Brooklyn.”
He paused for effect.
“We walked back to my place,” Magnus continued, ignoring her. “We talked about cats. And job disasters. Then a demon appeared.”
“Oh?”
"Built like a fridge, and his horns were trying really hard to be majestic. Didn’t work. He stepped in front of me,” Magnus said, voice dropping an octave. “Pushed me back. And I know it doesn’t sound like much, but Catarina—he shielded me. He stepped in front of me. Just—without thinking. Shoved me behind him like I was a Victorian maiden in peril. Drew his blades and moved like he was born for it.”
Catarina let out a sound between a laugh and a scoff. “You’re so starved for affection, it’s practically criminal.”
“And then he followed me home,” Magnus continued. “I didn’t plan for him to come up afterward. I swear. But he insisted—claimed he had unfinished business with Chairman Meow.”
“The cat?” she echoed, brow furrowed.
“They’ve bonded,” Magnus said gravely. “There’s baggage. They’ve spent a night together.”
She groaned. “Please tell me that’s not the story. If I came all the way here for your sexual escapades—”
“He kissed me. Sweetly. And then… it just happened.” Magnus said.
Catarina glared. “You had me trek across the city on three hours of sleep so you could confess that you let some starry-eyed teenage soldier ride you like a righteous crusade?”
“I didn’t want it to happen,” Magnus snapped, suddenly tense. “I mean—I did, obviously. He’s beautiful and awkward and I’m not made of stone. But I didn’t mean to. I felt… possessed.”
That word made her pause. Catarina rubbed her face. “So you summoned me here to scold you?” she said “Then consider yourself scolded. You took advantage of a hormonal baby Shadowhunter. You’re a bad, bad warlock.” And then a bit more tenderly she added “But you do like him, you’ll find a way to redeem yourself like you always do.”
He took a deep breath and turned away obviously not finished. “That’s not all, there’s more. I argued with myself all morning. About what this meant. About what I did. Then I looked in the mirror and found this.”
He tugged the collar of his robe down. Catarina leaned in. There—on his shoulder—was a rune. Silver. Embedded beneath the skin. Not drawn, not burned. Part of him now. And glowing faintly. Catarina stared at the rune like it might lunge off Magnus’ shoulder and slap her in the face. Her eyes were still locked on the mark. It was beautiful, in a way. Subtle and elegant, tucked beneath the skin like it had always belonged there. But she’d recognize that rune anywhere. Old magic. Not taught, not carved, not inked—but given. Claimed. A mark of… connection, of instinctive biological imprint. And definitely not the kind of thing that showed up on a warlock’s shoulder unless things had gotten very intimate. Her blood ran cold.
“He’s an Omega.” She exhaled, “Shit, Magnus, do you ever pick them simple? A Nephilim Omega. That’s—”
“Unseen? Unusual? FUCKED!” Magnus said darkly. “I think I did feel something when he slept after I siphoned his energy that night and the morning after, but well I was far from ever entertaining the idea…But last night, I—Catarina, I felt it. The Scent. It grabbed me by the throat, pinned me down. Like it owned me. And it made me its whore!” he finished wide eyed.
She could see it now. It made sense, horrifyingly. The spiral of events, the aftermath, the scent—yes, the Scent—and Magnus’ uncharacteristic lack of control. It wasn’t just chemistry or a particularly good kiss. It was instinct meeting magic, hormones meeting lineage, centuries of buried biological rituals roaring back to life.
Magnus blinked at her. “You see now why I said this was a vital emergency?”
She did. And still, her brows rose. “I see you slept with a Nephilim Omega and got marked like a bloody mating spell. Magnus. Of course I see.”
He collapsed onto the couch “I thought I could resist it,” he murmured, voice quieter now. “I’ve been around this before. I know what the Scent can do, how it works. I lived through it.”
Her heart twisted, unbidden. She remembered Adrienne. She remembered the way Magnus used to talk about her—like every syllable was another ribbon tied to a wound he didn’t want to heal. Adrienne, a true Omega, radiant and stubborn and painfully mortal. Catarina had loved her too, in her own way. And then she’d watched Magnus shatter when she died. Not right away. Not publicly. But in small, unraveling silences that made her want to burn the world down on his behalf. He was thinking of her now. She could see it in the way his shoulders curled in on themselves.
“If his Scent burst like that, he must be powerful. Probably being a Nephilim and a teenager repressed since puberty, that’s a volatile combination.” She thought out loud. “They suppress them from childhood. The Clave doses their Omegas with Seelie concoctions until the Scent is almost nonexistent, from an early age too. Always dealing with things they can’t understand in the direst way so full of their self-proclaimed superiority. Somehow, he’s been off it?”
Magnus swallowed. “He doesn’t know, Cat. I don’t think he even knows what an Omega is. What this means.” He said waving his hand towards his marked shoulder.
“You tell him.” She grimaced. “That’ll be a fun conversation.”
He groaned and flopped backward onto the couch like the burden of honesty might kill him.
And suddenly she became very awkward and added “Well there’s no pleasant way of saying it but did you… ejaculate inside him?”
Magnus blanched. “There are dozens of ways to say this more pleasantly! Edom Cat, don’t go and sugar coat it for my romantic self!”
“So you did.” She said blankly.
He looked sheepish.
Catarina stood. “Well, then. Now you really do have to tell him. Because if he’s bearing—”
“He’s not,” Magnus said, but his voice cracked with something like hope and fear and guilt, all braided together. “He’s Nephilim. I’m a warlock. A bearing is unlikely.”
“Still. You should keep an eye on things but don’t be too obvious about it or you’ll freak him out. And prepare in case you have to tell him.”
Magnus rubbed a hand down his face. “I hate this.”
She chuckled. “But aren’t you glad now to know that you didn’t abuse some poor hormone riddled teenager, turns out he’s the one who abused you.”
Magnus groaned.
“Tell him the truth. All of it. Maybe you can skip the bearing part until we know if he is or not. But we can’t have an over powerful Omega running around clueless, that’ll end up badly. Then maybe let him pet the cat again.”
Then she kissed his cheek, and left him alone.
Around midnight Magnus received a text: Won’t be able to come for a few days. Clave is here.
And damn, Magnus had forgotten all about the Clave.
**********
Alec hadn’t seen Magnus in five days. Five whole days.
Which wouldn’t have been unbearable under normal circumstances—except nothing felt normal after what happened between them. Not after Magnus’ mouth had replaced thought, not after Alec’s body had sung under his hands like it had never belonged to anyone else. But the Clave had arrived like a plague of bureaucratic locusts. No warning. No mercy. Just senior Inquisitors barging into the Institute with grave expressions and a hundred questions about dimensional rifts, energy fluxes, and rune anomalies. They were everywhere. Watching. Listening. Even the lavatory had been monitored, Alec was almost certain. None of them had been left alone, not for a second. Alec had barely been able to breathe without someone scribbling down the pattern of his inhales. Leaving? Out of the question. Seeing Magnus? Impossible. The ache built slowly but steadily, crawling through his limbs, tightening his chest. It wasn’t just longing—it was need. A ridiculous word, but the only one that fit. Isabelle noticed. Of course she did. She noticed everything. And when she started mothering him, it only made things worse. She brought him snacks. He didn’t even like snacks. She tried cooking—something that resembled charred ambition in a pan—and glared when he didn’t eat it.
“You’re being dramatic,” she’d said.
“You’re going to kill me,” he’d replied, mouth dry from the burnt toast horror on his plate.
Despite all that, she was trying. It helped a little. What didn’t help were the potions. Hodge had finally handed him a new stack of them—the ones his parents had made him take since he was thirteen. But now, Alec couldn’t keep them down. Every vial burned in his stomach like acid. He vomited twice. The third time, he flushed the liquid down the sink and didn’t even try again. He didn’t have time to worry about it. The Clave kept them working from dawn to dusk. And to be fair, they’d made progress. They’d confirmed that someone—or something—was using ley lines to tear through the edges of reality, puncturing thin places between dimensions. The ripple effects were growing.
The Institute had never felt so suffocating. And then they decided they had to stay six more days and Alec just couldn’t believe it. He would’ve been so excited once upon a time but now he couldn’t wait to see them gone.
So many days of Clave emissaries stalking its halls like carrion birds, their polished boots clicking over stone, their clipped voices slicing through the air like blades. Every conversation was weighted, every glance a ledger. Alec had smiled exactly twice—and both times, his jaw had ached with the effort. Now, as he stood at the edge of the training room, the echo of sparring blades ricocheting off vaulted ceilings, Alec thought he might actually kill for five minutes of silence. Or a doorway out. Preferably one that led to Magnus’ loft, all velvet and silk and warmth, where no one looked at him like he was an equation that didn’t balance. He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to shake off the haze creeping in behind his eyes. It had been there all morning, a low, stubborn hum at the base of his skull, threading through his bones like cold wire. Tired. That was all. Too many patrols crammed between endless strategy meetings, too many hours standing at attention while Clave envoys dissected their failures like vultures at a carcass. He told himself it was nothing. He’d burned through worse. Weeks of war on four hours of sleep, living on adrenaline and runes. He could handle this.
Except…
When he bent to retrieve the bow propped against the wall, the room tilted—just a fraction, but enough to send his stomach lurching and his pulse tripping over itself. Alec’s grip tightened on the wood, breath hissing through his teeth as he froze, muscles locked. For three long seconds, the world swam like water rippling over glass. And then it steadied. He straightened slowly, dragging in a breath so deep it almost hurt, and cast a quick glance around the room. No one was looking—thank the Angel. Jace was across the floor, a golden blur moving through a flurry of strikes like a dance choreographed by arrogance. Isabelle lounged on the edge of the sparring mat, whip coiled in her lap, her gaze sharp as she monitored a trainee pair circling each other like wolves. Alec swallowed and rolled his shoulders, willing the tension to bleed out, willing the color back into his face. Just tired. That was all. It wasn’t the first time in the last ten days. Little moments, creeping in like cracks under frost: a sudden wave of heat prickling down his spine in the middle of a meeting, his vision blurring for a heartbeat during weapons drill, the phantom drag of fatigue that clung even after he’d run a stamina rune over his ribs. Twice in ten days. And still, the fog lingered, sticky and relentless.
Magnus’ voice flickered in his head, teasing and velvet-soft: “You’re not indestructible, Alexander. As fetching as the broody martyr aesthetic is, try not to push for a change.”
Alec’s mouth curved—just slightly, just enough to feel like memory rather than motion. Ten nights ago, he’d left the Institute behind and walked through Magnus’ door like a man stepping off a cliff. Ten nights ago, he’d tasted fire and freedom in the same breath, his body a live wire singing with every touch. Ten nights ago, he’d let himself want. And now? Now he was standing in a training hall that smelled like steel and sweat, clutching a bow with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling, and thinking about the way Magnus had looked at him in the dark—like Alec wasn’t a soldier or a secret, but something rare. Something worth breaking rules for. The dizziness was gone. For now. But the weight in his bones hadn’t lifted, and that scared him more than he’d admit, even to himself. He glanced down at his stele clipped to his belt, fingers twitching with the impulse to drag it across his skin again, carve another stamina rune over muscle and hope it burned the heaviness out. But his arms already looked like a road map—layer after layer of black-ink runes and white scars stacked over pale skin, the marks still raw around the edges. One more and Isabelle would notice. Or Jace. And Alec couldn’t handle the questions. Not now.
Not when his lungs felt tight. Not when the Clave was circling like wolves just beyond the doors. Not when every instinct screamed at him to hold the line, to keep his spine straight and his voice steady and his secrets buried where no one could dig them out—not even him. The world tilted again—barely, like a whisper—but he caught himself on the bow before his knees betrayed him. Heat crawled up his neck, sweat prickling at his temples despite the chill of the training hall. He forced his breath even, slow, steady, like counting beats in a fight.
You’re fine, he told himself. The words felt hollow. You’re fine.
Across the room, Jace laughed at something Isabelle said—a sharp, bright sound that skittered along Alec’s nerves like static. He straightened his spine, set his jaw, and crossed the floor to join them, every step measured like a man walking a wire over fire. Even as the shadow of something unnamed curled deeper in his bones, whispering of cracks he couldn’t afford to let show.
Alec barely made it through the next meeting without grinding his teeth down to powder.
The strategy hall was stifling, thick with too many bodies crammed around the table, the air buzzing with tension and the faint hum of wards along the walls. Runes glowed faintly under the harsh white lamps, painting everyone in sharp relief. The Clave envoys sat like carved idols, their polished gear immaculate, voices clipped and precise as they dissected demon sightings. Alec kept his eyes on the map sprawled across the table, his hands clasped behind his back in parade-rest perfection. Still, the weight of eyes on him prickled like static.
At first, he chalked it up to paranoia. The Clave had always watched—measured him against the ledger of his parents’ expectations, judged the tilt of his shoulders, the curve of his choices. That wasn’t new. But this was… different.
One of the envoys, a tall man with runes laddering up his throat, leaned a little too close when asking for the latest patrol report. His breath brushed Alec’s cheek—warm, lingering longer than courtesy allowed.
“Lightwood,” the man murmured, voice pitched low enough to feel like a vibration against Alec’s skin. “You’ve been running these sectors for months, haven’t you? Tireless.” His hand landed briefly on Alec’s forearm, a squeeze that should have read professional. It didn’t. Alec stiffened. Nodded curtly. Pulled back. Probably nothing. Just… Clave formality. They were touchy sometimes, weren’t they?
Except it wasn’t just him.
Later, crossing the hall with Isabelle at his side, Alec felt it again—eyes tracking him like blades sliding across glass. A woman in scarlet gear glanced up from a ledger and didn’t look away fast enough. Her gaze flicked down his frame, sharp and assessing, before her mouth curved into something almost soft. Almost hungry. Alec frowned. Shifted his jacket. Maybe there was ichor on his shirt. He’d check later. Isabelle noticed. Of course she noticed. Her brows arched, but when she opened her mouth, Alec cut her off with a look that said Don’t. Just—don’t.
She smirked anyway.
The whispers started after dinner—two younger operatives murmuring by the weapons rack, their voices low and curling like smoke. Alec didn’t catch the words, just the sound of laughter that skittered along his spine like a warning he couldn’t parse. When he approached, their mouths snapped shut, eyes bright and a little too fixed. By the time he reached the training floor, Alec’s nerves felt like stretched wire ready to snap. He’d buried himself in drills to burn off the tension, the rhythmic arc of his blade slicing clean through the still air—until a shadow loomed behind him.
“Your stance,” a voice said, low and smooth. Alec barely had time to glance before the man was there—broad-shouldered, taller by an inch, runes laddering up his forearms like brands of authority. A senior operative. His presence filled the space like weight pressing down on Alec’s spine.
“It’s off,” the man murmured, and before Alec could answer, large hands settled over his own. Not roughly. Not quite gently either. Fingers closed around his grip, adjusting the angle with precise, deliberate pressure. His thumb dragged—too slowly to be accidental—across Alec’s pulse, lingering for the barest second like he was taking inventory of the rhythm.
Heat shot down Alec’s back before his brain caught up, his breath snagging in his throat. He told himself to step away. Move. Say something. But he didn’t—just stood rigid while the man shifted closer, his chest brushing Alec’s shoulder as he corrected the tilt of Alec’s blade. Then came the second touch—lower this time. At his hip. A firm press, guiding Alec’s stance wider, fingers splayed too far, thumb grazing the seam of his gear like a line of fire. Not lingering. Just long enough to make Alec’s skin crawl with awareness, his stomach tighten with something nameless and unwelcome.
“Better,” the man said finally, voice pitched low near Alec’s ear, carrying the faint curl of a smile Alec didn’t see but felt like heat.
Alec flushed hard—anger, embarrassment, he didn’t know which—jerking back just enough to break the contact without drawing attention. His throat worked, but the words tangled, and by the time he’d wrestled them into something sharp, the man was already strolling off across the floor. Like nothing had happened. Like Alec wasn’t still standing there, heart pounding like a war drum, blade trembling faintly in his grip. Alec stood there, pulse hammering, throat tight around words he didn’t know how to name.
It kept happening. Little things. Too-close stares that clung like oil. Hands brushing his when passing reports. A laugh pitched soft, curling against his ear when someone leaned in to speak during a briefing—so close Alec could feel their breath stroke his jaw. He told himself it was stress. The Clave brought tension like storm clouds; everyone was wound tight. Maybe he smelled like demon ichor and didn’t notice. Maybe people were… weird. That night, when he collapsed into his bunk, Alec dragged a hand down his face and told himself to stop overthinking. He was just tired. Bone-deep, soul-deep tired. That was all.
But deep in his gut—where the ache had started days ago and never quite left—something shifted. Something he couldn’t name. And then, finally, blessedly, the Clave left.
“Your little trio knows the city best,” one of them had said, as if that were a compliment. “Keep things under control until we return.”
Alec had nodded, but all he could think was: Tonight. I’m going to Magnus’ tonight.
Now they were on patrol, sweeping the West End in silence. Well, relative silence—Jace had shed his ‘Inquisitor-friendly’ mask and returned to form with a vengeance. Arrogant. Reckless. Funny. Alec welcomed it. Silent Jace had been unsettling.
“I missed this,” Jace said, flipping his seraph blade into the air with a flourish. “Me, being right. You two trailing behind me like ducklings.”
“Keep dreaming,” Isabelle muttered.
“Dreaming implies I ever stopped being the best. Which I haven’t.”
Alec didn’t have the energy to retort. He was too tired. Too sore. Like someone had wrung him out and forgotten to put him back in the sun to dry. They found the bodies near the train tracks. Three dead dogs, their corpses half-dissolved into something Alec didn’t want to describe. Flies buzzed thickly around them.
“Charming,” Jace muttered.
They followed the trail of slime and bone fragments until they reached a small alley, and there—feasting on the remains—were five small demons. Beetle-like. Carapaces hard and black. Limbs twitching like broken sticks.
“Okay,” Isabelle said. “Gross and hungry. Let’s dance.”
Jace and Isabelle launched forward, steel flashing. Alec stayed back, bow raised, covering them. He aimed carefully, loosed an arrow—struck a demon right between the ridges of its armor.
And then—everything tilted.
His vision blurred. The alley spun sideways. He staggered, hands clutching his bow tighter. Something was wrong. Time seemed to suspend and expand on itself. Jace was yelling, but Alec couldn’t focus. The ground didn’t feel like it was under him anymore. He blinked—and saw two beetle demons crawling toward him. He fired. One arrow hit. The demon staggered, but didn’t fall. Too tough. Alec drew his blades, fingers shaking, just as Jace sprinted toward him.
“Move!” Jace shouted, slashing at the nearest demon.
Alec tried. Really, he did. But everything was slow. Like running through water. The demon lunged. Jace met it in mid-air, blade first, and the thing screeched—then burst into black sludge. The other one went for Alec again, but Isabelle arrived like thunder and carved it in two. Silence.
Then: “Are you insane?!” Jace’s voice was furious. “What the hell was that?!”
Alec tried to answer, but everything buzzed. He opened his mouth—no sound came out.
Isabelle rushed to him. “Alec? Are you hurt?”
“I—” he managed. “Just tired—”
And then his legs gave out. Jace caught him before he hit the ground. Gently, carefully, he lowered him, propping Alec’s head on his lap.
“Dammit, Alec!” he hissed.
Isabelle knelt beside them, eyes sharp, scanning for wounds. “He didn’t get hit. Not once.”
“It’s not poison?” Jace asked, breath short. “Demon blood? A spell?”
“No,” she said slowly. “I don’t think it’s that.”
She was quiet. Thinking. Something behind her eyes shifted.
She looked at Jace. “We need to take him to Magnus.”
Jace’s face twisted. “What? Are you kidding?”
“I’m serious.”
“You want to take him to that smug, silk-wearing spellbag after he passed out in an alley?”
“Jace,” Isabelle said gently. “You know there’s something going on with him. You’ve felt it. So have I. Magnus might understand.”
Jace looked down at Alec’s face, pale and clammy against his lap.
“Or let’s take him to the Silent Brothers, let’s have the Clave get a look” she said but it sounded like a threat, like they both knew something critical would happen if they did.
He didn’t answer. A long, tense beat. Then, with a grunt, Jace stood—lifting Alec into his arms like he weighed nothing. Princess-style, as if it were nothing new.
“He better fix him,” he said darkly, turning toward the street. “Or I’m burning his damn penthouse down.”
Isabelle followed, close behind.
“Tell him that when we get there,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll love it.”
Jace didn’t smile. But he didn’t argue, either.
**********
The intercom buzzed, shrill and persistent. Magnus didn’t rush. He never did. Grace, after all, was best served slow. He strolled to the panel, pressed the button with one long, manicured finger, and drawled into the mic,
“Declare yourself—preferably with flair—or begone”
There was a pause. Then a familiar voice, taut with concern.
“It’s Isabelle. Alec is unwell. Let us in.”
The smile dropped from Magnus’ face like glass shattering. Every nerve in his body went electric. Unwell? What did that even mean to a Shadowhunter? They used the word like it meant anything short of beheaded counted as a good day. He buzzed them in and backed away from the door, trying—failing—not to panic. The moment it swung open, he stopped breathing. Jace was there, shirt stained with demon blood, hair mussed, arms curled tight around Alec’s unconscious form. Alec’s head lolled against his shoulder, pale and motionless. Isabelle’s expression was a strained mask, hovering somewhere between fury and fear.
Magnus’ heart stopped. “Unwell,” he whispered to himself, bitter. “Damn Nephilim and their blessed understatement.”
“Couch. Now,” he ordered, stepping aside.
Jace obeyed without a word, kneeling to lay Alec gently across the cushions. Alec looked so… small like that. Magnus knelt beside him, grabbing his face—cool to the touch, lashes fluttering against too-pale cheeks.
“Alexander,” he said softly. “Come on, sweetheart. I’m here.”
No response. He closed his eyes and spread his fingers over Alec’s chest, whispering the words that summoned his sensing magic, tendrils of color unfurling in his mind’s eye. Physical state, magical state, spiritual weight—he scoured Alec’s body for any sign of injury or trauma. But—
Nothing.
Not that he expected to find anything so soon, but still. He could detect only residual magic, a threadbare echo of energy in someone who should’ve had the vitality of a storm.
Just exhaustion.
He exhaled shakily. “He’s not hurt. Just depleted. Completely drained.”
“That’s not normal,” Jace said. “Even after a long patrol, he bounces back. The Clave worked us hard this week, sure, but that’s over the top.”
Magnus turned to him, voice sharp with frustration. “Fantastic update. I’ll file it under ‘news I didn’t ask for but got anyway.’”
Isabelle crossed her arms. “Spill it, Magnus. Something’s been off for weeks. We’ve all been tight as strings around him. What’s going on with him?”
Magnus hesitated, hand still resting lightly on Alec’s sternum. He hated the way their eyes pinned him, sharp and relentless—like they already suspected the truth.
“His aura awakened.” And upon their quizzical looks he sighed and added “He’s an Omega.”
Silence.
Jace frowned. “That’s a downworlder thing.”
“No,” Magnus said, eyes flashing. “It’s an ancient thing. A human thing. But your kind has spent centuries pretending you aren’t made of the same flesh as the rest of us. That denial doesn’t change bloodlines.”
Isabelle looked stunned. But it was the kind of stunned that carried recognition.
Jace still looked skeptical. “What does that even mean?”
“It means,” Magnus said, standing slowly, “that he carries a rare kind of magic. The ability to create life where none should grow. It means his presence can affect people—provoke, compel. It means he’s powerful in ways you don’t understand. And it means the suppressants your people force on children like him are keeping him from knowing who he really is.”
Isabelle blinked. “Magic that creates life?”
“Among other things,” Magnus murmured. “Magic that sings. That seeps into the air. That can soothe or drive someone mad with wanting. It’s instinct and ritual and biology, all at once.”
He stepped away to call Catarina. If anyone could confirm what he feared, it was her.
She arrived nearly an hour later, hair in a messy bun, scrubs still faintly wrinkled from her hospital shift. The second she stepped in and saw Magnus’ expression, she muttered, “This better not be about your feelings.”
Magnus said nothing. Just gestured to Alec.
She knelt beside him, placing her hands carefully over his chest, whispering low spells of assessment. A shimmering pulse spread from her fingertips.
After a long silence, she nodded. “He’s exhausted. The suppressant leaving his system probably overloaded him. His magic’s in flux.”
Isabelle muttered, “I knew they were feeding him poison.”
Jace shifted, uncomfortable. “Maybe he needs to go back on it.”
That earned him a glare from Isabelle sharp enough to decapitate a man. Jace added vindicating “Funny how he didn’t pass out on patrol or survive death-by-toast back when he took his damn potions.”
“Those potions didn’t protect him—they erased him. And I’m sorry, but that’s not care, that’s control.” Isabelle said.
Magnus and Catarina exchanged a glance. They didn’t need to say anything. Agreement passed silently between them.
“He should stay here,” Catarina said. “To rest. It’s safer. If the Clave knew an unmedicated Nephilim Omega was wandering around, they’d throw a bloody fit.”
“They can’t find out,” Magnus added. “You’ll need to cover for him. Tell Hodge something plausible.”
After a moment, Jace nodded. “Fine. But you better not mess with him.”
Isabelle gave him a warning look. “He’s not a toy.”
Magnus almost laughed. If only they knew.
After they left, Catarina lingered.
“I lied,” she said once the door was closed. “He’s not just exhausted.”
Magnus’ body went still.
She stepped forward. “He’s bearing.”
The world shifted. Magnus dropped to his knees beside Alec again, clutching the boy’s hand, his forehead resting against Alec’s chest.
“I can see the energy forming,” Catarina continued gently. “It’s early, but it’s starting to build the womb-space. In a week or two, you’ll feel it. The magic will solidify.”
He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.
Catarina came to kneel beside him. “It’s rare, Magnus. You know that. Especially across species. But it’s happening.”
His fingers trembled as he curled them tighter around Alec’s. “I didn’t mean for this. I didn’t plan it. I just—he looked at me like I was safe. And I lost myself.”
“I know,” she whispered.
“I should’ve stopped.”
“You felt the Scent.” She leaned down and kissed his head. “Tell him. Soon. He has the right to know.”
She stood and let herself out. Magnus didn’t move. He stayed there on the floor, pressed against the boy he hadn’t meant to love, listening to his slow, steady breathing and wondering what would happen when he woke up and learned the truth.
**********
Chairman Meow made the executive decision to leap directly onto Alec’s chest before Magnus could stop him.
“Traitor,” Magnus muttered, lunging too late. The small feline landed with all the delicacy of a velvet brick, immediately purring like he’d done nothing wrong.
Alec stirred with a soft, confused sound, his lashes fluttering before his eyes slowly opened. His hand moved automatically to pet the cat as if this was a perfectly normal waking ritual.
Magnus moved to scoop the cat up, gently but firmly. “Absolutely not. Only princes or devastatingly handsome warlocks are allowed to awaken sleeping beauty. You’re adorable, furball, but you are not the standard.”
Chairman Meow meowed in protest as he was lifted and relocated to the armrest. Magnus turned his attention back to the now-blinking boy, crouching beside the couch. Alec looked disoriented, but not in pain. Still, Magnus couldn’t help brushing his knuckles down the side of Alec’s cheek. His skin was warm, soft. A touch of color had returned.
“You’re awake,” Magnus said, smiling as the weight in his chest eased. He leaned down and pressed a brief, soft kiss to Alec’s temple. “Do you feel okay?”
Alec blinked at him, groggy. “I… don’t remember coming here.”
“Jade brought you,” Magnus said, sitting on the edge of the couch now. “He was looking very dramatic about it. Big arms. Big mood.”
Alec let out a faint, sheepish groan. “So I passed out.”
“Indeed. Right into your best friend’s arms. You really have to stop doing that—it’s terribly unbecoming.”
Alec rubbed his forehead, clearly trying to remember the details. “It was those beetle-things. I got dizzy.”
“You did,” Magnus said softly, running his fingers through Alec’s hair, delighted when the boy leaned into the touch like a plant toward sunlight. “You’re not allowed to frighten me like that again. I’m very delicate.”
Alec snorted softly but didn’t argue.
“You need rest,” Magnus said, standing up and smoothing down his shirt unnecessarily. “Doctor’s orders. And before you argue, I’m friends with your actual healer, and she agrees with me.”
Alec looked at him cautiously. “What kind of rest?”
“The good kind,” Magnus said cheerfully. “Movies, cuddles, actual food that didn’t get made by Isabelle, and uninterrupted, guiltless sleep. You’re staying here for a few days.”
Alec blinked. “Days?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“That sounds like… vacation.”
Magnus tilted his head. “You say that like it’s a foreign word.”
“It kind of is,” Alec admitted. “We don’t… really do that. Rest. Time off.”
“Well, welcome to the world of hedonism and high thread count sheets,” Magnus said, walking toward the kitchen with a little flourish. “You’ll never want to go back.”
Alec’s voice followed him, quiet but curious. “So… we’ll be sleeping together then?”
Magnus paused. Not from discomfort—but because of the sheer directness of it. Of him. The boy had no artifice, no coyness. He wasn’t asking to stir tension—he just wanted clarity, and Magnus adored him for it.
“I only have one bed,” Magnus said, returning with a glass of water and kneeling again to hand it over. “The guest room tragically vanished in a mysterious magical incident last year. Very dramatic. There were sparks.”
Alec gave him a small, amused smile. “You did have a guest room when I was here last time.”
“It comes and goes” Magnus said, deadpan.
Alec took the glass and sipped, his eyes studying Magnus carefully. “So I’m sleeping in your bed.”
Magnus shrugged with a deliberately casual air. “Or snuggle Chairman Meow. But he kicks in his sleep and hogs the covers.”
Alec smiled at that, more openly now. His color was better. His breathing steadier.
Magnus sat beside him and fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, not quite looking at him. “You don’t have to pretend to be fine, you know. Not with me.”
“I’m not pretending,” Alec said. “I just… I didn’t expect this. You, taking care of me.”
Magnus raised a brow, turning to face him fully. “Why? Because I’m a warlock? Or because I’m usually too busy being dazzlingly charming?”
Alec flushed a little. “Maybe both.”
Magnus smile softened. “I care about you, Alexander. You faint, you forfeit all personal agency for seventy-two hours. I’ve adopted you. I hope you like throws and unsolicited affection.”
“That’s a weirdly specific number.”
“It’s a sacred healing interval,” Magnus said smoothly. “Don’t argue, it’s ancient lore.”
Alec huffed something halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “Okay.”
Magnus leaned back, watching him with quiet fondness. “Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll stay.”
Magnus beamed, then ruined it by immediately fussing. He stood up, grabbed a throw blanket from the back of the couch, and started tucking it around Alec with all the gentleness of someone defusing a bomb.
“You’re fussing,” Alec pointed out.
“I am not,” Magnus said. “This is the standard magical procedure for emotionally compromised demon hunters. Wrap in fluff. Provide hydration. Sprinkle in light sarcasm.”
He reached out, brushed a stray lock of hair from Alec’s forehead.
Alec just looked at him, eyes soft. “Thank you.”
Magnus swallowed, suddenly unable to find something flippant to say.
Instead, he leaned down again, pressed a kiss to Alec’s temple once more, and whispered, “Rest. You’re safe.”
***********
Magnus woke to the gentle pressure of breath against his shoulder. For a moment, he didn’t move—barely dared to. He simply let the stillness hold, eyes trained on the boy beside him, half-lost in the quiet of morning light. Alec slept curled toward him, long limbs relaxed, one hand tucked loosely beneath his cheek like a child dreaming. Magnus turned carefully to face him. There was something devastating about the contrast in Alec's face at rest—softer, gentler than the disciplined lines he wore during the day. His skin was pale and smooth, porcelain kissed by moonlight—so flawless it seemed sculpted rather than born. Long, dark lashes lay fanned against his cheeks, the contrast striking. His lips, still slightly parted from sleep, were full and softly pink, like temptation made flesh. High, defined cheekbones and an elegant, straight nose gave his face an ethereal geometry, like the marble profile of a fallen angel. His black hair curled in careless waves across the pillow, untamed and shadowy, a crown of midnight. Magnus stared, reverent, as if cataloguing a miracle he’d only been allowed to witness once. And then the smell hit him. A fresh wave of it. That Scent. That impossible, feral magic he was slowly becoming enslaved to. It coated his senses, licked up his spine. Alec’s Scent wasn’t demanding this time—it was languid, contented, smug even, like it knew Magnus was looking and was very, very pleased about it.
Magnus peeled himself away before he did something indecent and padded to the kitchen. With a snap of his fingers, the breakfast arrayed itself across the table—freshly brewed coffee, croissants warm enough to steam the butter, a bowl of glossy berries, tiny sugar-dusted madeleines. He even conjured a miniature pot of lavender honey just because it sounded fancy and might make Alec smile. And speak of the devil. Alec appeared in the hallway like a sleep-dazed dream—barefoot, hair a tousled riot of night-sweat and pillow-creases, swimming in a too-loose T-shirt that might’ve been Magnus’, and boxers that did absolutely nothing to hide the strength of those legs.
Magnus nearly spilled the coffee.
The boy froze as soon as he spotted him—Magnus leaning against the counter in nothing but a deep violet silk robe. Open far too low. Or far too high, depending on the perspective. Alec’s pupils flared wide, dark swallowing blue. His Scent surged—thick, primal, laced with the sharp spice of arousal. It hit Magnus like a velvet punch, curling into his lungs, whispering yes down his spine. He braced himself. It was instinctive now, that scent, slick with want and something deeper, something that clawed. It didn't just tempt—it commanded. Like it knew it had power over him. Like it was testing how far it could reach. Magnus swallowed it down, shackled his reaction with centuries of composure. He would not fall into it—not today. He was a warlock, not a starving beast. Still, he smiled, slow and sly, as if the air wasn’t thick enough to drown in.
“Good morning,” he purred, voice honeyed and criminally casual. “Breakfast is served. And yes, it’s all enchanted to taste sinful.”
He turned on his heel before Alec could speak, before his control could crack. Because the boy’s scent was rising like a tide—and Magnus refused to be pulled under.
Alec coughed, clearly trying to reset his brain. “You—you don’t cook?”
Magnus waved a dismissive hand. “Darling, the day you see me sweating over a pan is the day reality has collapsed and the end is nigh.”
They ate together in something that felt dangerously like domesticity. Magnus watched Alec bite into a croissant like it was a test, eyes narrowing at the explosion of buttery flake. He chewed in silence, then reached for a second without comment. Magnus raised a brow, delight curling in his chest. He wasn’t sure what felt stranger—how natural this felt, or how much they both seemed to like it.
Afterward, Alec—possibly struck by some lingering Clave-born sense of duty—started cleaning. Magnus tried to protest, gently, with a raised brow and a comment about magically obedient mop spells. But Alec insisted. And Magnus, in awe of the man in his kitchen wielding a dishrag with the dedication of a holy knight, decided to let it be. It gave him time to panic. He watched from the couch, legs crossed, sipping his third cup of espresso as Alec wiped counters like his life depended on it. How was he going to say this?
Alexander, my love, do you recall our passionate, slightly cursed evening? Well, it seems your magical biology has decided to rewrite the rules of reproduction, and now my shoulder glows. Possibly because you knocked yourself up. Isn’t romance fun? Please don’t run.
Magnus groaned and dropped his head back against the cushions. Then his phone rang. He answered without looking.
“Magnus speaking. Current state: despair.”
“Magnus, Magnus, Magnus,” Ragnor Fell’s voice drawled on the other end. “What have you done now?”
Magnus sighed. “Catarina. You two are a pair of gossiping pigeons.”
“She called me in case you needed magical reinforcements or emotional stabilizers. Judging by your tone, I’m assuming both are still on the table.”
Magnus ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know he was an Omega, Ragnor.”
There was a pause.
Then a slow, low whistle. “You lucky motherfucker. Most warlocks spend eternity trying to find one Omega willing to look their way. You’re on your second. What is it, some pheromone-based charm spell you’re running in your shampoo?”
Magnus barked a laugh. “Yeah. It’s called ‘tragedy and unresolved trauma.’ Works wonders.”
“Well,” Ragnor said. “Congrats. You just handed the Clave their worst nightmare wrapped in a neat little knot. A Nephilim Omega? Delicious scandal. You’ve essentially impregnated their golden boy and turned him into a political liability. Bravo.”
Magnus flinched. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even know. I wouldn’t have—if I’d known—”
“Yeah,” Ragnor’s tone sobered. “It’s a lot, Magnus. And with your history… it’s okay to be scared.”
“That’s not fair,” Magnus whispered.
“No,” Ragnor said quietly. “It’s not.”
There was a pause. Then Magnus asked, “Will you look into something for me? The tear. The demons. There’s something going on and I don’t like the timing.”
“You got it. Consider it your baby shower gift. Don’t expect a card.”
The line went dead.
Magnus stared at the wall. Alec had finished with the counter and was now arranging fruit into symmetrical spirals like a monk trying to reach enlightenment. This boy had no idea. He needed to tell him. Today. He just needed to find the right words. The right tone. The least terrifying way to explain that Magnus was now halfway marked, Alec was most likely bearing a magical child, and everything they knew about Nephilim biology had just been rewritten with a very sharp pen. Magnus sighed.
“I can’t wait to see how badly I mess this up,” he muttered.
And then Alec smiled at him from across the room, golden and contented in the morning light, and Magnus thought— Maybe not everything that comes undone is a disaster. Not if it’s followed by something that feels a little like peace. Or maybe even love.
**********
Magnus had faced demons older than sunlight, stared down kings and curses and his own regrets. But none of that compared to the terror currently twisting in his gut as he stood in his own penthouse, wiping suddenly clammy palms on his pants, watching Alec lean back against the couch with his mug of enchanted coffee, utterly unaware of the emotional wrecking ball Magnus was about to launch into his day. Now would be a good time to faint, Magnus thought hopefully. Anything that meant he didn’t have to open his mouth and ruin the fragile, sweet thing blooming so awkwardly between them.
Alec looked up with that unguarded, serious face. The way his black hair curled and fell around his forehead in half-wild waves was wholly unfair. The soft cotton of Magnus’ shirt still clung to his sharp shoulders. His legs were tucked beneath him like he didn’t know how ruinous a picture he made. Magnus inhaled deeply.
“You know,” he began lightly, settling across from Alec and pretending his legs weren’t bouncing with nerves, “I did plan to give you a full day of peace before delivering any soul-shaking revelations. But then I remembered who I am and how things go for me. So.” He took another sip of coffee he didn’t need. “Lucky you.”
Alec didn’t say anything. He was watching Magnus now. Alert. Still. His gaze always had weight to it, like he saw things other people skipped over. Of course, that was part of what made this so difficult.
“I’m going to say some things,” Magnus went on, slowly now. “And I just want you to listen. No freaking out. No yelling. No stabbing. You can do all that later. Maybe even in that order. But right now, just… listen.”
He set his cup down and looked straight at Alec.
“Okay. So. There’s… something inside you. A kind of magic. An old magic. Older than the Nephilim, older than the Accords, older than the Clave with its shiny boots and deep repression issues.”
Still no reaction. Just those eyes, calm but focused. Magnus swallowed.
“You’re what’s called an Omega,” he said, more gently now. “It’s a type of magical designation. Rare. Wildly misunderstood. You’ve probably never heard of it, because the Clave makes a point of burying it under a mountain of shame and potions. Which, by the way, you’ve been drinking since you were thirteen. Suppressants. To keep this part of you dormant.”
He winced. “I know. I should’ve eased into that. But subtlety isn’t one of my natural virtues.”
Alec’s face hadn’t changed, but Magnus could feel the tension building. He rushed on.
“Omegas… they have a kind of magic most people don’t even know exists. It’s not flashy or visible, but it’s ancient, elemental. It lives in them, around them. It’s called the Scent—but that word doesn’t do it justice. It’s not just a smell. It’s a presence, a current, like heat from a fire or the pull of gravity. It weaves itself into the air, into your bones. It doesn’t just attract—it compels. It resonates with want, with need, with the quiet ache people don’t know they’re carrying until they’re standing too close to someone like you. And if the person near you is… attuned to it—an Alpha, or someone with the wiring for it—it gets under their skin. In their head. Their heart. Sometimes without them even realizing it. It doesn’t ask. It calls. And we answer.” Magnus pressed on like a man walking through a minefield.
“Your Scent has been… let’s call it under new management lately. Since you stopped the suppressants—accidentally or not—it’s been slowly waking up. What happened between us… the intensity of it… that was your Scent running wild. It wasn’t manipulation. You didn’t do anything wrong. But it’s strong. And it’s real. And I’m going to be honest with you—when it hit me, I barely held on.”
He reached across and gently brushed the back of Alec’s hand with his fingers.
“Ok so this is the part where you might flinch, or laugh, or decide I’ve gone absolutely mad, or build a fort out of denial. I won’t stop you. But I’ll still be right here. Just… don’t walk out, okay?” Magnus sighed. “Alexander…” Magnus’ voice dropped to a whisper, low and cautious like he was speaking to a frightened bird. “You’re… bearing.”
He saw it hit. Not fully—Alec didn’t flinch or bolt—but the change was there in the stillness. Shoulders too straight. A pause in breath. His mouth parted, as if to speak, then shut again. His eyes searched Magnus’, uncertain and wide, like someone scanning a map in a language they’d never learned. Magnus lifted a hand gently, the gesture as much about soothing himself as it was Alec.
“I know,” he said softly. “You’ve probably never heard the word. Not the way it’s meant. I’m sorry. I hate that this was kept from you. You should’ve been told—long before I came into the picture.”
He swallowed, his throat dry. It would be easier to wrap this in sarcasm, easier to joke. But Alec deserved truth.
“You’re an Omega, Alec. Which means… your body is capable of something rare. Something extraordinary. It can create life. And right now… that’s what it’s starting to do.”
He paused, letting the words land.
“I’m not talking about a metaphor, or potential. I mean it. Your magic—your body—it’s starting to build something. A space. A womb. Quietly, gently. Preparing.”
Magnus took a shaky breath, rubbing his thumb nervously against his ring finger.
“This didn’t happen on its own. It’s because of what happened between us. That night. When I—” He stopped, exhaled through his nose. “When I finished inside you.”
The bluntness of the words made Alec’s eyes widen further, and Magnus rushed on, not fast enough to hide the tremor in his voice.
“I didn’t know you were an Omega. If I had, I never would’ve let it get that far without telling you. I thought your Scent was overwhelming because… because I’d let myself care too much. Because I’m weak, not because your body was calling mine into something older than either of us.”
He shook his head and kept going, watching every flicker of Alec’s expression, measuring the boy’s silence.
“It’s not an immediate thing. The child—the possibility of one—is still just magic gathering, growing. It might take a week, maybe longer, before it even settles. But Catarina confirmed it. She felt the shift. She said you’re… bearing.”
Magnus looked down at his hands. Pale, trembling slightly. He clenched them.
“This isn’t punishment. It’s not something to be ashamed of. It’s a gift your body never got to understand. A part of you that’s been silenced for so long, you didn’t even know it was there.”
Finally, he looked up, met Alec’s eyes and gave a small, broken smile.
“I know it’s too much. Too fast. Too everything. But I’m here. Whatever you want, whatever you need. You’re not alone in this.”
He hesitated, one last breath between them.
“And if you hate me right now… I understand.”
Alec was quiet. Still. For a moment Magnus thought he hadn’t heard him. But then the boy stood. Just stood. Slowly, as if his limbs were made of wet paper and dignity. His face was unreadable, expression so blank it could’ve passed for serenity—except Magnus saw the little tremor in his jaw, the minute twitch in one hand.
“Alexander?” he ventured, soft.
Alec didn’t answer.
Instead, Alec moved—abruptly, like something in him had just snapped loose. He took two steps away from the couch, then stopped, pivoted sharply, and crossed the floor again. Then stopped. Turned. Repeated. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling, then uncurling. Sometimes he ran them through his hair, tugged at the strands without realizing it. He didn’t look at Magnus. Not once. His gaze remained distant, unfocused.
It was a kind of pacing that didn’t ask for space—it demanded escape. Like if he just kept walking, eventually he’d find a crack in the world big enough to crawl through and vanish. And Magnus felt it in his own body like a pulled string and he subtly motioned for his wards to shut and block. Magnus stayed still, barely breathing, his eyes tracking every shift in Alec’s frame. He’d seen warriors bleed without blinking. But this—this quiet unraveling—it was harder to witness than any battlefield. Alec was trying not to flee.
“There’s…” His voice cracked. He swallowed. “There’s something growing inside of me?”
Magnus rose to his feet slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. “Yes,” he said gently. “Well not really yet but soon”
Alec turned away. One hand went to his abdomen instinctively. His fingers hovered there, like he didn’t dare touch it. “But I didn’t—” He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the thought. “How is that even possible? I didn’t think… Nephilim can’t. Men can’t.”
“You’re not just Nephilim,” Magnus said quietly. “And you’re not just a man, either.”
“Oh, that’s comforting,” Alec muttered, his voice a little unsteady.
“I mean—” Magnus stepped forward and stopped himself. “This magic—it isn’t foreign to you. It’s not invading. It’s you. It's your body building something without permission because deep down, it always knew how.”
“For a child,” Alec said. He whispered it. “A child.”
“Yes.”
His jaw clenched. “Your child?”
“Yes.” Magnus's throat felt like sand. “From… that night.”
Alec barked a breathless laugh—sharp, disbelieving. “From once?”
“It only takes once.”
“Apparently.” He stopped pacing, finally. Just stood, arms crossed over his chest like armor. “So you just… looked at me, and what? Knew?”
“No,” Magnus said firmly. “I didn’t know. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have touched you.”
Alec gave him a glance—too hard, too full of all the things he wasn’t saying. “Right. So how did you know”
“When I woke up I saw that,” Magnus said, softer and uncovered the mark on his shoulder. Alec looked at it not quite knowing what he saw “It’s a mark an Omega makes when he’s chosen… a mate.”
“How did I do that?” Alec said detached.
“Well it’s magic, probably when you bit me”.
Alec swallowed. His shoulders slumped slightly, but his face was still set in stone.
A few seconds passed.
“Can I get rid of it?” Alec asked suddenly.
Magnus answered devastated. “No.”
Alec blinked. “No?”
“If you try to interrupt the bearing process now,” Magnus said, each word weighed with caution, “I should get Catarina she would be more able to answer your questions. When the process is stopped, the Omega dies”
The air tightened.
Alec let out a low, shaky breath. “I don’t feel anything.”
“You wouldn’t yet,” Magnus said.
Alec's hand hovered over his abdomen again. “It doesn’t feel real.”
“It will.”
“Great,” he muttered. “Can’t wait.”
Magnus stayed quiet. He wanted to reach for him—hold him, ground him—but something in Alec's posture said not yet.
“I’ve never met another Omega, why don’t we know anything about that?” Alec said suddenly.
“No,” Magnus admitted. “Well it is not a magic the Clave cares for. They consider it to be more of an anomaly. About the same thing as a child born with bad sight, some hereditary imperfection, they would just fix it and move one”
Alec stiffened. “My meds.”
“Yes.”
“They’ve been keeping this from me. My entire life?”
Magnus didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
Alec looked sick.
“So there might be others from the Clave?” he asked.
“I don’t know, probably. I don’t know what the suppressant does over a long period of time. Every being with a human filiation could develop it. Warlocks, Humans, Werewolves, it’s well known in the downworld”.
Alec turned away from him again. Walked back toward the window, hands on his hips.
“This is insane,” he muttered.
“I’m sorry” Magnus said tenderly.
“It’s not your fault” Alec said deflated.
“It’s no one’s fault” Magnus said contritely.
“It’s a bit your fault though” Alec said a bit petulant.
“I take full responsibility” Magnus said trying for support and not reason.
“As you should” Alec said seeming to have calmed down a bit. “I don’t know what to do,” he said, very quietly.
“You don’t have to,” Magnus replied. “Not today. Not alone.”
“Should I tell Jace and Izzy?” Alec said suddenly fear bright in his eyes again.
“You can, you don’t have to. Only if you need it”
“No, no, they’ll think I’m a freakshow”
Magnus felt a bit bashful and said “I kind of already told them about the Omega part”
Alec watched him in horror “What?!”
Magnus showed his hands up in peace “They knew something was off, they could feel the Scent for days, they just didn’t quite know what it was”
Alec was still shaking with dread “I threw this at them?!” he said with venom.
“It’s not something you can throw. It’s an aura and it’s always around you. Well I guess you did throw it at me but the situation was quite different, you’d chosen me and it was a bit like courting, courting done by a very primal instinct that doesn’t really understand the charm of flowers and chocolate. They just felt it when you were near. It would’ve pulled at something they felt for you, enhancing it. To some it can appear like an intoxicating smell making them feel good and creating a kind of longing or need to get some more”
Alec looked… spent.
Not just tired in the way someone looked after too little sleep or too much physical exertion, but hollowed out. Stripped raw. He hadn’t spoken for minutes now, his pacing slowed, his eyes unfocused. He stood near the window like a shadow of himself, arms loose at his sides, shoulders slightly hunched—as if even the weight of his shirt had become too much. And Magnus suddenly found himself terrified to move. But this was Alec. This young man—who kissed like he was learning how to breathe again and fought like he had the world to shelter. Who had broken open before him, shattered not by violence or war, but by the revelation of a truth stolen from him since childhood and some unimaginable burden to come. Magnus took a single step forward. Alec didn’t flinch. Didn’t even turn his head. His hands were loosely curled at his sides, his expression unreadable—eyes distant, mouth slack with exhaustion.
Another step.
Still no reaction.
Magnus’ heart thudded like it hadn’t in years. He didn’t deserve to be allowed close, he knew that. Not after what he’d told Alec, not after everything that had changed. But if there was even a chance—just a chance—that the boy didn’t want to be alone in this moment, Magnus wasn’t going to let him stand there breaking apart in silence.
A third step, and he was beside him.
Slowly—carefully—he lifted a hand and brushed the back of his fingers against Alec’s arm. The contact was featherlight, the question unspoken. Alec didn’t move. Didn’t say yes. But he didn’t pull away either. So Magnus closed the distance. He slid his arms around him gently, like cradling something made of cracked glass. It wasn’t tenderness—it was necessity. He held Alec together because someone had to, and Alec couldn’t do it himself right now. And then—finally—Alec moved. It was small at first. A shift of his shoulder. A breath caught, a stuttered exhale. Then suddenly, violently, he pressed into Magnus’ chest and clung. Arms wound around Magnus’ waist, hands fisting into his shirt like a man slipping beneath a wave and grabbing for anchor. It wasn’t a sob, not exactly—but a tremble shook through Alec’s entire body, like his bones were coming undone from the strain of holding too much for too long.
Magnus held on tighter. He rubbed slow, soothing circles against Alec’s back, fingers gliding up and down the ridge of his spine. It struck him then, with painful clarity—how light Alec felt in his arms. Not in body, but in burden. As if dropping everything just for this second, resting all that tension and heartbreak against Magnus’ chest, had released something clenched inside him. And Magnus… Magnus could only cradle that weight and hope to be strong enough to carry it. He would be.
Minutes passed in quiet. The only sound was Alec’s breath, rough in places but steadying.
Then, muffled against Magnus’ shoulder, a voice:
“What now?”
The words were so quiet Magnus almost missed them. Fragile, like a child’s first question after waking from a nightmare. A plea disguised as curiosity. And it made something twist deep in Magnus’ chest. He closed his eyes, breathing the scent of him—still sweet and aching—and kissed the top of his hair.
“Now?” he whispered. “Now we take it one day at a time.”
The arms around him tightened once more, a breath shuddering against his chest. And Magnus thought—not for the first time—how unfair it all was. That someone so bright, so fiercely good, had been forced to walk through life never knowing who he truly was. And what could’ve been an amazing dream to have and to fight for had turned into a nightmare for a boy who had never let himself dream.
Magnus didn’t have all the answers. He’d be the first to admit that. But he could do this. He could hold Alec. He could make this room, this moment, a refuge. He could choose—every second from now on—to be a sanctuary for him. And so he stood, silent, his chin tucked against soft black hair, arms tight around the boy who had unknowingly changed everything.
Chapter 5: Substratum
Notes:
Careful, some explicit content.
Chapter Text
It had been two days since Magnus had told Alec the truth—two days since the floor dropped out from under both of them. In that time, Alec hadn’t spoken a single word about being an Omega. Not one syllable about the bearing. Not a whisper about the child slowly being woven into existence inside him by ancient, patient magic. What he had done, instead, was move like someone wading through fog—present, but not really here. It was like watching glass forget how to reflect light. Gone was the warrior who sliced through shadows with the precision of instinct. Gone was the young man who kissed like he could collapse time if he held Magnus tightly enough. Now, Alec hesitated at every decision, waiting for Magnus to guide him. When to eat. What to eat. Where to sit. Whether he could sleep. His voice had grown quieter, more fragile—as if volume might crack the foundation beneath his feet.
Magnus responded the only way he knew how: with quiet care. He didn’t push. He didn’t demand. He became a lighthouse, not a tide. He brewed Alec’s tea, laid out his clothes without making it seem like he had, picked the films and enchanted the lighting. He cooked by magic but pretended to do it by hand so Alec wouldn’t feel unnecessary. He let the boy brush his teeth next to him in silence, let him drift in and out of sleep with his fingers curled in Magnus’s shirt. At night, Alec clung to him like Magnus was the last solid thing in a world suddenly made of smoke. And Magnus held him, fiercely gentle, whispering old languages into the dark just to fill the silence with something warm.
But the silence was wearing.
Not in a way that made Magnus resent it. He could endure silence until the end of time if that’s what Alec needed. But he could feel the pressure inside the boy building, curling inwards like a wave that couldn’t break. And he didn’t know when it would. What scared him more was the ticking clock. Alec was supposed to go back to the Institute tonight. Back to the expectations. Back to the scrutiny. Back to pretending everything was fine. Magnus watched him now—sitting by the window, in Magnus’s hoodie (and where did he find this?) that hung off his shoulders like armor he didn’t know how to wear anymore. His long legs were pulled up beneath him, arms wrapped around his knees. That mess of inky hair fell into his eyes, unbrushed, curling at the ends from sleep. He looked so young. So breakable. The very thought of sending him back made Magnus’ stomach twist.
“I can text Isabelle,” Magnus said carefully, placing a cup of tea on the windowsill. “Say you’re still recovering. No one would question it. You've built up quite the reputation for being dead to the world lately.”
Alec looked at the cup. Then at Magnus. Then back down at his knees.
“I’m supposed to be back.”
“You’re supposed to be a lot of things,” Magnus said, trying to keep his tone light. “Doesn’t mean you should.”
Alec didn’t argue, which meant he was considering it. Progress.
They spent the afternoon together—moving through the day like a dance choreographed in unspoken exchanges. Magnus made breakfast and Alec nibbled at it. Magnus put on a record, and Alec listened. Magnus read, and Alec sat beside him, head on his shoulder. There were moments of stillness so soft they felt like being wrapped in fog, and moments where Magnus thought maybe—maybe—he saw something flicker behind Alec’s eyes. Some little ember of the boy he’d kissed with shaking hands and desperate mouths. But it was like that ember was buried deep.
When the sun began to dip and the hour grew closer, Alec finally spoke.
“I should go change.”
“You’ll come back after?” Magnus asked, voice lower than he intended.
Alec paused. Then nodded. “Yeah. If… if I can.”
That made Magnus laugh. “If you can?”
Before Alec could muster a retort, the intercom buzzed—a shrill, untimely interruption that sliced through the evening calm like a blade.
Magnus sighed and tapped the button with a practiced flourish. “Out of miracles, patience, and time. Please try again never.”
A pause. Then: “Magnus, it’s Isabelle.”
His spine straightened before his thoughts did. “Of course it is,” he muttered, and pressed the buzzer to let her in.
The shift in Alec was immediate and jarring. Magnus didn’t even need to look—he felt it ripple through the room like a drop of ink in still water. The boy’s Scent, once dormant and laced with warm resignation, turned sharp and metallic, full of unspoken dread. Panic clung to it. Raw. Wild. Choking. Magnus turned on his heel. Alec sat like a statue, rigid and pale, every muscle drawn tight. His fingers clutched the throw blanket like it might anchor him to the couch. His eyes weren’t focused on anything. Magnus crossed the room in two purposeful strides and lowered himself beside him, the movement slow, deliberate. He didn’t crowd him. Just reached out and let two fingers graze Alec’s wrist—cool skin and a furious pulse.
“They’re your people,” he said gently, voice pitched low and careful, as if speaking too loud might make it worse. “You’re not alone, Alexander.”
Alec didn’t speak. But he didn’t pull away either.
The second the door slid open, Isabelle came charging in. She didn’t hesitate. She crossed the room, dropped to her knees, and hugged Alec with enough force to jostle him. Some of the rigidity in Alec’s frame dissolved. Not all. But enough. Magnus felt the shift in the air, the way the Scent relaxed like a storm losing strength. Behind her, Jace breezed in as though he held the deed to the place. He paused just past the threshold, gaze sweeping over the space—and then over Magnus—with a critical eye, like a cat inspecting a rival’s territory.
“No drinks for guests?” he said. “I thought warlocks were supposed to be... I don’t know, civilized. Cultured. Maybe even charming?”
Magnus didn’t bother hiding his smirk. “Charming I reserve for people I don’t fantasize about hexing. But you, darling, I might have something in the back. Possibly laced with arsenic. Very vintage. Pairs well with arrogance.”
Jace had the gall to grin. “Only the best for me.”
Magnus’ lips curled, but not into a smile. This boy—this golden warrior with a hero complex and a smirk sharpened by self-certainty—had been the center of Alec’s world once. Magnus knew it. Could feel the ghost of it every time Alec looked at Jace a little too long, or touched his arm like muscle memory. It didn’t matter that Alec was his now. Some part of Magnus, petty and possessive, didn’t like the shadow Jace cast. Then Alec snorted. Just a puff of breath, soft and surprised. Magnus caught it, tucked it away. Well if the blonde amused the crowd, Magnus guessed he could bare his presence… for a little time. The four of them eventually gathered in the living room. Magnus perched on the arm of a velvet chair. Isabelle curled on a chair beside Alec, and Jace—sprawled like an indolent cat—took up the opposite armrest.
“I looked through everything the Institute had on Omegas,” Isabelle said after a while, her fingers curled around a coffee mug she’d claimed without asking. “It was useless. Dusty footnotes, barely a paragraph at a time. One entry literally said, ‘see also: myth.’” She rolled her eyes.
Jace, draped over Magnus' armrest with careless elegance, added, “Hodge raised an eyebrow when you didn’t show up after patrol,” Jace said, stretching out like he owned the place. “I told him you’d gotten poisoned by one of those beetle demons. That it looked nasty, and obviously—” he gestured vaguely in Magnus’ direction, “—you had to be rushed to the nearest warlock.”
Isabelle sipped from her mug, smug. “And I added that Magnus insisted on keeping you for observation for at least three days.” Her smile sharpened. “Rest, hydration... and definitely no funny business.”
Jace snorted. “She said it with that voice too. The one that makes librarians blush. You could see the exact second Hodge’s soul left his body”
Magnus could almost feel Alec’s Scent shift—less brittle now, more warm, like a breeze winding down. Not quite at ease, but soothed. Magnus didn’t miss the way Alec’s arms slowly relaxed where they’d been wrapped tight across his chest, or the flicker of something close to relief behind his guarded expression.
“Honestly,” Isabelle went on, “it’s kind of insane. How did we grow up in this world and know nothing about Omegas? It’s not like it’s some harmless trivia. I mean… being able to do that?” She gestured vaguely in Alec’s direction, her brows lifted.
“Yeah,” Jace said, propping his boots on Magnus’ coffee table until a glare made him drop them. “It’s actually pretty wild. I always thought those Omega stories were just fae drama. Turns out it’s real. And you—” He pointed at Alec. “You’re basically magical royalty.”
Alec didn’t respond, but he didn’t flinch either. Magnus took that as a win. Alec’s silence was a fragile thing. Tense, trembling—like glass with a hairline crack, waiting for the wrong breath to shatter it. Then it happened. One breath hitched. Then another. And then his shoulders shook, and his hands came up to his face—desperate, not to hide, but as if he could physically keep himself from falling apart. The sound that followed broke Magnus’ heart clean in half. It wasn’t loud. Just a fractured exhale, wet with grief, and then a sob, quiet and guttural like something torn from the depths of him. It was the sound of a boy completely undone. Magnus froze, breath catching in his throat. This wasn’t a war cry or the aftermath of some arcane disaster—this was Alec unraveling at the seams, right in front of him. And that sound—soft, choked, like heartbreak trying not to be heard—cut deeper than any spell ever had. He wanted to move. To sweep in with all the flair of a grand romantic tragedy and say something devastatingly comforting.
But Isabelle was faster.
She crossed the distance like a blade finding its target, dropping beside her brother without a word and wrapping her arms around him. Alec leaned into her without hesitation, his face buried in her shoulder, and sobbed like it had been waiting years to escape him. Magnus stood frozen, useless, guilt coiling inside him like a serpent. He had done this. Told him. Shattered him. And now he stood there, helpless, while Alec cried in his sister’s arms like a child. Even Jace looked shaken, his posture locked tight with tension. When Alec finally pulled back, raw and pale, Isabelle’s voice was a whisper.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
Alec didn’t answer.
Jace, predictably blunt, leaned forward. “Either tell us what’s going on, or I start guessing out loud. And you know how bad I am at guessing gently.”
Magnus stood and patted Alec’s knee. “I’ll go fetch some tea,” he lied, and ghosted from the room. He didn’t go far—just out of sight, into the hallway, where he could still hear.
There was silence for a moment. Alec sat forward slowly, hands clasped tight between his knees. His eyes were fixed on the floor, voice hoarse but controlled.
“It’s not just… the Omega thing,” he said. “There’s something else. Something I didn’t even know was possible.”
Isabelle tilted her head, concern sharpening into attention.
“Omegas,” Alec continued, “they can… there’s a kind of magic they carry. It’s not just Scent, or bonding instincts. It’s deeper. Biological. Magical. Some can… create stuff.”
Magnus didn’t breathe. He didn’t dare.
“Create what stuff?” Jace asked slowly, brows drawing in.
Alec swallowed, fingers twisting together until the knuckles whitened. “Life. Even when… even when it shouldn’t be possible. Even with people who can’t normally—even if they’re men”
He stopped, throat catching on the words like they were splinters.
“I don’t get it” sighed Jace a bit frustrated.
Alec continued watching at his hands fidgeting “Magnus and I we… after the date…”
“You went home” Jace said clearly getting a bit worked up, but Alec didn’t make a sign but blushed brightly “You had sex!” Jace shouted standing up in victory, like he guessed at Pictionary.
Isabelle looked at him in perfect contempt and horror which made him sat back on his chair “What? So much suspense… I said I couldn’t guess gently didn’t I” he crossed his arms over his chest petulantly.
But Alec was clearly stuck searching for his wording. So not having an ounce of patience Jace continued to push.
“So Omegas can create life and you had sex with Magnus on your very first date, we’ll high five that later,” he said with a wink “and I still don’t get it” he finished with a sigh.
But Isabelle stood up hand across her mouth and said “By the Angel! Are you pregnant!?”
After a few seconds Jace eyes widened “Like… with a baby?” Jace finally asked, incredulous.
Alec nodded, though Magnus couldn’t see it, he felt it. Like a magnetic shift in the apartment’s energy.
After a few minutes of awkward silence, Jace let out a baffled laugh that froze both Isabelle and Alec, one long that brought tears to his eyes and went on as he said. “Wow. Remember when your biggest personal crisis was your sexuality? Those were simpler times.”
Alec made a sound—a strained snort, half-laugh, half-collapse.
“You're telling me you discovered otherworldly powers, had sex, and conceived a child all in the same timeframe? This feels more like an Isabelle situation than a you situation.” Jace said nonchalant to which Isabelle punched him hard in the arm.
And then Alec chuckled. Really chuckled. Like he hadn’t done so in days watching Jace rubbing at his sore arm.
Magnus stepped back into the room and stood quietly in the doorway. Watching. He wasn’t sure what he expected—outrage, fear, denial—but what he saw was… steady. A trio that had withstood monsters and politics and death. Maybe they could withstand this too. Maybe Alec would be okay. And damn! How was he going to keep disliking Jace now?
**********
The apartment was quiet again. The door had barely clicked shut behind Isabelle and Jace when Magnus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Stillness returned—but this time, it felt different. Not empty. Settled.
Alec was staying.
Not because he’d wanted to—Magnus knew that. The boy had hesitated, clearly unsure, uncomfortable. Not because he’d protested—Magnus had seen no anger in him. Just nerves. A flicker of wide-eyed uncertainty, like someone inching too close to a ledge. Living together was new ground, intimate in ways Alec hadn’t been taught to navigate. He hadn’t argued, only asked in a quiet voice if it wouldn’t be “too much”. But Isabelle, with that gentle persistence of hers, had nudged him toward the answer they all knew he wanted. Alec had eventually muttered a soft, “Okay,” cheeks faintly pink, eyes refusing to meet Magnus’. And Magnus—well, he’d nearly burst into glitter. Because Alec might be scared, but he wasn’t running. Not from this. Not from him. Now the air tasted different. Not just scented with Alec’s magic but lined with possibility.
Magnus drifted to the window, letting the city’s nightscape roll over him. Alec would be here. Living here. Every morning, he’d return to the Institute for drills and training. If something came up—fatigue, symptoms, emotional spirals—then Jace and Isabelle could meet here instead. Research and tutoring were manageable. He wouldn’t be on the front lines, wouldn’t be chasing shadows in alleyways or bleeding in some gutter. And on patrols he’d cover from the background. It was a compromise. A balanced structure that gave Alec dignity while ensuring his safety. And Magnus was deeply, shamelessly thrilled. The idea of Alec slipping back into the streets with a target on his back had been a weight on his spine since Catarina confirmed the bearing. Alec might still not accept it, but at least they weren’t pretending anymore. Not entirely. He would be here, where Magnus could watch him, help him—where he could protect him, even if Alec didn’t know he needed protecting.
Magnus didn’t hear him at first—just the soft hush of bare feet across polished floors. Then Alec’s arms wrapped around his waist from behind, firm but hesitant, like he was still testing the shape of intimacy. His forehead came to rest between Magnus’ shoulder blades, breath warm even through the cotton of Magnus’ shirt.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Magnus’ hands stilled, his heart climbed a notch, not in panic, but in something softer—something reverent.
Then, in a voice that barely stirred the air: “Come to bed.”
Magnus turned his head slightly, not enough to break the moment. Alec grabbed his hand and guided him to the room. Magnus could feel the shift in his Scent, no longer tight or uncertain, but loose, relaxed.
The bedroom was dimly lit, soaked in the golden haze. The sheets were cool and soft, the scent of magic and sandalwood lingering in the air. Magnus climbed into bed beside Alec, who had already buried himself halfway under the blankets like a cat retreating to its favorite corner of sunlight. Alec looked up at him with the faintest trace of a smile, small but genuine—rare and disarming.
Magnus slid in closer, curling behind Alec with ease and tucking a hand against the man’s chest, his fingers brushing against the rise and fall of Alec’s quiet breath. Alec leaned back into him naturally, without flinching or hesitation. It was something Magnus had learned to treasure—every inch Alec gave without being asked.
“I like this,” Alec murmured after a moment “Just... you. Warm. Peaceful.”
Magnus hummed, pressing a kiss to Alec’s temple. “You say that like I’m not the most graceful, peaceful influence you’ve ever met.”
Alec chuckled under his breath. “You grinded on me last night.”
“I was asleep.”
“You kept whispering ‘just a little more.’”
Magnus smiled into Alec’s skin, letting his lips brush down the line of his jaw. It wasn’t calculated—it just felt natural to follow the curve of Alec’s face, to kiss his way gently toward the corner of his mouth. When their lips met, Alec’s sigh was soft and surprised. The kiss was slow, uncertain for a heartbeat—then deepened. Their bodies shifted instinctively. Alec turned toward Magnus, half on his side, half pressed to him, his hand sliding up Magnus’ chest. He kissed back with more confidence this time, pulling Magnus in by the collar of his shirt, like he didn’t want any distance at all. It was that hunger—not of urgency, but of wanting to feel something in a way that made Magnus’ pulse skip. He responded in kind, hands gliding over Alec’s sides, mapping the narrow dip of his waist, the soft press of lean muscle beneath his shirt. His lips wandered again, down Alec’s throat, tasting his skin where the scent thickened and bloomed. Not wild like it had been when Alec’s Scent was out of control, but mellow and sweet, like crushed petals and heat.
Alec gasped as Magnus’ mouth found the spot just below his jaw and lingered there, kissing, licking lightly. “That—Magnus—”
“I’m here,” Magnus murmured, voice low against Alec’s throat. “Still warm. Still peaceful.”
“You’re also doing something,” Alec whispered, a little breathless, a little flustered.
“Mm-hmm,” he said, brushing a finger down Alec’s arm. “And you love it.”
Magnus’ fingers slipped beneath the hem of Alec’s shirt, leisurely and lenient, like a ritual gesture rather than a search for contact. The skin beneath was warm and soft, taut over lean muscle. The moment his fingertips made contact, he felt it—Alec’s body tensing ever so slightly, not with fear but with instinct, a barely-there hesitation that made Magnus still. He paused, letting the silence speak for him: You lead. I’ll follow. Then, after a breathless moment, Alec exhaled, a trembling sigh that melted the rigid lines of his posture. His muscles eased under Magnus’ touch, surrendering inch by inch, his body recognizing something safe in the pressure, the heat. Magnus’ hand moved slowly, tracing the shape of each rib like he was reading braille—learning Alec’s language through every dip and rise. He followed the path of breath: how it hitched, then steadied. How Alec’s stomach fluttered beneath his palm and settled as if telling him, Yes, this is okay. You’re okay. He let his fingers spread wider, covering more skin but applying no pressure—just a glide, a presence. Alec turned his face slightly into Magnus’ neck, the brush of his nose soft and uncertain. Magnus closed his eyes, breathing in the closeness, resisting the urge to say something flippant.
Alec leaned in and kissed him again, this time with no hesitation. It wasn’t tentative or searching—it was deeper, hungrier. There was purpose in the way his lips parted, in the way his mouth moved with Magnus’, tasting and taking in equal measure. When their tongues met, it was slow and deliberate, a teasing dance that made Magnus’ pulse stutter. Every flick, every glide, carried the promise of more. Magnus let out a low sound in his throat, something halfway between pleasure and restraint, and lifted a hand to cradle Alec’s face. His fingers splayed across the younger man’s cheek, his thumb brushing the soft curve just beneath Alec’s eye, steadying him, encouraging him. Alec leaned into the touch, and a soft, unguarded groan spilled into Magnus’ mouth. The air shifted around them—no longer charged with nervous energy, no longer tentative or questioning. It was warm now, sultry, and thick with want. The kind of atmosphere that begged for softness and sin in equal parts. Magnus’ other hand began to roam, trailing down Alec’s side with the slow patience of someone mapping uncharted territory. He skimmed over the curve of his waist, the firm slope of his hip, until his fingers slipped beneath the elastic band of Alec’s sleep shorts. He didn’t push far—just enough to touch the skin hidden there. It was softer, warmer, untouched. Magnus’ fingertips brushed lightly, barely more than a whisper, and Alec’s body responded with a subtle arch, hips tilting forward like his skin was reaching for Magnus’ hand.
The warlock stilled, lips a breath away from Alec’s. “Tell me to stop,” Magnus murmured, his voice roughened by restraint, his breath ghosting over Alec’s mouth.
Alec’s eyes opened—deep and dark, his pupils blown wide. He was breathing fast, but not with fear. With need. And something more tender that made Magnus’ chest tighten.
“I won’t,” Alec whispered.
That was all Magnus needed. His restraint frayed like wet silk.
They moved slowly, deliberately, like the world outside the sheets had fallen away. Every shift of their bodies was a wordless conversation, and the heat between them built not in haste but in the aching sweetness of being wanted, and wanting back. Hands fumbled under the sheets, tugging at shirts with clumsy urgency. Soft cotton caught at elbows and ribs, prompting quiet laughter against lips between kisses, and then bare skin met bare skin—warm and yielding. Magnus’ chest slid against Alec’s, smooth surfaces catching on each breath. Alec was all lean muscle and soft skin, taut but trembling, his skin cool in places and hot in others where arousal bloomed. Their hips found a rhythm, slow and sinuous. Magnus shifted, easing a thigh between Alec’s legs, guiding him without pressure but with purpose. The movement tilted Alec’s hips just right, and when Magnus rolled forward, their erections met through the thin barrier of cotton. Heat flared. Alec’s breath caught, sharp and high, and he bit down on his lower lip as his eyes fluttered shut. Magnus couldn’t help the small moan that escaped him, barely more than a breath against Alec’s throat. He kissed him again—slower this time, deeper. His pulse hammering, Alec kissed back with desperate reverence, responding with something that transcended mere desire. The friction between them intensified, not rough or rushed but steady, grinding in long strokes that made every nerve sing. Magnus’ hand slid around Alec’s back, fingers splaying wide as if to hold more of him, to anchor him in place. The warlock felt the tremor in Alec’s spine, the way his body was surrendering, giving over to the moment in small waves of tension and release. His other hand traced down Alec’s side, fingers brushing the curve of his back, the dip of his hipbone, and further down to the soft skin of his inner thigh. He paused there, palm warm, thumb stroking lightly. Then his grip firmed, holding Alec steady, guiding the rhythm of their rocking hips. Alec groaned, breath hot against Magnus’ collarbone. He buried his face into Magnus’ shoulder, mouth opening in a gasp that became something sharper as he bit down gently, teeth sinking just enough to leave a mark. The touch sent a jolt straight through Magnus’ chest and down, pooling low in his belly. He hissed softly, pleasure winding tighter, his body responding instinctively with a deeper grind, slow and insistent. Their legs tangled. The sheets slid off the edge of the bed. Time melted into heat and breath and whispered names. And Magnus, who had lived through centuries and had touched every kind of magic known and lost, swore that nothing had ever felt quite like the way Alec’s body moved against his in the dark—unguarded, willing, full of fragile trust wrapped in longing.
The friction was maddening—delicate and growing sharper with every pass. Magnus’ manhood throbbed, straining against his boxers, heat blooming low in his belly. Alec’s Scent surrounded him like a cocoon, thick and sultry, urging him on.
“You feel…” Alec’s voice broke off, his breath catching against Magnus’ neck. He shuddered, clinging tighter, muscles trembling. “Feels… too good.”
“I know,” Magnus breathed, his words soft with careful control. “I know, love. Just let it.”
Their bodies pressed together, flushed and moving in rhythm, but the friction through their underwear had grown maddening. Magnus’ hand slid down between them, slow and deliberate. He curled his fingers over Alec’s member through the thin cotton, and Alec gasped, hips jolting at the contact. Magnus’ stroked gently, setting a pace that matched the roll of their hips.
“Beautiful,” Magnus breathed, kissing the side of Alec’s face—his temple, his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth. “You’re so—hells, Alec.”
With a slow, unhurried motion, Magnus tugged at Alec’s waistband, slipping his hand beneath it. The heat of him, the way he pulsed in Magnus’ grip—it made his own breath catch. He eased Alec free from his shorts, wrapping his hand around the shaft, stroking bare skin now, savoring the texture, the way Alec’s whole body reacted, taut and desperate. Alec groaned, deep and low, burying his face in Magnus’ shoulder as his own hands moved shakily between them. With trembling fingers, he returned the touch, slipping into Magnus’ underwear, finding him already hard and aching. He fumbled with Magnus’ waistband, finally managing to free him, and curled his hand around Magnus with a fervent touch that made the older man moan into his skin.
They moved together, hands wrapped around each other, the rhythm turning erratic as the pleasure built too fast to control. Magnus kissed Alec’s jaw, murmuring against his skin, “I’ve got you. All the way. Let go when you’re ready.”
Alec’s breath hitched sharply, his whole body tensing in Magnus’ arms. His hips stuttered once, twice—then he cried out, muffling the sound against Magnus’ shoulder as his release hit him. His muscles seized, spine arching, and then he went limp all at once, boneless and trembling, melting against Magnus’ chest like a wave retreating from the shore.
Magnus didn’t stand a chance after that.
The feel of Alec coming undone in his arms, the heat of him, the Scent thick and clinging to the air like magic—too raw, too intimate to resist. Magnus groaned, buried his face in Alec’s neck, and rocked against him one last time. His orgasm ripped through him like a faultline cracking wide, sudden and shaking. He gasped Alec’s name into the boy’s skin, his whole body convulsing with the force of it, hips jerking until he had nothing left to give.
Silence followed, thick and warm and spent.
They remained tangled in each other, sweat cooling on flushed skin, their hands still loosely touching, legs overlapping. The scent of release hovered around them, earthy and charged. Magnus sighed softly and pressed a kiss to Alec’s damp temple, then trailed lazy kisses along his jaw, one hand smoothing up the nape of his neck to the tousled hair there.
Alec let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh. “We’re a mess.”
“Speak for yourself,” Magnus said with a grin. “I look like a magazine cover for post-orgasmic brilliance.”
They shifted eventually, cleaning up with lazy spells and soft murmurs. Shirts pulled back on, legs entwined beneath the sheets once more.
Alec curled against Magnus’ chest, head tucked beneath his chin, one hand resting over Magnus’ heart. His Scent was calm, clean, like the silence after rain. And Magnus held him tighter—not possessive, not urgent. Just close.
**********
A few weeks back at the job had passed in a blur of drills, boring research, and Hodge’s constant sidelong glances. Alec had settled into the routine with a quiet, practiced grace—he followed orders, trained hard, said little. But under it all, there was a tension threaded through him like piano wire. Magnus hadn’t pushed; he’d only sent a few texts each day—short, gently phrased check-ins with the occasional heart emoji or badly timed pun. But Alec had felt the pull in every word. The absence of him, his scent, his warmth, was a phantom he carried like a secret during the very long day and night.
So on one night out on patrol, Alec welcomed the city air like it was salvation. The night was cool, the streets buzzed with soft noise, and the rhythm of footsteps on pavement felt grounding. Isabelle flanked his right in her usual obsidian glamour, each step deliberate and deadly. Jace was on his left, already walking with that maddening spring in his step that said he was spoiling for action. Alec’s phone buzzed in his pocket, breaking the quiet rhythm of boots on concrete.
He glanced at the screen—Hodge—and answered with a curt, “Yes?”
Hodge didn’t bother with a greeting. “There’s a bar fight near 15th and Mott. Looks like a werewolf spot. Some vampires crashed the place. It’s getting out of hand.”
Alec frowned. “How bad?”
“I don’t know—furniture’s flying, fangs are out, someone mentioned a jukebox being used as a weapon. Get there and shut it down. Nicely.”
He hung up without another word.
Alec sighed and pocketed the phone. “Werewolf bar. Vampires picked a fight. We’re up.”
Jace grinned like it was Christmas. “Finally, something fun. And you heard the man—no bloodbaths. Just controlled chaos.”
“We’re not fighting,” Alec said sternly. “They’re not demons. They’re downworlders. This is about defusing, not dismembering.”
"And just like that, the fun died. Thanks, Alec," Jace said, clutching his chest like he’d been mortally wounded.
Isabelle arched a brow. “He has a point. You’re kind of a buzzkill lately.”
“I’m not—” Alec paused, dragging a hand over his face. “Just… don’t stab anyone, okay?”
"Fine," Jace sighed. "But if a chair so much as looks at me funny, I’m redecorating the street with someone’s body."
They arrived to the unmistakable sound of trouble. Shouting. Shattering glass. A jukebox still playing classic rock as background to an all-out brawl. Inside the bar, it looked like someone had dropped a werewolf convention on top of a vampire wine tasting. One wolf had a barstool over his head, another was growling at a vamp who was—Alec had to blink—dual-wielding pool cues like fencing sabers. The air reeked of blood, booze, and bruised egos.
Alec raised his voice. “Everyone stop! We’re Shadowhunters. This is your warning—calm down now.”
Absolutely no one listened.
Jace looked at him like he’d just tried to negotiate peace with a hurricane. “Yeah, that’ll work.”
And then, with a whoop of joy, he dove into the fray like a golden retriever unleashed at a beach party. “Fear not, lesser beings—salvation has arrived!”
Isabelle gave Alec a helpless smile. “Sorry, big brother. But someone’s got to supervise him.”
And in she went, flipping gracefully over a table and disarming a snarling werewolf like she was auditioning for a ballet of knives. Alec remained at the entrance for a beat, bow half-lowered, watching the chaos unfold. He took in the flying peanuts, the growling, the war cries.
He sighed, deeply. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”
Alec stepped into the bar like he was walking into an especially loud and hairy nightmare. The din was unbearable—shouting, snarling, glass breaking, furniture creaking under the weight of pure mayhem. A vampire was attempting to scale a jukebox for higher ground. Someone else had lobbed a beer bottle into the ceiling fan, which was now spinning like a drunk carousel. Alec’s eyes locked on the main offender: a large werewolf wielding a long wooden bench like it was a blessed greatsword.
“Excuse me,” Alec called, striding forward, hands slightly raised in a show of peace. “Sir. Could you please release the bench and… go home?”
The werewolf roared in response and swung the bench. Alec hit the floor with a grunt, the bench whooshing inches over his head and slamming into another werewolf who had been charging up behind him. The unintended target let out a dramatic yelp and went flying into a table.
“Well,” Alec muttered from the floor. “That’s one way to de-escalate.”
He stood and dusted himself off, then fixed the bench-wielding offender with a look that was half exasperation, half I-don’t-have-time-for-this.
“I don’t want to fight you,” Alec said. “No one needs to get hurt tonight. Just… drop the furniture and head home. Please.”
The werewolf blinked at him, confused but still holding the bench over his shoulder like a war trophy.
“Everyone here wants to fight,” the werewolf said, gesturing with the bench to the chaos behind them. “If you don’t, you’re the weird one. Maybe you should go home.”
Alec frowned, caught off guard by the logic. “I can’t leave,” he said, slightly baffled. “I’m a Shadowhunter. I have to restore order. Believe it or not, I’m not just here to look dramatic in tactical gear”
The werewolf squinted. “So… does that mean you’ll fight or not?”
Alec cleared his throat and summoned every ounce of his authority. “No,” he said firmly. “No one fights. You put the bench down, and you go home. That’s an order.”
There was a long pause, long enough for someone to accidentally set a stool on fire in the background.
Then the werewolf’s shoulders slumped. With a sigh of tragic resignation, he lowered the bench and set it down gently like it was a family heirloom. He trudged to the door with all the sorrow of a man who just realized the party was over before dessert.
Alec couldn’t help the smirk tugging at his mouth. He turned to scan the room again—only to be immediately tackled by something that smelled like vodka and wet dog. They went down hard, Alec’s back hitting the sticky floor, someone’s elbow jabbing into his ribs.
“Oh, come on,” Alec grunted, as chaos reigned above his head once more. “Can’t a guy have one smug moment?”
The werewolf on top of him snarled, sharp teeth too close for comfort, one arm locked around Alec’s throat in a sloppy but painful chokehold. He was already twisting to break it when something worse happened. A knee came down hard—right above his waistline. Pain. Sharp, blooming. Too much. Alec’s back arched involuntarily, a strangled noise escaping him. His hands faltered against the wolf’s arm, his limbs suddenly weak. The scent flared—the Scent, he realized dimly. His Scent. Panic-slick and leaking out like blood in water. That spot, the one below his stomach that had been uncomfortably tender the last few days, throbbed violently.
Oh.
Oh, no.
His brain caught up with his body. The realization hit with the same force as the knee. And now it felt like it had been stomped on by a steel-toed boot. The werewolf snarled again, pressing harder. Alec couldn’t move. Or rather, he couldn’t move right. Every instinct in him screamed to flip this guy off like a switch—but his body, fragile and furious, was still reeling from the pain. He didn’t even notice the shift in pressure—until it was gone. The weight vanished off his chest like a divine intervention. Gasping, Alec rolled to the side, coughing. When he blinked up, his view was blocked by someone massive. A huge werewolf. Half-shifted—hulking and looming, fur dusting his arms, face vaguely human but tipped with wolfish features. His eyes glowed green. And he was standing like a shield. Right in front of Alec.
Alec sat up carefully, bracing one arm around his middle. “Uh. Thanks.”
The werewolf glanced down, unimpressed. Arms folded over his chest. “This is no place for you.”
Alec frowned. “For me as what?”
Silence.
He stared up, catching his breath, still woozy with the residual pain. “A Shadowhunter who’s supposed to stop downworlders from killing each other?”
Still nothing. The werewolf just stood there like an unyielding wall of judgmental fur.
Alec wiped the corner of his mouth, tried again. “Look, I appreciate the help, but I need to break up this fight before it gets worse.”
Still no response. The werewolf’s feet were planted. His shoulders broad and set like stone. He wasn’t attacking—but he wasn’t moving, either. Alec tested his body slowly, rising to one knee. The pain had dulled, but his core still ached in warning pulses. He wasn't broken—but he wasn’t invincible either. Not tonight. The werewolf’s eyes tracked him the whole way.
“I have to stop the fight,” Alec said again, softer this time, trying to negotiate. “Someone’s going to get hurt. No one here actually wants this, right?”
From across the bar, a familiar voice shouted with glee.
“Yoohoo!”
Alec winced. He didn’t need to turn around to know exactly who that was.
Jace.
Somewhere behind the wall of fur, his golden idiot of a parabatai was probably flipping over pool tables like it was CrossFit, swinging a broken cue like a saber, grinning like a wolf on Red Bull. The huge werewolf in front of him didn’t blink, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze—annoyance? Agreement?
Alec gestured behind him weakly. “I’m not sure about him. But everyone else, maybe?”
Still nothing.
“This is what I’m here for,” Alec said again, his voice low, trying not to let the edge of pain make it sharp. “To stop this kind of thing before it escalates. You know how this looks to the Cl—” he cut himself off, “—to outsiders.”
The werewolf raised one eyebrow, barely perceptible.
“And you think standing between me and my job is going to help?” Alec added.
The werewolf didn’t move. Alec sighed, looking up at the ceiling like it might offer some guidance. He could fight the guy. Probably. Eventually. But the werewolf wasn’t hostile—just… gatekeeping. And the last thing Alec wanted to do was escalate things again with more violence. That’s what got everyone into these bar fights to begin with. Misunderstandings. Posturing. Still, Alec couldn't just stand there like a useless bystander while chaos erupted around him. It wasn’t in him.
He looked up again. “Seriously, man. You helped me. I owe you. But I still need to work.”
The guy said nothing. Alec stepped left. So did he. Alec tried the right. Blocked. He considered crawling under him like a dog. Decided against it.
“You know, this is not how diplomacy works,” Alec muttered.
The werewolf didn’t even blink. Alec sighed through his nose, rubbing a hand through his hair—and flinched slightly at the soreness in his side. He didn’t know what this guy’s deal was, but if this stand-off dragged any longer, he was going to end up winning the Most Pointless Staredown in Shadowhunter History. Behind the wolf’s shoulder, another crash echoed. Followed by a cheer.
“Did you see that flip? I deserve a gold star!”
Definitely Jace.
Alec squinted. “Don’t suppose you could hold him back instead?”
No answer. Right. Of course not. He exhaled. At this point, he might as well start an impromptu group therapy session. Break out the coloring books. Or nap in the corner and let Jace and Isabelle brawl their way to a ceasefire. Because diplomacy? Diplomacy had taken one look at this situation and said: Good luck, you’re on your own.
Alec plopped onto the floor with the dramatic flair of a child told to sit in time-out, arms folded tight across his chest in protest. The floor beneath him was sticky with spilled drinks and maybe some blood—he didn’t want to know. His back leaned against the nearest table leg, posture rigid with all the wounded dignity of someone being babysat by a wall of fur and muscle. Jace ambled over, hair tousled and grinning like a golden devil. He jerked a thumb toward the bar, where Isabelle was currently trying to untangle a vampire from a cluster of very drunk werewolves.
“Diplomacy already over?” Jace asked, leaning casually beside the mass of muscle guarding Alec and looking entirely too smug. “Or have you not actually started yet?”
“I was going to ‘diplomacy’ the entire room,” Alec replied with a scowl. “But someone—” He flicked his eyes toward the immovable figure of the werewolf standing squarely in front of him, arms crossed like a bouncer at a particularly exclusive club. “—won’t let me pass.”
Jace gave the werewolf an appraising glance. “You’re being guard-dogged?”
The werewolf didn’t even twitch. Alec let out a frustrated breath and shifted, knees drawing up slightly. The guy wasn’t touching him, wasn’t even really menacing, but the quiet way he stood there—silent, firm, too still—was unnerving. Like a statue that might spring to life if Alec so much as breathed wrong.
Then, finally, the werewolf spoke, his voice low and rumbly. “You might get hurt.”
Alec blinked. “Excuse me?”
The guy looked down at him, expression unreadable. “You’re not fit for this. Not right now.”
Oh. Oh, that tone. Not mocking. Not threatening. Protective. Alec didn’t know what to do with that.
Jace clapped a hand on the werewolf’s massive shoulder. “Right, then. Keep the diplomat safe. He bruises like a peach.” He gave Alec a wink that somehow managed to be both annoying and fond. “I’ll go back to playing crowd control.”
And with that, Jace disappeared into the chaos again, laughing as he spun a vampire by the collar into the nearest wall. Alec turned slowly to the werewolf. The werewolf stared back, impassive.
Alec arched a brow, a masterclass in sass. “Do you have a name, or is this just your entire personality?”
The werewolf lifted one unimpressed eyebrow, expression clearly reading: Cute. Try again.
Alec sighed, slumping back against the table leg. He crossed his arms tighter. “Great. Just what I needed tonight. A broody supernatural bodyguard with no sense of humor.”
Still no response.
“Do you growl if I move? Or are you just going to stare at me until I decompose on this floor?”
Nothing.
Alec rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of his head. “I’m so glad this is my life now.”
And still, the werewolf stood—silent, steady, unshakeable. Alec didn’t know whether to be annoyed, grateful, or deeply impressed. Maybe all three. But he wasn’t moving. That much was certain.
**********
The door opened with a gust of city night and the unmistakable scent of sweat, ozone, and… wet dog. Magnus didn’t even have time to remark on it before Alec stalked into the penthouse like a brewing storm. His shoulders were tense, jaw set, eyes lit with something halfway between righteous fury and bruised pride.
“Hello to you, too,” Magnus murmured, stepping into Alec’s path and leaning in to press a soft kiss to his temple. Alec didn’t exactly recoil—but he didn’t melt into it either. Instead, he kept walking, dragging a hand through his damp hair.
“Did it go well?” Magnus asked, watching him pace the living room like a caged feline.
“No,” Alec said shortly, spinning on his heel. “It was a disaster. I was trying to be diplomatic, trying to de-escalate this bar fight without maiming anyone, and some crazed werewolf pinned me down and kicked me in the stomach.”
Magnus froze. The air dropped a degree. “He what?”
Alec, still pacing, didn’t seem to hear him. “Just knocked me over like I was nothing and shoved his knee into me. Hard.” He gestured wildly at his midsection. “Right here. I saw stars.”
Magnus was already moving to him, fingers twitching with the urge to inspect, to heal, to hex whoever had dared touch him. But Alec turned again before he could catch him, moving too fast to be caught. Magnus had no choice but to hover and listen, clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides.
“And then,” Alec continued, voice rising with indignation, “this massive werewolf—like, half-shifted, snarling, seven feet tall—grabs the guy off me and then just… puts me in time out!”
Magnus blinked. “…Pardon?”
“Time out!” Alec spun again, hands thrown skyward. “He just stood in front of me like a wall and wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t talk. Just blocked me like I was some precious little vase someone might knock over.”
Magnus coughed to cover the laugh rising in his chest. “So you were benched?”
“I was benched,” Alec said darkly, glaring at the floor like it owed him an apology. “By a bouncer. A bouncer werewolf with a hero complex!”
Magnus couldn’t hold it anymore. A snort escaped him. Alec whipped around, eyes narrowed. “You’re laughing.”
“No,” Magnus said innocently, trying very hard not to smile. “I’m not. I’m… processing.”
“You’re delighted!”
“I’m… quietly satisfied,” Magnus admitted, hands raised in mock surrender. “In my defense, that werewolf was probably an Alpha.”
Alec blinked. “So?”
“So…” Magnus stepped forward, finally close enough to run a soothing hand along Alec’s arm. “Your Scent probably spiked when you got hurt. Alphas are magically attuned to Omegas. When they sense one in danger, it triggers their instincts—to protect, to provide. That werewolf was just doing what his nature demanded.”
“Oh, great,” Alec muttered, turning away again. “So now I’ve got magical strangers parent-trapping me mid-fight.”
Magnus bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. “It’s not parent-trapping. It’s… intuitive crisis prevention.”
“I’m a Shadowhunter,” Alec grumbled. “Not some… porcelain doll. I should be in the middle of the fight, not sidelined because I have ‘a scent.’” He made air quotes around the last words like they were the enemy.
Magnus let him rant. He knew this tone—Alec, wounded pride and simmering embarrassment rolled into one beautiful, endearing mess of stubbornness. He let him pace and vent and stew. Then, gently, he leaned against the arm of the couch and tilted his head.
“Well, Mr. ‘Not a Porcelain Doll,’” Magnus said dryly, “you currently smell like a kennel fire. Go take a shower. Unless you want to tempt me into banishing you from the apartment.”
Alec finally cracked. His lips twitched into something halfway between a pout and a grin. He muttered something under his breath and shuffled off toward the bathroom, grumbling all the way. Magnus watched him go, arms crossed and let the grin bloom freely now that Alec’s back was turned. He was absolutely thrilled.
Chapter 6: The folk and the lore
Chapter Text
Alec took turn, sending cross jabs towards Jace at a quick and controlled pace, Jace smoothly deflecting and dodging each of them with his natural lissomness added “Have you, hum… looked into what’s to expect? What’s gonna happen to you?”
Alec sought strenuously letting his eyes drop to the floor both his arms loose at his sides. Then he took a breath bordering on a surrendering sigh and changing his footing took a defensive stand lifting his eyes into Jace’s awaiting the next salvo. Jace obliged and threw a few shots towards Alec’s head, lacking his inherent petulance. Jace’s fighting modus was intuitive and overwrought, made of muscle memory and thriving on adrenaline. When he trained with Alec, he had to access a dominion over himself that didn’t come to him easily. He was always very careful, weary of hurting Alec and had to adopt the same reflective and overthought approach of fighting that was Alec’s usual method, Alec overthought everything. Jace wondered if Alec knew how he had to downplay his abilities by sheer fear of unintentionally harming his sparing partners. Jace figured Alec probably knew, but Alec wasn’t one to take vexation of this kind of thing. He had this ability to always assume that what people did essentially came from a place of well-hearted predisposition. He would never think of doing this while training with Isabelle, who above all, despised being overindulged, however it made feel whomever felt they needed to.
Alec blocked his punches with adamant parades, studious as always, Alec’s fighting modus was stiff and focused. “Not really” he said, adopting once again an offensive posture and throwing a right kick to Jace’s side without letting the other young man the time to assure his footing, which didn’t prevent him from blocking with both his arms.
Jace threw a side kick of his own, expected hence blocked then with a swirl he grabbed onto Alec’s arms and positioned himself behind his back enclosing his older sibling in a grip ensuring his opponent’s inertia by applying pressure on his elbow’s articulation. Alec cleared some space between his back and Jace’s body with a push of his hips and threw his other elbow in Jace’s ribcage freeing himself of Jace’s hold, he smirked slightly compunctious upon hearing the slight groan coming from Jace’s gritted teeth and as the other boy was quickly regaining his balance he pushed him back in front of him. Jace stood aside putting back his combat mitten which had slightly come off.
“You have to, you know” he said throwing Alec a sideway meaningful look “you can’t just keep on acting like it’s not happening to you”
Alec heaved a deep, contrite sigh and allowed himself a few seconds to tighten his own sparring gloves.
“I know… I know” took a deep breath “Magnus asked. She’s coming later, I’ll ask her” Jace sent him a pointed look “I will!” Alec supported, turning his palms upwards to emphasize his good faith.
He then took a wrestling position indicating to Jace his intention to work on ground fighting. Jace obliged, he was comfortable with about anything as long as he was moving and squandering his energy. Though he hadn’t quite thought it through but as Alec started grappling at him and seizing his upper body to tip him to the ground with a crutch to his shin, Jace became very conscious of his friend’s condition. And as he realized there was now an area he had to avoid or else his sibling could get badly hurt, Alec flipped him strongly on the hardwood floor. As much as Jace always felt the need to relinquish his punches, Alec, on the other hand, had always seemed to save his most ferocious for his training sessions with Jace. Anybody else would’ve thought Alec to be vindictive towards Jace being the center of every venture, but Jace knew Alec just wanted to show him that he could take care of himself and therefore was a trustworthy teammate. Jace sometimes wished Alec would developpe his fighting skills for something else than staying back to secure his siblings safe return home.
Alec positioned himself atop Jace’s chest and hips firmly locking him down in a strong chock hold. He was wearing a deluded smile clearly unsatisfied by Jace’s performance.
“Seems like this is one’s for me.” Alec said smugly.
“’m not done” Jace managed to mutter around the chock hold.
He could’ve freed himself with his left arm, which was kept slightly out of the hold but the rule was to always leave one of both arms free enough so the person locked in a hold could use it to express their capitulation by hitting the three floor taps. Jace did try to move his head to test the restraint and see a way out of the hold. Alec maintained his grip and tightened it lightly, just enough to cause Jace some discomfort, not quite pain yet. And with a devilish smirk Alec gestured with his chin for Jace to just tap the damn floor already. Which he did, limply. Alec left his position over Jace’s stomach to stand above him and offered him a hand to help him stand in turn.
They both adopted their wrestling position yet again and this time when Alec went for him Jace made him lose his balance and with a well practiced leg work sent him face first to the ground. Pressing the side of his face there in a submission hold impacting his upper body. His arm bent behind his back at an odd angle and leaving his other arm limp on the side unable to do anything to neutralize his opponent pressing into his shoulder blades. With a shake of his head and an amused victorious smile on his lips Jace said:
“Dear brother, seems like this one’s for…” and suddenly there was no longer a weight constraining Alec’s back, and he heard what could be described as a shriek coming from Jace a bit farther away.
Alec turned his head and taking a stand on his elbow watched as Jace was floating about 8 feet in the air at his feet surrounded by blue shimmering. Jace was a bit startled but as any precarious situation would, it left him more amused than alarmed. Alec stood up and looked around and finally noticed the cause of Jace’s sudden orbiting.
Magnus was standing still and tall in the entrance of the living room, face impassive and eyes glowering. His hands were covered with what looked like electric filaments from blue to violet.
“What… are…you…doing?” he said slowly, conveying Jace to think, hard, before talking.
Jace checked Magnus out and even if the warlock was not much taller than he was and didn’t look much older than he was, he sure could muster a sense of authority that let you guess the height of his power and the deception of his youthful face. Jace, from his higher ground, smiled and waved.
"You know, I keep hoping one day you’ll greet us in sweatpants. Just once. For the shock factor." And winked.
Magnus had lost some of the tension he had felt in every inch of his body as he’d fallen upon the scene displayed in front of him stepping into the room. Alexander being held forcefully into the ground by another man, whom he recognized at second glance. And there Magnus kept him stranding into the air, just because.
Gently, like a light summer breeze, Magnus could feel advancing towards him the fragrance of Alec’s scent brushing against his senses, his skin. A very delicate taste of yearning the younger man was sending in total unawareness. Magnus stopped staring at Jace to concentrate on Alec, who seemed fine and somewhat mesmerized by the sight of him. The little spikes of scent he was throwing his way informed him that he was not in fact shocked or angry but mildly dazzled by Magnus’ show of power. This boy was consistently and reliably, horny. The man’s hunger was growing to be a lot of work. Magnus would have to adapt his diet and exercise, he thought.
Alec raised one of his eyebrows, eyes squinting slightly, both hands now on both hips and with his snobbish, haughty poise obviously required the following: that he let his Parabataï go and what was that?! Alec could handle himself; he didn’t need Magnus to come to the rescue thinking that he could just let himself be ambushed in his own home and blah and blah and blah. And the stern face, the set of the jaw, the harshness in the eyes would be all very clear and challenging if it weren’t for his sending in constant pleasant waves whiffs basically whispering in Magnus’ ears “sex, sex, sex, sex!”.
Magnus smiled wittingly but with a humph and an unbothered flick of his fingers let Jace fall back to the floor. Alec went to help him up throwing Magnus’ way an irritated glance. Magnus smiled at him charmingly and unabashedly.
**********
Catarina Loss was a young woman with dark skin and kind eyes. Everything in her youthful face revealed compassion and empathy for whomever she laid her eyes on and seemed to go through hardship no matter how big or small. She also had a determined walk, and every motion of her body held purpose. She was of those who always trotted around too busy to bother themselves with insignificant small chats or beating around the bush. The forwardness she shared with Alec didn’t come, unlike him, from a virginal ingenuousness but from an urge to be efficient and prolific with her time. She entered Magnus’ living room with, as per usual, vigorous intent. She was holding in her arms a few books and some scribbled notebooks. She saw Magnus sitting at the dining table surrounded by books opened in front of him and discarded all over as he was taking notes waltzing his eyes from one to the next. Catarina went straight for Alec. Magnus had called her this morning to enquire about her tutoring for his very clueless Omega who had finally shown, even if very apathetically, concern about his status.
“Alec!” she said delightedly “hello my dear”
She recoiled for a second upon seeing the mournful grimace he tried to pass up as a welcoming gesture. She well knew, as had warned her Magnus, that the boy was in total distress about his fate, which was of course legitimate. It saddened her to see how this unique being could perceive himself as somehow cursed when every Downworlder, and most of all, warlocks, saw him as an absolute miracle. To be fair, the very unplanned bearing could possibly be the exclusive reason for said distress. And most probably due to a much too young age and a total absence of knowledge, which she would soon remedy if she only could do that for him.
“I see you well” she said smiling tenderly at him “Can I conduct a little scan? Very short, promise?”
He nodded, nonplused, going through the motion. And she started collecting her magic into her hands and very smoothly sent a few strands of it through Alec’s entire body. As slowly and thoroughly as she could so he would feel as little as he could.
“Magnus already did. He does it, a lot” Alec said whilst being probed, insisting on those last two words.
Magnus, from his table, did throw an unapologetic glance their way and resumed his work.
“But Magnus isn’t as skilled as I am in this area” not looking up from his books, Magnus did squint a little, thinning her lips Catarina added quickly “even if he certainly his the next best thing”.
Catarina was certainly enjoying the experiment, she was smiling shamelessly, as her prodding went along deeper and deeper into Alec’s complex metabolism.
“This is quite extraordinary” she spoke much to herself “an Omega, Nephilim’s bearing. Absolutely fascinating”
Alec went from mournful to downright miserable in front of her. She pursed her lips in atonement reminding herself that her audience was not as thrilled as she was.
“Well everything seems in perfect order” she concluded as she broke the magical contact and picked up one of her notebooks to quickly scribble into.
She then took a seat at Alec’s right side and began her lecture by asking Alec what he knew about Omegas, which appeared to be, not much. He had never heard of it through his parents or any instructor figures, being basically the Shadowhunter Hodge, renown circle member banned from Idris with the Lightwoods and kept prisoner inside the New York Institute as its instructor slash nanny to the three Lightwood siblings. The only time Alec now recalled the subject had been disclosed was that one time he had asked Hodge about that mixture he had to swallow every morning. To which Hodge had answered that Alec had been born with a very scarce condition that made him very valuable and perceptible by demons and downworlder. That he had to drink his little potion to make sure that he wouldn’t attract any undesired attention.
He had also recalled a few times he had forgotten to take the beverage; Alec had never really mingled with the mundanes or with the downworlders, except if necessary for the fulfillment of a mission. Hence requiring the interrogation of downworlders or the simple act of buying things from mundanes. And he never much approached demons either staying back with his crossbow to ensure their safe exit of any situation they could crash into. Therefore, never had he noticed any unusual behavior from mundanes or downworlders or demons even. But once or twice during those times he hadn’t taken the potion, he did observe an abnormal attitude coming from Jace, a somewhat aggressive need to keep him out of harm’s way which Alec always took for the younger boy’s annoyance at his inferior scale of skills in combat. Alec, deep down, knew that staying back from the action also allowed Jace to be able to entirely focus on his fighting, avoiding the better warrior the strain of worry he felt for his teammates being hurt. Jace always worried about them being hurt and made it his duty to guarantee that if anyone was to be hurt then it would be himself.
He had seen such unlikely behavior from Isabelle also, but it manifested quite differently. She was a very loving sister, never would let Alec deter her from showing him her affections. But on those occasions, she would uplift the mommy routine a few notches. Which had been fine when it didn’t bring about her need to cook for her brother. Isabelle’s cooking was more deadly than her ruthless combat modus.
Catarina deduced from his reminiscence that both Jace and Isabelle could be alphas because betas would not have been affected in their conduct by the presence of an Omega amongst them. Perhaps a beta would feel the complex synergy between both breeds as it unfolded invisibly around them. Or maybe they were tuned to him being raised together.
Registering that the Nephilim knew nothing consequent, she decided to start at the very start.
She went, “We do not have any tangible data about how Omegas came to be, but it has been registered and passed on amongst warlocks and seelies a few theories that have been judged substantial enough to be axiomatic.”
“Are the warlocks and seelies the only ones interested by this lore?” Alec questioned.
“Well, the warlocks are probably the ones the most preoccupied by the subject and we can easily understand why as it is their only way of acquiring a lineage.”
“All warlocks know about this? Do you have a school?” Alec asked.
“No” Catarina answered amused “but every warlock reaches a point in their immortal lives where they will come to inquire about this matter.”
“What point?” Alec pushed obviously more interested in warlocks than about his own breed. Probably to know a bit more about Magnus, Catarina thought. Magnus was a talkative exuberant extrovert, but he kept under lock and key any information concerning himself that held any significance.
“Well…hum” she couldn’t help but flicker a look towards Magnus apprehensively. She wouldn’t want to share any kind of information that Magnus might’ve wanted to keep abstract to the boy “there comes a time in an immortal’s life when they begin to petrify.” Seeing Alec’s blank expression she clarified “they no longer have the will to perdure. It is what can be seen as our death even if it doesn’t come to dying, it always comes to no longer living. Every warlock reaches that moment when they become very aware that this fate is certain. And it is then, that they feel the need to seek for answers… hope.”
Magnus had obviously heard the conversation and could presume Alec felt concern for him as the shadowhunter was heedlessly propelling little sparks of comfort through his aura. And for the life of him he couldn’t chose which of this or the plain and simple holler for sex turned him on more.
“It is thought that the first Omega was a fallen angel” continued Catarina.
Alec immediately widened his eyes to her, “What?!” he interrupted her with unhidden revulsion “The greater demons?!”
“No, no” she edged in quickly “The first greater demons were those banished to the void for having betrayed God to the highest degree, by their pride and their loathing of humankind to which they refused to bend the knee. But most of those weren’t just angels. They were higher beings who had seldom contact with humanity. But there were those, angels, who roam the earth as God’s messengers and as humankind benefactors who did love humankind even after they lost their Father’s favors. And as it happens, a few loved humankind a little too much. They approached them as their equals and grew fond of them. Feeling sorrow for those condemned to mortality and their hardships living in a hostile environment, they wanted to prolong their lives and improve their living. They took it upon themselves to partake some of their celestial knowledge. They decided to teach the humans witchcraft and astrology, medicine and other disciplines. Those angels were in awe and fancied to contemplate the humans’ souls, some of them shined like the greatest suns. But little did they understand that it was their mortality that allowed it. Needless to say that God was not pleased, he condemned them to exile in the realm of Men, and by extend to mortality for nothing in this realm, our realm, can live eternally.”
“Seems a bit harsh” Alec muttered.
Magnus had to conceal a chuckle, a shadowhunter decreeing God too harsh… those who would never find enough occasions to proclaim the law is hard, but it is the law. Alec could so easily be swayed, for someone who liked to be unseen in other people’s eyes he decidedly refused to close his own.
“Well, the knowledge they shared was not meant to be mastered by humankind so hurriedly. As their mortality restricted them, they should have acquired those doctrines over multiple generations. This has initiated the technological mayhem we can still observe to this days amongst the mundane world. Hence the banning. It is believed that those fallen angels were still immortals just as warlocks are. And they came to see all those around them grow old and die. They started to suffer from the first tingles of petrification. A moment where all expectations ceased and desire, purpose and wonder became more and more blurry notions. They are thought to have developed a kind of obsession about lineage. And started to undertake the task to magically create for themselves a way to procreate. Though as angels do not have any reproductive organs, they used their celestial knowledge of magic to design a womb upon their human form into which they could bear and nurture life. They seemingly succeeded in doing so. But angels do not have the power to conceive so they had to crossbreed with the inhabitants of the realm who did hold that power, mundanes mostly. We don’t really understand the magic used to allow this to happen as we know very little of the angelic magic, but we know what magic is used now. And it depends on the bearer. But ultimately, they did have children born out of those relationships and throughout the millennia they passed on that ability to their lineage allowing a very few to have access to that magic and to create life outside the bond of organic reproduction. Though this ability is very little transmitted from one generation to the next, it can easily jump over many and we count amongst downworlder only a handful every century, and amongst mundanes not many more.
As for what we call the Scent, it is an organic faculty the angels developed using seelie magic and basic human evolution, allowing Omegas to have dominance over other’s most primitive physiology. We guess that the difficulty to see the process being a success prompted them to garner many partners… hum… therefore the need to shorten the courting’s span.
As it appears, the first Omegas had absolute control over the Scent but as time went by and the blood of the firsts thinned it seems it fluctuated to a more intuitive ability with large disparities on their capacity of control amongst them.”
“What about the alphas?” Alec asked.
“Ah, the alphas were not created by the Fallen. They came into play much much later. As I said, Omegas lost their ability to fully control their Scent over the course of time. Though the power it held over people still went strong. But, as you have yourself experienced, it could bring forth quite a few commotions to them. And the worst of all, their existence had attracted the attention of some of the greater demons. Those demons, who had been angels, could see the divine magic operating. They could see how, somehow, one of their own had succeeded into creating life, which was their Father’s restricted power. They became quite curious about impregnating such beings. They had the impression that they were the key to bringing forth a powerful being, the one child of men who would defy God and refute His omnipotence allowing the Nine to be freed of the Void. Demons have spawn since as long as they existed to manipulate their spawn into bringing them forward into this realm or to wreak havoc. But the Nine, have another agenda.”
Magnus had failed to halt a little discharge of his magic fleeing his body accompanied by a faint scent of unease and he figured he had, involuntarily, sent them right to the person from whom he bore the Mark. Seeing Alec flinch and grab his middle with both arms confirmed it. Though, the boy didn’t seem to know what it had been or where it came from as he was just squinting his eyes suspiciously at nothing in particular. The Nine, their agenda, the wreaking havoc... touchy subject. Catarina could’ve skipped that particular little information. To bad she wasn’t the one he had zapped…
“Upon seeing demons targeting relentlessly the Omegas and seeing the result of it, the seelies decided to emulate the Scent, which was made out of their own magic by the Fallen, and created a correlative version of it. They intertwined both magic so they could answer one another, one recognizing the other. They instilled this magic into those who were the strongest, the mightiest and the best fitted to protect and to provide for the cherished Omegas. Omegas, who were by now driven by sheer instinctive impulses, would now entirely mark their counterparts and would no longer fall under the treachery of demons and as for the demons who would attempt to subdue them by force now they would undergo the wrath of those now called Alphas.”
Magnus could see Alec’s mind racing, his eyes focused on the unseen contemplation of all the pieces he had collected trying to implement them to his own outcome.
“So Omegas can only seek alphas for… hum… you know?” he asked finally, blushing slightly.
Magnus had some kind of a ground rule: if you can’t say it then you shouldn’t do it. Of course, it only ever applied to him. In Alec’s case it would only really drastically shrink his very long list of everything he dreamt of doing with the Nephilim. He suspected that not one of the things on this list would ever be said out loud by Alec or at the cost of the boy bursting into unassuming flames.
“Well yes, not that they can’t physically have intercourse with anyone they please but the seelie magic will simply keep them disinterested.”
Catarina was fully conscious that she hadn’t spoken to Alec about the medical side of his predicament. But she didn’t feel the boy to be quite open for that discussion yet. He was well, the Bearing was going as it should and Magnus was undoubtedly very meticulous in his ministering of Alec’s body and soul. So, perhaps he could go on a few more weeks into his blissful denial of what he was accomplishing that would change his world forever.
The early evening was well underway when Catarina bade them goodbye. Magnus was still working over the dining table. Magnus was never too wary about time and clocks, he could, with a snap of his fingers do everything that had to be done, and it sure lessened the need for a military schedule. As soon as Alec or himself would want to eat, snap, if he needed to put aside his work, snap. He did the little snap and all his books disappeared off the table going back to their rightful place, bookmarks and indexes perfectly set. He then strode over to Alec who was still seated on a stool at the console going through Catarina’s books. Magnus knew Alec could feel him approaching in his back, he had bared his scent as to not startle the young man. Magnus settled behind him, pressing his mid-section and his chest onto Alec’s back. He encircled his shoulders with his arms and lowering his head, rested his chin in the curve of Alec’s neck. He took deep breaths of the scent of Alec’s hair, and skin. Nothing to do with the Scent but those external little touches, the smell of his shampoo, his soap, his sheets, the smell of his home all over his Omega. Alec exposed his neck and pressed into Magnus’ hard lean body. Magnus could feel his tense back relax, just a little. He suspected a few knots had built under his lover’s shoulder blades and in the crook of his low back. He would have to loosen them later.
“What do you want to eat for supper?” he breathed near Alec’s ear.
“Dunno. I’m not much hungry” Alec answered closing the book. The book seemed to be a collection of testimonies of people who had had successful bearings. Not really consequential but full of good sentiments. Perhaps Catarina was trying to show Alec a silver lining in his ordeal.
“You haven’t been much hungry this passed few days. You should eat though”
Alec made a sound Magnus interpreted as a yeah, yeah and bared his neck again. Taking the hint, Magnus breathed in again and caressed the soft skin with his lips placing a few kisses. He could feel Alec letting out a deep breath slowly by the sagging of his shoulder blades against his chest. Definitely knotted, he confirmed. Alec letting loose a bit, Magnus could begin to perceive the faint aroma of his Scent starting to drift appraisingly out of the bounds Alec seemed to have confined it for the last few hours. It was undeniably, progressively, swaddling Magnus’ whole body like a secure little blanket of tenderness. Magnus was slowly acknowledging this Scent to be some inner primal language allowing Alec’s inward self to communicate all the longings that Alec forbade himself to express. Magnus had already come to the decision that he would make damn sure that Alec would one day express them with his own voice and without fear. By Edom, he would put all his efforts into that purpose.
Magnus had managed to get Alec to eat a little even though the exercise seemed to be performed more out of necessity than pleasure. As they had migrated to the couch, Alec had favored settling on Magnus’ side slightly on top of his chest. Resting his head on his shoulder and letting the older man lull him with the slow rhythm of his breathing and the deep pounding of his heart. Magnus was yet again enveloped with his blanket of warmth affection, and he realized that never had he felt so sated. He did have many companions some beloved who had brought him completion as a man, as a warlock but not quite as much as Alec did.
**********
The night was still, the kind of eerie quiet that told Alec something wasn’t right long before anything appeared. The streets of the abandoned neighborhood stretched before them in broken lines of cracked pavement and boarded-up houses. He could feel the tension in his fingertips, every sense sharpened as he walked side by side with Isabelle and Jace.
"Remind me again," Jace murmured, his voice hushed but laced with amusement, "why we always get the fun jobs?"
Alec rolled his eyes. "Because the universe knows you’d get bored otherwise."
"He's not wrong," Isabelle added, her whip coiled loosely in her hand. "You’re like a hound that hasn’t been let out in weeks."
They moved through the empty street, moonlight casting silver-blue shadows across the crumbling walls. The intel had been vague—reports of something strange, sightings of distorted figures in the dark. No one sane had stuck around long enough to give a better description.
The stillness broke all at once.
Three shapes dropped from the rooftops, landing with sickening, insectoid clicks on the cracked concrete. They were grotesque things: vaguely humanoid but stretched and twisted, carapace shells glinting under the streetlamps, their limbs segmented like enormous praying mantises. Their faces—or what passed for them—had slitted eyes and grotesque fish-like mouths brimming with teeth. Thin, membranous fins clung to their backs and spines.
Alec barely had time to react before Jace, predictably, was already moving. "Showtime," Jace said, a flash of teeth and the glint of his seraph blade in the dark as he launched himself toward the nearest creature.
Jace struck hard, the impact shoving the lead demon back several feet. Before Alec could even lift his bow, Jace twisted midair, catching the creature with a vicious slash across its torso. With his free hand, Jace shoved Alec backward—harder than necessary—and Alec stumbled up the few crumbled stone steps of a derelict stoop, drawing his bow instinctively.
“Right. Because apparently I need guarding now,” Alec muttered, exasperated, but he nocked an arrow and moved to higher ground without argument.
“Not my fault you smell like I have to,” Jace called over his shoulder, sidestepping snapping jaws with ease. “Blame biology, not me.”
Isabelle was already a blur of movement. Her whip hissed through the air, the silver burning arcs into demon flesh as she tangled two of them together. One screeched, its voice like metal tearing, but she was fast, lithe, and merciless, her blade now in hand to finish the job. Her dark hair fanned out like a banner as she moved.
Alec drew in a steadying breath, eyes narrowing as he tracked Jace. His parabatai flipped backward over the nearest demon's lunging claws, rolled, and then—because of course he would—grinned as he sliced its leg clean off at the knee joint.
"You’re showing off," Alec called, releasing his arrow. It struck clean through the eye of the demon Isabelle had half-maimed. It crumpled to the ground in a pile of limbs.
"I prefer to call it style," Jace replied cheerfully, pivoting to gut the second creature as it lunged at him. The demon shrieked, stumbled, and Isabelle finished it with a whip to the neck.
Alec loosed another arrow. The remaining demon dodged, nimble despite its awkward shape, and skittered back.
"Persistent," Isabelle said under her breath, her eyes flashing with battle thrill. "Ugly, but persistent."
The last demon, sensing the shift in numbers, hesitated—then turned. It bolted, skittering with unnatural speed down the narrow street.
"Not letting it get away!" Jace snapped, already sprinting.
Alec sighed, exasperated but following. He vaulted off the stoop, bow still in hand, Isabelle at his side as they raced after Jace. He could feel his heart hammering, the sharp chill of the night air against his skin.
The demon fled down an alley and then—without warning—threw itself toward an empty patch of air. A shimmer, barely perceptible, flared for a heartbeat. Alec’s breath caught as the demon vanished through a tear in reality no wider than its own body. The tear was silvery-blue, crackling softly, and then—gone. Sealed as if it had never been.
They skidded to a halt.
"What the hell was that?" Isabelle murmured, her whip snapping back into its handle with a practiced flick.
Jace paced in a tight circle, glaring at the empty air. "That wasn’t just a random hellgate."
Alec approached cautiously, scanning the ground. His fingers brushed over something gritty. He knelt, drawing his stele and illuminating the space with a faint light. "Chalk," he murmured, brow furrowing.
Jace came to stand beside him, still catching his breath. "Markings?"
"Looks like some sort of summoning circle," Alec confirmed, tracing the faint remains. The symbols were half-erased—hastily scuffed over—but the pattern was unmistakable. Not natural. Not random.
Isabelle’s voice pulled his attention back. "There’s blood."
She crouched several feet away, a cloth pulled from her gear bag. Carefully, she dabbed at a small, dark smear on the cracked stone. Her expression was sharp, calculating. "It’s fresh. Too fresh."
Alec’s gut twisted. He straightened, feeling the weight of dread settle across his shoulders. "Someone called those demons here."
Jace's mouth tightened. "Or something worse."
The three of them stood there for a moment longer in tense silence, the only sound the soft rustle of the wind through the ruined buildings. The air felt thinner, wrong, as though the tear—small as it had been—had left some psychic bruise on the space around it.
Alec’s eyes lingered on the spot where the shimmer had been. He felt the barest trace of magic humming at the edges of his senses, too faint to identify but enough to raise every instinctual warning honed over years of hunting. He glanced at Jace, then Isabelle. Neither looked particularly reassured.
"We should take this back," Isabelle said finally, slipping the blood sample into a vial. "Before we stumble onto something worse."
Jace nodded, sheathing his blade. "Agreed."
They moved in silence on the way back, adrenaline fading but the edge of unease sharpening instead. Alec walked beside Jace, brushing dirt from his hands absently.
"You’re still ridiculous," Alec said after a beat, glancing sidelong.
Jace raised an eyebrow. "Thank you?"
"It wasn’t a compliment. You don’t have to throw yourself into everything headfirst."
Jace’s grin was lopsided. "Come on, you’d miss me if I stopped."
Alec sighed, rolling his eyes but letting the corner of his mouth lift despite himself. "I won’t miss worrying about whether I’ll have to drag your body back to the Institute."
"Which you’d do," Jace teased. "Because you care."
Alec shook his head but didn’t answer. There was too much darkness in his bones tonight to banter properly. He let the easy rhythm of their steps carry him forward, Isabelle’s quiet presence flanking them. The Institute's looming towers came into view in the distance.
The danger, he knew, wasn’t over. It was only the beginning.
The air in the Institute’s lab was thick with the smell of chemicals and scorched magic. Alec stood with his arms crossed as Isabelle carefully labeled the final vial, her face a study in concentration. The bright, sterile lights overhead cast sharp shadows across the worktables littered with equipment. Her gloves were stained, her expression grim.
“Anything?” Alec asked quietly, though he could already tell by the way her brows were drawn tight that the news wasn’t good.
Isabelle peeled off her gloves and tossed them aside. "The blood’s from a warlock," she confirmed, brushing a dark lock of hair from her face. "Not very old, not very powerful either. I cross-checked his magical residue against the Clave’s database. He’s been flagged before. Minor offenses—summoning lower demons for money. Dumb stuff."
Alec frowned. "Any reports of him missing?"
She shook her head. "No. But you know how warlocks are. If one of them goes missing, they’re not exactly going to file a report with the Clave. They handle things in their own way."
Alec exhaled through his nose. "And you’re sure it’s his blood?"
"Positive." She tapped the side of what looked a bit like a microscope. "It’s fresh. Whatever happened to him, it was recent."
Alec’s thoughts churned. He pressed a thumb to the bridge of his nose, sighing. "Maybe I’ll take this to Magnus. See if he knows anything."
Isabelle nodded. "Good idea. If anyone would hear something from the warlock network, it’s him."
**********
The night air outside the Institute was sharp, crisp against Alec’s skin as he made his way to Magnus’ penthouse. The unease sat heavy in his chest. The demon attack, the tear, the blood—all of it left a sour taste in his mouth.
The door was already open by the time Alec reached it, Magnus standing there with his cat curling around his feet. Alec stepped inside without hesitation, barely noticing the familiar scent of magic and incense that clung to the air.
“You look like you’ve been chewing on nails,” Magnus remarked casually, closing the door behind him.
"We found something," Alec said, not bothering with pleasantries as he stepped deeper into the apartment. "The blood we collected. Isabelle ran tests. It belonged to a warlock. Young, small-time summoning for money."
Magnus’ expression didn’t change, but Alec caught the slight tension in his jaw. "I see."
Alec narrowed his eyes. "There’s no missing persons report. Isabelle thinks the other warlocks wouldn’t tell the Clave if someone went missing."
Magnus’ lips twitched in something too thin to be a smile. "She’s not wrong."
"Could he have been the one who opened the tear?" Alec pressed, pacing a short line across the living room. "Was he the one who opened the other tears too? And why would he do that?"
Magnus gave a soft sigh and walked past him, conjuring two glasses of something dark onto the coffee table. He didn’t sit. "You won’t find him," he said softly.
Alec blinked, confusion cutting through his frustration. "What?"
"You won’t find him," Magnus repeated, his voice quieter. "His body was found two hours ago."
The words stopped Alec in his tracks. He felt a flicker of cold bloom across his chest. "Was he—" Alec swallowed. "Was he killed by the demons?"
Magnus’ eyes met his and something bleak passed between them. "No," Magnus said. "He was drained. His magic—gone."
Alec’s breath caught. "Drained?"
Magnus nodded slowly. "He’s the fourth."
The words barely made sense. Alec’s heartbeat thudded in his ears. "The fourth? There have been others?"
"Yes."
Alec stared at him. "How do you even know this?"
Magnus’ expression didn’t shift, but his voice cooled. "Because it’s warlock business," he said. "And I am the High Warlock of Brooklyn."
The sentence struck harder than Alec expected. It wasn’t just the words—it was the weight of them. The wall that suddenly seemed to rise up between them, cold and unspoken.
"And the Shadowhunters—" Alec exhaled sharply. "We knew nothing."
Magnus’ eyes softened slightly, but the wall didn’t come down. "That’s by design."
Alec took a step forward, agitation spiking in his chest. "How long?"
Magnus hesitated, then with a sigh that sounded almost tired, he answered, "A couple of weeks."
Alec blinked, stunned. "Weeks?"
Magnus’ gaze didn’t waver. "It didn’t seem like something that concerned the Clave. Warlocks—when something’s wrong among us, we look after our own."
"Magnus—" Alec’s voice broke slightly. "We’re dealing with tears in reality. Unknown dimensions. How could you not think this might be connected?"
Magnus’ jaw tightened. "Because I’m handling it. I have someone on it. If—if—it turned out to involve larger forces, I would have told you."
The words rang hollow to Alec’s ears. He felt the flicker of something sharp twist under his ribs. "Who?" he asked quietly. "Who do you have on it?"
Magnus didn’t answer right away. Alec felt the weight of the question settle into the stillness between them. His heart pounded. For a breath, neither of them moved. The air between them felt tense, electric with something latent and brittle.
Magnus’ lips pressed into a thin line as his eyes dropped for a moment before lifting again. "You don’t need to worry about that."
Alec’s mouth parted in disbelief. "I think I do."
Magnus looked away, fingers brushing through his hair. "I’m trying to protect you."
"By keeping things from me?" Alec asked sharply. His pulse was loud in his ears. "We’re supposed to be on the same side."
Magnus’ eyes flicked back to him, guarded. "I have my duties, Alec. Just like you."
"Who?" Alec asked again, his voice quieter but harder.
Magnus said, maybe a little too casually, “I’m waiting to hear back from Ragnor Fell,” when Alec stopped mid-step.
“What?” The word came low, tense.
Magnus glanced up, “Ragnor Fell,” he repeated a bit more sheepish.
Alec’s brow twitched. “You said you hadn’t seen or heard from him in years.”
“I haven’t seen him,” Magnus said carefully, standing up. “But… I’ve had him on the phone. Once or twice.”
The silence in the room sharpened. Alec’s jaw clenched as he turned toward Magnus, his stance stiffening like a wire pulled taut. “You lied to us.”
“I didn’t lie—exactly” Magnus began.
“You said nothing,” Alec snapped, voice rising. “You knew we were looking for him. You knew he might have answers. You just—what? Forgot to mention that he’s on your speed dial?”
Magnus sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “Alexander, I didn’t think it was relevant. He’s not exactly chatty. And this is warlock business—”
“I live with you!” Alec’s voice cracked through the loft. “I sleep in your bed! You don’t think you could’ve told me?”
There it was: hurt, coiled beneath the anger. Magnus winced. “I didn’t want to drag you into something that could complicate your position with the Clave.”
Alec was pacing now, eyes stormy, hands clenched. “Forget the Clave! I don’t have to tell them everything. You could’ve just told me.”
“And put you in the position of lying to them?” Magnus countered, sharper than he intended. “Add that to the other… situation?”
Alec stopped. His eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to use that as a shield.”
Magnus exhaled. “I’m not trying to use anything. I just— Look, I handle things differently. I don’t call the Shadowhunters every time someone sneezes magical sparkles.”
“You don’t have to call Shadowhunters not when I’m living here. And maybe you should when those sparkles come from warlocks being drained and murdered!” Alec shouted, louder than he meant to. His hands trembled slightly at his sides.
Magnus stared at him. “Are you mad?”
Alec scoffed. “Yes, Magnus. I’m mad. Mad that you didn’t think I could handle being part of that investigation. Mad that you didn’t trust me enough to just tell me.”
He turned, his shoulders rigid. “I’m going to bed. And don’t feel like you have to follow.”
Magnus blinked as Alec stalked away, disappearing into the bedroom with a sharp tug of the door. A pause. Magnus stood there for a moment longer, arms crossed, staring after the door Alec had closed. It wasn’t a slam, which was... something. Still, the air was charged with leftover tension. Magnus sighed, rubbing his eyes.
First fight. Not even over dirty socks or badly cooked pasta—no, they had to go for magical murder investigations and hurt feelings. Of course. He didn’t follow. Not yet. Alec had asked for space, and Magnus could respect that but he’d be damned if he wasn’t already running through what apology pastry he could conjure in the morning. Though he was himself not quite agreeable about Alec’s claim. There was always a sense of self righteousness in Alec as a Nephilim and Magnus could see the rebut in the younger man for downworlders’ distrust for the Clave and every shadowhunter. Magnus could too be a bit stubborn if he set his mind to it.
Magnus’ fingers idly traced the margins of the open grimoire, not reading so much as letting his gaze blur across arcane symbols he could recite in his sleep. His mind wasn’t on it. Not really. His eyes flicked to the hallway again. The bedroom door was shut. He could still feel Alec in there—could feel him like a low pulse in his magic. Tense. Brooding. Infuriating. And, alright, maybe a little adorable in his sulking.
Still. Magnus wasn’t going after him. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Probably. He’d just... tactically neglected to mention that Ragnor had been texting him on and off for the past month. Not in person, not face-to-face, nothing formal. Just a few cautious exchanges. Besides, he wasn’t used to being accountable. Especially not to pretty boys who looked like they belonged in stained glass windows and punched demons for fun. He turned a page with a flick that was far more aggressive than necessary.
Then he felt it.
Not panic. Not danger. Just a... tug. A ripple in Alec’s Scent—light, uncertain, like a child tugging a sleeve in a crowded room. Then came the voice, just a little too high-pitched to be casual.
“Magnus”
Magnus squinted, half amused, half concerned. No alarm in the Scent. Just something like flustered urgency. He made a show of sighing and stood up with all the world-weary elegance of a man being dragged into minor court drama. He crossed the apartment slowly, because one did not reward dramatics with haste. And opened the door. Alec sat in the middle of the bed, legs tucked under him, reports scattered like fallen leaves. His hair was a wild mess, cheeks slightly pink. He pointed—almost sheepishly—at the far corner of the room.
“There’s a spider,” he said. “On the wall.”
Magnus stared at him. And then at the spider. Small. Harmless.
He turned back with a blank, unimpressed expression. “Yes. I see it.”
“Well zap it or throw it outside or whatever, before it vanishes and haunts the walls forever!”
Magnus blinked. “Are you... afraid of it?”
“I am not afraid,” Alec said with the slow, deliberate tone of a man clinging to dignity by the tips of his fingers. “I just don’t want it crawling on me while I sleep.”
A pause.
Magnus let a smirk curl his lips. “Truly, the bravery of the Nephilim knows no bounds.”
Alec glared. “You expect me to sleep peacefully after making eye contact with that arrogant monster? I think not.”
Magnus stepped further inside, lips twitching. “So what would happen if you were attacked by a giant spider demon right know?”
“Easy,” Alec replied dryly. “I’d push you toward it and run. While it’s distracted eating you, I escape. Clean plan.”
Magnus laughed, snapping his fingers. The spider popped into a tiny shimmer of light, deposited gently outside the wards.
“There. Your honor is restored, and the sanctity of your bedsheets preserved.”
Alec relaxed, flopping back onto the pillows. “Thank you.”
Magnus leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Should I enchant the wards to repel arachnids next time?”
Alec’s eyes opened hopefully. “Could you?”
Magnus gave him a sympathetic look. “No. Not unless I want half my magic drained maintaining a very anti-spider-specific filtration system. It would drain all my magic and leave me doing nothing else”
Alec’s face twisted with mock smugness. “Good, ok, do that”
Magnus grinned, stepping closer. “I think not. You’ll just have to keep calling me to save you from the little spiders”
Alec huffed again, though this time there was no real heat behind it. With a theatrical sigh, he scooted to the far side of the bed and flicked the edge of the duvet like he was shooing a cat.
“Well? You might as well sit down. But I’m still mad at you,” he said, eyes avoiding Magnus’ like it wasn’t a big deal, even though the faint color in his cheeks betrayed him.
Magnus raised a brow, lips twitching with amusement. “Oh, I can tell,” he said lightly. “The barely-veiled scorn, the dramatic sulking, the emotionally weaponized spider rescue—it’s a masterclass.”
Alec narrowed his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched just once. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re here on probation.”
“Duly noted.”
With a small smile, Magnus slid onto the bed, careful to keep just enough distance to honor the warning—though not so much that Alec didn’t feel the warmth of his presence.
Chapter 7: Social Composure
Chapter Text
The magical store sat hunched between two crumbling brownstones, its cracked windows glowing faintly with wards that pulsed a dull gold. The painted sign above the door—once elaborate, now weatherworn—simply read "Occult Curiosities." The interior glimmered with soft lamplight, casting uneasy shadows over shelves lined with arcane trinkets, rusted blades, and dusty tomes that smelled of old magic and older secrets.
Alec was the first to push open the door, the tiny bell overhead jingling as he stepped inside. He held himself with crisp, deliberate precision—spine straight, chin slightly lifted—every inch the soldier, the law. His hands rested near his gear out of pure reflex. He moved with the quiet authority of someone who would follow every rule in the book—and knew how to use them.
Jace sauntered in a heartbeat later, the door swinging with impudent force. He looked every bit the golden, arrogant warrior he was—seraph blade balanced lazily in one hand, an unbothered smirk on his lips, every stride radiating an easy, untouchable danger. Unlike Alec, he had no intention of sticking to the rules. He never did.
Isabelle followed last, her whip coiled at her side, her dark eyes scanning the shop with calculated detachment. She didn’t move like she was on edge—she moved like she was already ten steps ahead, filing away details in that razor-sharp mind of hers.
The man behind the counter looked up as they entered, a slow, easy smile sliding across his face. His pale eyes glinted unnervingly in the low light. He was unremarkable in every way except for the faint shimmer of magic clinging to his fingertips, the kind that marked him as a warlock even before the small sharp teeth peeking from his thin lips could confirm it.
“Well,” the warlock drawled. "If it isn’t the Clave’s finest."
Alec stepped forward. "We have some questions."
The man’s smile widened but didn’t reach his eyes. "Of course. Anything to help."
Alec’s tone stayed formal. "Your name came up in connection with several incidents involving deceased warlocks."
"Oh dear," the warlock murmured, resting his chin in one hand, faux concern written across his features. "That sounds unpleasant."
"How much do you know about them?" Alec pressed. "The deaths?"
The warlock spread his hands. "Nothing. A tragic loss, I’m sure."
Jace shifted beside Alec, his impatience already simmering. "You’re lying."
The warlock tilted his head, unbothered. "I’d never lie to Shadowhunters."
Alec’s jaw tensed. He adjusted his stance but kept his voice level. "Four dead warlocks. All drained of magic. You’re telling me you haven’t heard anything?"
"Not a whisper," the man said smoothly. "You know how it is. Warlocks mind their own business."
Isabelle stepped forward, her voice soft, precise. "And yet you seem like the type who hears everything."
The warlock chuckled. "I’m afraid you overestimate my importance."
Alec’s questioning deepened, each question clipped, deliberate:
"Do you know who might want to drain warlocks of their magic?" "Has anyone approached you about the use of summoning circles?" "Have you seen signs of dimensional instability—tears or rifts?" "Who profits from warlocks disappearing?"
Each time, the answers came slithering back: "No idea." "Nothing at all." "I’m a simple shopkeeper."
Jace let out a soft growl of frustration and stepped closer, his smile turning sharp. "See, the thing is," he said almost pleasantly, "I don’t have Alec’s charming patience. And I really don’t mind making a mess if I think someone’s lying to my face."
The warlock’s expression flickered but held. "This is warlock business," he said, voice cooler now. "It doesn’t concern the Clave."
Alec’s eyes narrowed. "If warlock business results in rifts in reality and demons pouring into the streets of New York, it is absolutely Clave business."
The warlock shrugged, still maddeningly calm. "I wouldn’t know anything about tears."
Alec could feel his irritation rising. He could read the man clearly—he knew more than he was saying. Every smile was a mask. Every denial, too smooth.
Jace exhaled sharply, grabbing Alec’s arm and pulling him aside. "We’re not getting anywhere," he muttered low. "Use your thing."
Alec blinked, taken aback. "What thing?"
Jace gave him an exasperated look. "Your Scent thing."
Alec’s brow furrowed, bristling. "It’s not a truth serum."
Jace smirked. “Truth’s overrated. Just turn on the charm, let him swoon a little. I bet he’ll sing.”
Alec’s scowl deepened. "So far all it’s done is make people say or do completely unhelpful things."
Jace arched an eyebrow. "Except Magnus. Your Scent makes him do..." He waved a hand vaguely, a sly smile creeping across his face. "Things."
Heat flared in Alec’s cheeks immediately. "That’s different," he hissed. "And I’m not using it on him. For one, it won’t work—he’s not an Alpha. It won’t go for him."
Jace held up his hands in mock surrender. "Fine. Fine. Just offering solutions."
Alec exhaled tightly, shaking his head. The last thing he wanted was to even imagine the implications. The Scent was unpredictable. And besides, the idea of that man reacting in any way remotely like Magnus—
No. Absolutely not.
They returned to the counter. Alec’s jaw was tight, but he kept his voice controlled. "We’re done here."
The warlock smiled with thin-lipped satisfaction. "Pity."
Jace gave him a look that could have stripped paint off the walls. "We’ll be back," he said cheerfully. "And next time, I’m not bringing the polite one."
As they turned to leave, Jace added over his shoulder, "Nice shop, by the way. Bet it’ll burn great."
Isabelle snorted under her breath. Alec sighed but didn’t argue. They pushed out into the night, the door jingling softly behind them.
The cold air hit Alec’s face like a slap. He exhaled hard, tension still coiled tight in his chest.
The trio returned to the Institute in silence, the weight of the failed interrogation sitting heavily on all of them. The late hour and the tension made the long corridors feel colder than usual, the ancient stones underfoot absorbing the friction of their boots without a sound. Alec’s hands were still tight at his sides as they made their way to the library where Hodge awaited them.
Hodge, as always, looked half-buried in books, the soft glow of witchlight pools casting him in amber shadows. He glanced up as they entered, setting his quill aside.
“Report,” he said simply.
Alec straightened. “The warlock Magnus pointed us to was uncooperative. He denied knowing anything about the disappearances or the dimensional tears. But...” Alec hesitated, glancing at Isabelle and Jace, “he knew more than he was saying.”
Hodge’s expression didn’t shift, but his fingers drummed thoughtfully on the desk. "We thought as much."
Isabelle crossed her arms. "We need a new lead. We’re chasing shadows."
“Perhaps,” Hodge murmured, “something will turn up tomorrow. A high warlock is arriving for a conference in New York. It’s an informal gathering, but most of the significant warlocks on the East Coast will attend."
Jace’s brow arched. “And you’re thinking we should crash the party.”
Hodge offered a faint smile. “Attend. Quietly. Watch, listen. It would not hurt to remind the warlock community that the Clave is not blind to recent events.”
Alec nodded. “We might be able to question a few discreetly.”
“Exactly,” Hodge agreed. "If there’s a connection, someone there might let something slip."
The discussion wound down after that, the mission settled if not wholly satisfying. Hodge dismissed them shortly after. “We’ll call you if anything changes,” he said, with a small nod to Alec. “For now, go home. Rest.”
Alec didn’t need to be told twice.
The warmth of Magnus’ penthouse greeted him like a balm. The city stretched dark and glittering beyond the windows, the lights of Brooklyn a soft glow in the distance. Magnus was lounging on the sofa, a glass of wine in hand, his ever-present cat curled in his lap.
Alec offered a small nod as he set his weapons aside. “He didn’t talk.”
Magnus arched a brow but didn’t look surprised. "Of course he didn’t. That one’s a rat. Anything shady that happens in the underbelly of warlock society? He knows about it, sells half the ingredients for it, and still manages to keep his hands technically clean."
Alec dropped onto the arm of the couch. "So you’re watching him too."
“Always,” Magnus murmured. “But he won’t talk unless someone nastier than me makes him.” He set the glass down. “Did you learn anything useful at all?”
Alec shook his head. “We’re going to the warlock conference tomorrow. Hodge wants us to keep an eye on things.”
Magnus’ mouth quirked. “Ah. I know the one. It’s being organized by Alaric, the High Warlock of the Upper Divide. Old. Wise. Balanced. He stayed neutral even during the worst parts of the Downworlder wars.”
“You know him?” Alec asked.
“Not personally,” Magnus replied. “But he’s not the type to be involved in this. If anything, it’ll be a lot of polite posturing and overpriced cocktails."
Alec allowed himself a faint smile. "It’s not about that. It’s more about showing the community that Shadowhunters are present. Offering protection."
That earned him a low chuckle. Magnus’ eyes sparkled with dry amusement. "Warlocks don’t associate Shadowhunters with protection, darling."
Alec let out a breath, not quite a laugh, but close. “I know.” He ran a hand through his hair. "I’m going to take a shower."
Magnus set his glass down with a smirk. “I could help with that.”
Alec gave him a sidelong look. “I’m still mad at you.”
Magnus pressed a hand to his chest in mock injury. "Cruel."
Alec rolled his eyes but softened. "You still need to make up for it."
The gleam that entered Magnus’ eyes then was pure mischief. “Oh, I intend to.”
Alec shook his head, sighing as he moved toward the bathroom. He wasn’t at all surprised to hear Magnus’ quiet footsteps following.
The water was hot when Alec stepped into the shower, steam rising as it cascaded over his skin. He let it run through his hair, the tension of the day melting by degrees. He barely registered Magnus entering behind him until the older man’s hands slid around his shoulders, warm and soapy, thumbs working gently over the tense line of his neck.
Alec exhaled, eyes falling shut.
Magnus pressed closer, naked skin against his back, and Alec shivered despite the heat. The warlock’s hands smoothed over his chest, slow, deliberate, tracing the shape of muscle and sinew. The slick warmth of the soap made every touch glide over his skin with hypnotic ease.
“You’re tense,” Magnus murmured against the curve of Alec’s neck, pressing a soft kiss just beneath his jawline. "Let me fix that."
Alec tilted his head instinctively, allowing Magnus’ lips better access. The press of Magnus’ body—hard and insistent—against his back was impossible to ignore. Alec's breath hitched when Magnus’ hands slid lower, fingertips grazing over his stomach before easing down further still.
One slick hand wrapped around him, and Alec gave a soft gasp, his hips shifting unconsciously into the touch. He let his head fall back, neck resting against Magnus’ shoulder, the steady rhythm of the older man's strokes making heat coil low in his belly.
Magnus kissed along the wet skin of Alec’s neck, slow and languorous. Alec turned his head, seeking his mouth, but the angle made it impossible. Frustrated, breathless, he twisted to face him, capturing Magnus’ mouth in a kiss that stole what was left of his air.
They kissed like drowning men, hands roaming, soappy skin sliding. Alec pressed both palms to Magnus’ chest, fingertips brushing over the hard peaks of his nipples, drawing a shuddering moan from the warlock’s lips.
Magnus’ hands moved with purpose—confident, familiar—grasping both of their erections together, stroking in unison as the water poured over them. Alec broke the kiss only to gasp, his forehead resting against Magnus’, their breath mingling.
His fingers flexed, nails biting into Magnus’ arms as the rhythm quickened. The smooth glide, the heat, the overwhelming closeness—it drowned out the world beyond the water.
Without thinking, Alec’s mouth found the silver mark on Magnus’ shoulder. His tongue traced the shimmering rune, tasting the faint tang of magic on skin.
Magnus growled—a sound that vibrated through both of them—and his pace faltered, then redoubled, frantic and unrestrained. Alec moaned softly, the sound swallowed by Magnus’ lips as their mouths crashed together again.
The tension broke with shared shudders, breathless moans filling the tiled walls. Their release was swept away instantly by the streaming water, bodies still pressed close, muscles trembling.
Alec didn’t let go. He slid his arms around Magnus’ neck, drawing him in for slower, softer kisses, breath still uneven but no longer desperate.
Magnus held him close, hands splaying over the younger man’s back, his voice little more than a murmur against Alec’s lips. "Better?"
Alec let out a breathy laugh. "Almost."
Magnus smiled and kissed him again, and the water kept running, washing away the remnants of the day and the shadows that still lingered beyond the glass.
**********
The soft glow of morning slipped through the blinds, casting long golden stripes across Magnus’ bedroom. He stirred, groggy, the warmth of the sheets still clinging to his skin when he cracked one eye open. The other side of the bed was already empty, though the scent of Alec—clean, sharp, unmistakably his—still lingered in the air.
Magnus made a soft, disgruntled noise and rolled onto his back just in time to see Alec sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on the last strap of his gear. Black on black, precise, his runes just barely visible poking here and there when clothes slid with movement.
“You’re not a hen,” Magnus muttered, voice still thick with sleep. “You don’t have to get up with the sun.”
Alec smiled faintly, reaching over to smooth his fingers through Magnus’ tousled hair. The touch was gentle, lingering, and Magnus closed his eyes at the feel of it. Alec leaned down to press a soft kiss to his forehead.
“Conference opens at nine,” Alec murmured. “I have to meet Isabelle and Jace there.”
Magnus sighed, one arm draped over his eyes. “Mmm. Remind me never to agree to morning events. High warlocks have their priorities straight. We don’t do anything important before noon.”
Alec chuckled, the sound soft, and Magnus peeked through his fingers to watch him. The way Alec sat—shoulders straight, buckles clicked with perfect care—was so very him. Always composed, always ready. The sight of him like this, fresh-faced and clear-eyed after the night they’d shared, made something warm settle low in Magnus’ chest.
Then realization struck.
“Catarina’s coming this morning,” Magnus said, voice still sleep-rough but tinged with amusement.
Alec grimaced instantly. “I know. Yeah. I’ll— I’ll go after she’s done."
Alec’s face shifted immediately. That tiny grimace, the one Magnus had come to know too well. He felt something soft inside him crease painfully, just for a breath.
He thought, with a trace of bitterness he tried to swallow, that Alec still—still—couldn’t hold onto it. As if between check-ins, the reality of what was happening to him simply slipped away, or maybe he let it slip. Like he could pretend it wasn’t real if no one said the word aloud. Magnus remembered Adrienne—how she had glowed, how she had anchored herself in it, lived every breath of it. Alec, by contrast, seemed to vanish from it the moment the healer left.
The fondness in Magnus’ eyes deepened. He could almost see the exact moment Alec’s mind would close around the subject—turning it over briefly, then tucking it carefully back into some quiet place where it wouldn’t disrupt the neat order of his thoughts. It was so like him. So achingly Alec.
It had been more than a month now since the night their lives had taken that sharp, unexpected turn. The first phase was well underway. The magic in Alec’s body had already begun weaving the dormant structure of the womb. Magnus knew the steps with clinical precision—he could still remember each one vividly from Adrienne. The construction of the magical womb, the gentle hum of new energy slowly taking root. Then, in a couple more months, the embryo would be moved, its dormant state ending as life truly began to grow.
With Adrienne, the magic had gone a little sideways, causing unexpected effects in the space around her that no one saw coming.
He hoped—truly—that Alec’s body wouldn’t manifest the same oddities. It had been strange enough the first time. Alec wouldn’t handle it well. The boy still flinched anytime someone said the word "pregnant" out loud. The sound of the front door clicking open drew both their attention.
A familiar voice called cheerfully from the other room: “Everyone decent? Pants on? Innocent bystander coming in!”
Alec huffed a laugh despite himself.
He rose, brushing Magnus’ hair back one last time. "Did you hear, get decent."
Catarina Loss stepped into Magnus’ living and was met by the familiar sight of Alec Lightwood—sharp lines, black gear, the crisp efficiency of the Nephilim—waiting politely in the living room. She offered her usual wry greeting.
Alec gave her one of his rare half-smiles and welcomed her inside with the same stiff politeness he always used during their routine check-ups. She could see, though, in the set of his shoulders, in the way his fingers flexed at his sides, that he was restless. Always restless. Impatient to have it over with.
She raised her hands and let her magic probe him gently—respectful, careful, soft. Alec tolerated it the way he always did, standing perfectly still while the warm glow of her power washed over him. She could feel it immediately: the shift, the quiet build of the forming womb inside him, the latent magic swirling, rich and complex. She’d never felt anything quite like it in all her years as a healer.
She was just about to speak when Alec cut her off, voice quiet but final. "I have to go. Shadowhunter mission."
Her lips lifted in a sad, understanding smile. Of course. The boy never stopped moving. She gave him a nod, letting him go without protest, and watched as Magnus appeared from the hallway, hair mussed, still in his sleepwear. He leaned casually against the doorframe but said nothing as Alec gathered his weapons and left. There was a tenderness in Magnus’ eyes, soft and fleeting, and then it was gone as the door clicked shut.
Catarina sighed and glanced at Magnus. "I suppose I’ll make my report to you, then."
With a flick of her fingers, two steaming coffees materialized. Magnus smirked faintly and accepted his without protest, motioning for her to join him on the couch. They settled in, the soft hum of magic still lingering in the air between them.
She sipped, watching him. "He’s still not accepting it," she said after a moment.
Magnus’ voice was dry as bone. “Oh, he’s thrilled. Practically knitting booties in his spare time.” His expression softened, though, and his eyes flickered toward the door as if he could still see Alec’s retreating figure. “No. He’s practically pretending he can wake up tomorrow and it’ll all have been a bad dream.”
She nodded. "Everything looks fine."
He hummed quietly. "I check on him when he sleeps. Just enough. Just to make sure."
She tilted her head, curious. "And?"
Magnus’ voice lowered, threaded with something almost reverent. "It’s... beautiful. His magic. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s not quite like Adrienne’s was, in hers was a lot of mine. But with Alec it’s... it’s alive. It's complex. Unsteady in ways that are unsettling. I don’t fully understand it."
Catarina found herself nodding in agreement. "I thought so too. There’s a... purity to it. The angelic side. It’s so much more dominant than anything I’ve felt before." She hesitated, heat touching her cheeks. "It’s ridiculous, but sometimes I feel like I can almost sense the divine in it."
To her surprise, Magnus didn’t mock her for it. He just nodded, his eyes distant. "I know what you mean."
They fell into silence for a breath. Then she cleared her throat. "The next two months should go smoothly. The womb is progressing perfectly. But when the embryo settles..." She gave him a small grimace. "The first two weeks will be difficult. The magic will spike—violently, most likely. Then it will stabilize."
Magnus exhaled, leaning back. "I was thinking about that earlier. I don’t think Alec will handle it well."
She arched a brow faking surprise. "Won’t he now?"
His laugh was soft, almost fond. "He barely speaks about it now. He doesn’t speak about himself at all, really. The Scent helps. That’s about the only window I get."
She gave him a knowing look. “The Scent opens doors Alec won’t. It’s there to protect him—and the child. It’ll guide you when words won’t”
Magnus’ expression darkened slightly. "And yet I can’t shake the feeling that he’ll still try to keep doing what he always does. Fighting. Running toward danger."
She hesitated, then asked gently, "Have you thought about marking him?"
She saw the immediate flicker of something sharp in his eyes. His whole body tensed. "No," he said, almost too quickly. "Absolutely not. It’s too dangerous. And he’s too young."
Catarina set her coffee down carefully. "You know what the marks are for. You know they protect Omegas from higher predators. From demons. It isn’t always about ownership. It’s about survival."
He shook his head, jaw tight. "I know. I know. But... I can’t. Not yet. I’ll think about it when he turns legal in Clave standards."
She sighed. “You do realize the Clave’s age rules have nothing to do with maturity, right? At twelve, you’re old enough to pick up weapons. At fourteen, they send you into real missions where dying is just ‘unfortunate.’ At eighteen, you’re expected to fight anything they throw at you—and at twenty-one, your death is no longer tragic; it’s acceptable, calculated loss.”
Magnus gave a thin, brittle smile. "I know. Still. It’s too soon."
She didn’t press. Not now. She could see the flicker of fear behind his calm. The reluctance to do anything that might threaten Alec’s life or lock him into something he wasn’t ready for, which she thought were both things he’d done when he impregnated him already. She respected it, even if she disagreed.
She let the silence stretch before gently changing the subject. "What’s the situation with the dead warlocks?"
Magnus sighed heavily. "Something—or someone—is siphoning magic. Four are dead. All drained. Alec found traces of summoning chalk near one of the tears. It’s too neat to be unrelated."
Her brows drew down. "You think the siphoning is linked to the dimensional tears?"
"I think someone’s using warlock magic to open them. Or trying to. Some higher demon trying to punch holes into this world. It’s been done before. It’s always messy." His voice dropped. "I told Alec to be careful. I’m telling you too."
She nodded, fingers tightening slightly around her cup. "I will."
**********
The streets of Manhattan gleamed under the weak morning sun, the cold glass and steel towers stretching into the clouds like silent sentinels. Jace moved easily through the crowd, Isabelle and Alec flanking him, all three of them glamoured into near-invisibility. Mortals brushed past without so much as a glance, their footsteps and heartbeats dull background noise to Jace’s heightened senses.
The building they stopped in front of was sleek, modern, and utterly mundane—or at least it appeared that way to mortal eyes. The shining sign above the double glass doors read PAPERFRONT CORPORATE SOLUTIONS: Innovative Printing Since 1998. Jace let out a soft snort under his breath. "Printers," he murmured. "Truly, the most terrifying of glamours."
Alec made a noise that might’ve been amusement. Isabelle just smiled faintly, her fingers brushing her stele at her belt.
They passed through the wards easily, the magic shimmering over their skin like static electricity, and the instant they crossed the threshold, the illusion vanished. The sterile corporate lobby morphed into something warmer, richer—tall marble columns, polished hardwood floors, golden light spilling from hanging lanterns. The scent of magic clung to the air like expensive cologne. Warlocks milled everywhere, in rich velvets, silks, leathers—some in half-illusion, some with their marks on full display.
And them—three Shadowhunters in black combat gear—utterly, hopelessly out of place.
Every eye seemed to track them as they moved. Jace felt it: the curious glances, the polite suspicion, the barely veiled dislike from some of the older warlocks. Alec, as always, kept his face carefully blank, spine straight, hands near his weapons but not on them. Isabelle wore indifference like perfume, her eyes scanning, calculating.
Jace, of course, smiled.
"We look like we’re here to raid the place," he drawled under his breath.
"We’re here to protect it," Alec murmured, not looking at him.
"Right," Jace said cheerfully. "From other warlocks. At a warlock conference. What could possibly go wrong?"
He was about to suggest they grab seats somewhere discrete when his eyes flicked to a sleek bar set off to the side. Glasses of wine, cocktails, glittering colored liquids in fluted glasses—half the attendees were already partaking.
"We’ve got time before this thing starts," Jace offered, tilting his head. "Might as well have a drink. Blend in."
Alec gave him that look—the one that said he wasn’t even dignifying that with an answer.
"No," Alec said flatly. "We’re on duty. And it’s morning."
Jace flashed a crooked smile. “I can guard a room and hold a glass at the same time. I’m gifted like that.”
But before Alec could muster another protest, someone approached.
The man was tall, handsome in a polished, glossy sort of way. Black hair swept back, a little silver at the temples, sharp smile. Warlock marks—barely there but visible—traced along his jawline like faint blue veins. His eyes—gold, flecked with something inhuman—narrowed slightly as he stepped into Alec’s space and—subtly, unmistakably—sniffed.
Jace fought the immediate urge to laugh. Isabelle raised an eyebrow.
Jace smirked. “Didn’t realize we were bringing the main course to the meat market.”
The warlock’s voice dropped to something silkier. “Didn’t expect Shadowhunters,” he purred. “Especially not one I’d be tempted to keep.”
Alec, as always, looked slightly panicked by direct attention, which only made the man’s smile wider. "We’re here on assignment," he said stiffly. "Security."
The warlock’s eyes gleamed. “With you on duty, I might start looking for trouble just to keep you close.”
Jace nearly choked. Isabelle coughed delicately into her fist.
Alec, poor Alec, looked completely out of his depth—his entire body rigid, mouth slightly open as though trying to process how to respond. Jace could practically hear the panic short-circuiting his brain behind his eyes.
Time to intervene.
He stepped in smoothly, hand resting lazily on Alec’s shoulder. "Thanks," Jace said lightly, "but he’s taken. By stressing about breached protocols and a truly alarming level of social discomfort."
The man blinked, nonplussed.
Jace’s smile sharpened. "Which means," he added in a lower voice, "I suggest you scam before something sharp accidentally ends up between your ribs."
The warlock’s mouth twitched. Then, with a graceful shrug, he drifted off.
Alec exhaled like someone who’d just escaped a burning building. "Thanks," he muttered.
Jace grinned. "Anytime. You’re terrible at this, by the way."
Alec shot him a look that was half-glare, half-mortification. "I don’t— It doesn’t come up."
“Honestly,” Jace teased, “I was one breath away from witnessing your first accidental date.”
Isabelle, mercifully, interrupted. "Come on. Let’s grab a drink before Alec dies of secondhand embarrassment."
Alec, cheeks still flushed, muttered something that sounded like agreement. He even let Jace steer him toward the bar without further protest. The bartender—a dark-skinned warlock with curling horns and eyes like molten amber—served them without comment. Jace ordered the biggest glass of beer there was. Isabelle took something floral and pale. Alec opted for some juice, still tense. They stood near the back, glasses in hand, as the main conference room slowly filled. More warlocks drifted in—some flamboyant, some subtle. Jace noted the presence of several faeries too, Seelies with glittering eyes and shimmering glamour.
“Wonder what the odds are that this turns into a massacre,” Jace murmured to Isabelle, his tone light.
“Don’t jinx it,” she replied dryly.
Finally, as the room settled, an older warlock took the stage. His robes were deep indigo embroidered with gold, his long hair blond so light bordering on a shining silver elegantly falling on his shoulders, eyes glowing with faint silver light. He radiated age, power, and weariness in equal measure. The conference began. Jace leaned back, sipping his drink, his eyes scanning the room even as the speeches started. Something, he thought, was going to break. He could feel it in the air. The warlock standing on stage spoke with an ethereal calm, his voice smooth as honey, words flowing like a gentle stream over the murmuring crowd. Jace leaned casually against a marble pillar, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his seraph blade, the other holding the half-forgotten stem of his glass. The man was deep into a speech about peace, nature’s magic, and what Jace could only describe mentally as some kind of enchanted forest kumbaya nonsense. Alec, of course, was on high alert, his sharp eyes flicking over the room with disciplined precision. Jace caught the way his Parabatai’s gaze tracked every movement, every flicker of movement. Even Isabelle looked vaguely bored, though her eyes were equally sharp.
“…and when we are one with the world,” the warlock on stage continued, “when the cycle of the nine is fulfilled, when the great wheel turns again, all magic—high, low, divine and earthly—will return to its source. All shall return to the light of the Eternal.”
That snagged Alec’s attention. His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing in a rare show of open curiosity. Jace, too, straightened a little, sharing a quick glance with Isabelle. God. That wasn’t something you heard in the Shadow World. Not often. Not like that.
The speaker lifted his hands. “The nine powers came from the Divine. The angelic, the demonic, the fey, the earth itself—all branches from the same root. When the time comes, we will return to unity. To peace. To light.”
“Right,” Jace murmured, glancing sideways. “And I bet he also sells essential oils and moon crystals on weekends.”
Isabelle smothered a laugh behind her glass. But then her eyes sharpened, her gaze drifting to the far side of the room. "Three of them," she murmured, voice low and precise. "Back corner. Getting up."
Jace followed her eyes instantly. Three warlocks—ordinary on the surface—were rising from their seats, slipping discreetly toward the exit. Too discreet.
Alec was already moving. They followed, silent as breath, their footsteps muffled by years of training and instinct. The warlocks slipped down a polished corridor, away from the main hall, and ducked into a side room. The moment the door clicked shut, Alec motioned for them to stop. They pressed close to the wall. Jace could just make out the murmured voices through the thin paneled door.
“…stop wasting time. We’ve played nice long enough. It’s time to target him directly. We can’t keep this quiet forever.”
Alec’s brow furrowed. Isabelle’s eyes met Jace’s, sharp and questioning. Jace tilted his head, signaling for silence. They strained to hear more, but the voices inside dropped further, indistinct.
And then—
“Shadowhunters,” a voice purred from behind them.
Alec startled slightly, stepping back instinctively. The warlock from earlier—the one who had hit on him near the bar—was standing there with the same easy smile, his hands lifted in mock surrender.
“Relax,” the man said smoothly. "Didn’t mean to scare you. Just… thought I’d take another shot."
Jace exhaled sharply through his nose. "You have impeccable timing," he said dryly.
The man’s smile tilted. He pulled a shiny silver business card from his coat and handed it toward Alec. "For next time. You’re tense. You could use a little… social practice." He gave Alec a slow, deliberate once-over that made Jace roll his eyes.
"I—" Alec began, clearly flustered, but the man was already tucking the card into Alec’s palm winking his way.
Unfortunately, the soft conversation had been enough. The door to the back room creaked open, and the three warlocks stepped out, their expressions tight with suspicion. Their eyes swept over the scene—Alec, half-frozen with card in hand; Jace and Isabelle poised and watchful. The warlocks didn't speak. They gave them one last lingering look, then turned sharply and disappeared down the corridor.
“Brilliant,” Jace muttered, straightening. "Very subtle."
The other warlock gave a little shrug. "Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt." He gave Alec a last playful smile and sauntered off, leaving the trio standing there.
Alec sighed, rubbing his forehead. "That was—"
"—entertaining," Jace cut in with a grin. "You’re gonna need to start wearing a sign, you know. Something like: ‘Too Pretty For Missions.’ Or maybe ‘Please Do Not Approach: Easily Flustered.’"
"Shut up," Alec muttered, cheeks faintly pink.
Isabelle snorted, folding her arms. "He’s not wrong."
Jace gave Alec’s arm a companionable slap. "Honestly, next time you can just stay home. We’ll handle the demons. You can handle… your fan club."
Alec gave him a flat look but said nothing as they turned and made their way back toward the main conference hall.
**********
The conference wound down slowly, the crowd of warlocks dissipating in lazy streams toward the exits, conversations buzzing softly around them. Jace, Alec, and Isabelle lingered near the back, waiting for the room to thin before making their own exit. The speeches had ended, but the lingering tension in Alec’s posture kept Jace’s senses sharp.
Just as they turned to leave, movement near the stage caught Alec’s eye. The High Warlock—the speaker in indigo robes—raised one elegant hand in a quiet beckoning gesture, his silver eyes settling directly on them.
Alec tensed. "He wants us," he murmured.
Jace sighed exaggeratedly. "What a privilege."
They moved together, crossing the now half-empty room toward the stage. The High Warlock met them halfway, his expression serene, almost kind, though there was something unsettling in the weight of his gaze. He was taller up close, his aura unmistakably powerful, but his manner held none of the arrogance Jace had come to expect from ancient warlocks.
"I must admit," the High Warlock said in a warm, lilting voice, "I did not anticipate Shadowhunter attendance at such... gentle philosophical gatherings."
Jace’s lips twitched. "We weren’t here for the lecture," he said, the dry bite in his tone impossible to miss.
Alec’s elbow jabbed him sharply in the ribs. Jace made a noise of mild protest but held his tongue.
Alec stepped forward, diplomatic as always. "There have been a series of murders targeting warlocks," he said calmly. "With so many gathered in one place, we thought it wise to ensure security."
The High Warlock inclined his head. "Quite thoughtful."
But Alec caught the subtle flicker of doubt in the man's eyes, the slight, almost imperceptible quirk of his brow. He didn’t say it outright, but the message was clear: three young Shadowhunters weren’t exactly a match for an entire room full of magic-wielders. Before Alec could speak again, the High Warlock’s gaze shifted, his eyes lingering on Alec with quiet scrutiny. His expression didn’t shift, but Alec felt it—that strange, piercing awareness that seemed to settle deep beneath his skin.
"Perhaps," the warlock murmured, voice softer, "you have... personal reasons to be concerned for warlocks’ safety?"
The question slid beneath Alec’s defenses like a blade. His breath caught for half a second too long. Something in the warlock’s expression—his careful glance, the faint up-down sweep of his eyes—made Alec’s stomach tighten. He knew. Somehow—he knew.
Jace, oblivious to the subtle tension, cut in with a smirk. "Didn’t know warlocks were into mundane folklore. Seemed more your style to worship chaos, not the divine."
The High Warlock’s eyes shifted to him with mild amusement, the expression faintly fatherly, even indulgent. "Not believing in the divine is... statistically unreasonable," he said gently. "Magic itself is a brushstroke of creation."
Then, with unsettling slowness, his gaze returned to Alec. "And some are touched by the divine more clearly than others. It is always an honor to witness such rare gifts."
Alec’s pulse stumbled. The weight of the warlock’s stare pressed into him like a quiet force. He kept his face impassive, but the heat creeping up the back of his neck was betraying him.
Jace gave a scoffing sound. "We’re more likely to witness demon chaos these days than anything holy."
The High Warlock’s silver eyes flicked back to Jace, his mouth curving in something almost like benevolent amusement. "One finds what one seeks, child."
Isabelle, ever the practical one, lifted her chin. "The Nine," she said softly. "What was that about the Nine and God?"
The High Warlock inclined his head respectfully toward her. "The Nine," he said, his voice dropping into a more reverent tone, "are higher beings. Whatever they have become, whatever chaos they weave into this world, they were born from the same origin as all things. From God, or the Divine, or whatever name mortals wish to give it."
He spread his hands gracefully. "Their chaos is not an ending. It is merely the long, winding path that leads everything back to its source. Even destruction serves the wheel in time."
Jace gave a dry laugh. "Last time I checked, God didn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat for demons."
The High Warlock’s smile deepened, soft and strange. "Parents are always... expectant of their children. Even the most rebellious. Sometimes they must push, so their children may push back."
The words sent a chill across Alec’s spine. The warlock’s grey eyes drifted over them once more—lingered on Alec—and then, with a nod, he excused himself, vanishing into the thinning crowd. They stood in place for a beat longer.
"Well," Jace muttered finally, "that was cryptic as hell."
Isabelle shook her head, arms folded. "I didn’t like the way he looked at you," she murmured, flicking a glance toward Alec.
Alec’s fingers flexed at his sides, his mouth tight. "Neither did I," he admitted.
Jace exhaled, giving his Parabatai a sidelong look. "Seriously though, if you attract one more warlock tonight I’m filing for reassignment."
Alec rolled his eyes. "Shut up, Jace."
They turned toward the exit, the strange words of the High Warlock still echoing silently in their minds as they stepped back out into the cold night.
Chapter 8: THE TRY OF POWER
Chapter Text
The city hummed softly beneath Magnus’ penthouse windows, the glow of Manhattan’s lights flickering like restless fireflies across glass towers and distant bridges. Inside, the air was still. Heavy. Magnus sat in his armchair, legs crossed elegantly, an untouched glass of something sharp and golden resting on the table beside him.
He was waiting.
The client—an older man in his sixties, all tightly-coiled nerves and too-perfect politeness—had arranged this appointment weeks ago through one of Magnus’ more discrete channels. The request had been vague: a large sum of money in exchange for Magnus’ services as a summoner. Magnus had agreed with his usual detached curiosity, setting the terms: whatever ritual the man desired, the man would supply the materials, and Magnus would reserve the right to refuse if it breached any personal limits.
The man arrived twenty minutes late. Magnus didn’t comment. He simply opened the door with a flick of his fingers, motioning him inside.
“Apologies,” the man murmured, breathless, clutching a leather case to his chest. His voice trembled with barely-suppressed anxiety.
Magnus’ expression didn’t flicker. "Hours matter little to immortals. What is it you require?"
The man licked his lips, glancing around the penthouse as though expecting something to leap from the shadows. "A summoning."
Magnus gave the faintest lift of one eyebrow. "How common," he murmured dryly. "Summoning what?"
The man hesitated, then carefully slid a folded piece of paper across the table. "Bifrons," he whispered.
Magnus’ hand stilled. His expression shifted from amused to cold in an instant. "Bifrons? Your wit’s as sharp as a blade, but it’s cutting through pure madness. Are you joking?"
The man shook his head. "I am not."
Magnus’ fingers drummed once on the table’s surface before he took the paper and unfolded it. His eyes moved over the three questions scribbled in dark, neat ink. The words made him frown.
“Why would you summon Bifrons? He is not one to grant any favors.”
The old man shivered “It is not of you to ask. Will you do it? Are you too scared?” he tried to be insolent but the shaking in his hands belittled his composure.
Magnus glanced up. "My dear, should I fail to tame him, we’ll be corpses, and not the kind that get a poetic encore."
The man nodded, pale but resolute. "I’ve brought ingredients. Old ones. Rare. They should help."
He opened the leather case, and Magnus’ eyebrows lifted despite himself. Spilled across velvet lining were powders, crystalline shards, and two preserved roots he hadn’t seen in decades. Ancient bindings. Real power.
Magnus’ lips pressed together. He hesitated. Bifrons was no common demon, a high lord of Hell, a warrior and a god for some who embodied transition. Calling such a being forth could have strong repercussions.
It wasn’t just him anymore. There was Alec now. And the child. Even if Alec barely spoke of it, even if he half-pretended it wasn’t real, Magnus knew: it was real. And getting caught in a demon’s claws could end that fragile new reality before it began.
The man’s eyes flickered with desperation. "Double the price."
Magnus gave a soft, humorless breath of laughter. "You’re making this indecent."
The warlock’s mind raced. If he failed, the demon would devour them both. Unless—unless Magnus simply let it take the man. Not the best plan, but a backup nonetheless. He straightened.
"One call," Magnus said lightly. "And then I’ll begin."
He excused himself, stepping into the quiet safety of his study. He pulled his phone free and dialed. Alec answered on the third ring.
“Hey,” Alec’s voice, tired but soft.
“Busy?” Magnus asked casually.
“Still out. Could be a while.”
“Marvelous,” Magnus murmured. “Keep your dazzling self that way for a few hours. I’ll summon you when the stage is set for your grand return.”
There was a beat of silence. "Everything okay?"
Magnus smiled faintly. "Of course. Just—a job."
Alec exhaled. "Nothing dangerous?”
Magnus swallowed “Perish the thought, darling! Just the usual petite invocation, a tiny summoning to keep the magic flowing. Worry not; your warlock's got this.”
Alec sighed “We have to live there Magnus, don’t bring forth anything gross and lock Chairman Meow in the room so he doesn’t get slimed again!”
Magnus ended the call. Well no one would get slimed this time… Bifrons would most likely throw hell fire at them if nothing else.
The circle took nearly an hour to prepare. The man waited in taut silence as Magnus drew sigils in powdered gold, crushed opal, and something black as ash and bitter as iron. Candles burned green-blue, low and cold. The scent of burnt herbs coated the air. The wards Magnus set were old—dangerous—but even he knew it might not be enough, he would have to back it up with his own forces.
Bifrons was no lesser creature.
The chant began low, soft, weaving into a rising spiral of impossible sound. Reality twisted. The light bent. The temperature in the room plummeted as he called Bifrons forward.
And then—
The thing appeared, after awhile or what Magnus thought to be a fashionable intended lapse.
A grotesque mass of limbs, inflated and plump, with a baby’s face—pale, cherubic, horribly wrong—set above a nightmare body. Its breath was the sound of broken teeth grinding.
Magnus stood utterly still, heart thudding in slow, stunned horror. Every hair on his skin rose, his magic recoiling deep beneath his bones. This was wrong—deeply, viscerally wrong in a way words couldn’t contain.
“Bifrons,” he said calmly.
The demon’s milky eyes rolled toward him, its voice like the scraping of blades: "Who dares?"
Magnus smiled without warmth. "A question-asking fool," he murmured.
The creature shifted, jaws clicking wetly, claws dragging in slow, deliberate scrapes against the glowing barrier of the summoning circle. Magnus’ hands barely trembled—centuries of discipline holding fast—but he felt it. Felt the unmistakable shiver of the wards, the brittle tension of the sigils beneath his feet. Ancient protections, crafted with care and power, but buckling now under a weight far beyond what they were meant to contain.
He swallowed tightly. The circle wasn’t holding the demon—it was barely convincing it to stay. The knowledge sank in cold and sharp: he was outmatched. Utterly. Bifrons wasn’t just dangerous—he was monumental. Ancient in ways Magnus’ magic couldn’t touch, predating human thought, predating fear itself. And if the demon chose to shatter the bindings—if it so much as twitched the wrong way—no cleverness, no spell, no power Magnus possessed would be enough to survive it.
He forced his breathing steady, locking the fear down into the pit of his stomach. No cracks. No hesitation. Show nothing. Control was the only weapon he had left—and even that felt paper-thin against the suffocating presence crouched within the circle.
He kept his voice steady. "I have questions. You will answer."
Bifrons laughed. The sound made the walls bleed shadow. “Ask, beloved child,” the demon purred, voice low and velvety. “I promise I’ll listen. I do so love when the fragile ones speak.”
The first question. Magnus read it aloud:
“What is the name of the one who will tear the veil between worlds?”
Bifrons’ head twitched and an abominable smile crossed his grotesque face. "Names are fragile. Names are lies. But—" The thing grinned with too many teeth. "The child yet unnamed, whose blood burns and whose flesh is cursed."
A shockwave rippled outward. Magnus staggered. The circle hissed but held.
The second question. Magnus’ voice was hoarse:
“What is the shape of the key that binds the door?”
Bifrons shuddered with pleasure. "No shape. All shapes. Flesh. Desire. Pain. The key is the bearer."
Magic lashed out—brilliant, blinding—sending Magnus skidding half a foot. He gritted his teeth. Blood trickled from his nose.
The final question:
“How will the cycle end?”
Bifrons stilled. Then—soft, soft—
"With silence. With flame. With the first breath of the first child and the last breath of the last king."
The blast this time knocked Magnus to his knees. His vision swam. He tasted iron.
“Enough,” he rasped. "Leave."
Bifrons paused. The grotesque form melted, flesh sloughing away to reveal something horrifyingly beautiful: a young man, draped in silver, with vast, perfect angelic wings spread behind him. His eyes burned with golden fire.
"I will leave, lovely child" Bifrons whispered. "But I have my own question for you."
Magnus, dazed, swallowed. "Ask." He said mesmerized by the demon’s beauty.
The creature smiled softly. "Who is the lawlessness child, born from the barren, who will declare themselves above God?"
The question struck through Magnus like ice water. His breath caught. "I don’t know."
Bifrons’ expression barely shifted. He leaned closer, too-close, shadows clinging to his skin like smoke, he could almost touch Magnus and one of his perfect shaped hands hovered over the warlock like a caress "The children," he murmured, "will be their father's atonement."
And then—
He vanished.
Magnus collapsed, hands braced on the floor, chest heaving, the candlelight flickering wildly as the circle shuddered and died. The man stood frozen. Pale. Silent.
Magnus lifted his gore-stained face, his smile a glittering shard of disdain. "There’s your truth, delivered with panache. And just what was that chaotic nonsense you unleashed?"
The man swallowed and, without a word, left the promised bag of money and fled the apartment. When Magnus straightened, hands still sticky with magic, the full picture struck him like a blow. His apartment was torn to pieces—walls cracked, glass blown out, the scent of burned magic clinging to the air. He blinked, stunned. When had that happened?
Magnus sat in the quiet, heart hammering, breath shallow, the demon’s final words looping endlessly in his mind. He had to clean up before Alec came home but his magic was tapped. Damn… no more summoning higher demons. What took over him to ever agree to that?
***********
The sun had set by the time Alec made his way through the familiar streets toward Magnus’ penthouse, the last blush of gold fading into the city’s endless dark. His body ached faintly from the long afternoon patrol, and the report with Hodge had left his head full of strange words, uneasy thoughts, and more unanswered questions than solutions. But his steps quickened without thinking when the penthouse came into view.
Inside, everything looked perfectly normal. Soft lighting, the quiet hum of the city outside the tall glass windows, the familiar trace of magic in the air. Magnus was stretched out on the couch, one arm slung lazily over his eyes, the other resting over his stomach. The warlock looked utterly exhausted, every line of his lean body slack with weariness. Alec felt something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
“Hey,” he murmured softly, stepping closer.
Magnus stirred, blinking open tired eyes, offering a faint smile. Alec hesitated for only a breath before lowering himself to sit on the couch, his fingers brushing lightly through Magnus’ hair before cupping the side of his face.
“Do I need to worry?” Alec asked quietly. “Am I going to have to wash Chairman Meow again?”
Magnus gave a soft huff of amusement and, without ceremony, grabbed Alec by the front of his shirt and pulled him down. Alec didn’t resist. He folded easily into Magnus’ arms, the warmth of their bodies pressing together as Magnus buried his face briefly against Alec’s neck.
“No,” Magnus murmured against his skin. “The Chairman’s fine. The summoning went fine too. Just... left me a bit drained."
Alec tensed slightly at the word, but he didn’t pull away. He let Magnus hold him, let his hand drift soothingly over Magnus’ side, feeling the subtle tremble still lingering there. He exhaled softly.
“How was the conference?” Magnus asked after a beat, his voice muffled.
Alec shifted slightly but didn’t break the hug, still close enough that their bodies brushed. "We met Alaric. The High Warlock. He... he seemed insightful."
Magnus gave a breath of dry laughter. "Alaric is older than sin. There were rumors he’d fused with a tree somewhere by now."
Alec shivered slightly. "It was... strange. I think— I think he knew. About me."
Magnus’ eyes darkened. He straightened but didn’t look surprised. "He probably did. Alaric’s instincts are so old, they probably taught language how to speak."
Alec rubbed the back of his neck, restless, then dropped into the armchair opposite, slumping a little. "We also noticed three warlocks acting strange. Left the conference early. I think we need to pull their files. See if we can find anything. It would help if we had someone who could draw portraits..."
His words trailed off as his eyes swept the room—and then narrowed slightly. "Where’s the dragon mirror?"
Magnus’ expression didn’t shift. "Broken."
Alec’s brow furrowed. He squinted at Magnus suspiciously. "Calm summoning, huh?"
Magnus gave him a slow, unbothered blink. "Perfectly calm."
Alec let out a breath, frustration flickering like a storm cloud in his eyes. "I told you, Magnus. No dangerous summons."
Magnus rose, his smile a wicked curve, eyes dancing with heat. "Sweetheart, the only danger here is how you keep distracting me with that scowl."
But Alec wasn’t convinced. He crossed his arms lightly. "Why would you even need the money? You steal everything you use anyway."
Magnus pressed a hand to his chest in mock outrage. "Excuse you. I take only what I deserve."
Alec arched a brow, deadpan. "And you deserve it because?"
Magnus’ lips curved into a smirk, gold eyes flashing. "Because I’m devastatingly charming, painfully attractive, and have spent centuries perfecting the art of getting exactly what I want."
Alec couldn’t help it—his mouth twitched into something dangerously close to a smile. Magnus leaned back, fingers drumming idly on the cushion.
“And," Magnus added with a lazy grin, "I deserve to be kissed. Not scolded."
The look he gave Alec was shamelessly expectant, playful but undeniably tender at the edges.
Alec let out a breath that was almost a laugh, shaking his head. "You’re impossible."
But he leaned in anyway, cupping Magnus’ jaw and kissing him softly. The tension unraveled in the space between them, the world outside fading into insignificance. Magnus sighed into the kiss, fingers curling gently in Alec’s hair, pulling him closer until they both smiled against each other’s lips.
**********
That night, Magnus’ sleep was uneasy, haunted by visions that felt less like dreams and more like quiet visitations. Beautiful, terrible creatures with wings of pure white hovered in the darkness of his mind, their voices soft and melodic as they whispered riddles he could barely comprehend. Riddles of children, of bloodlines tearing themselves apart, of fathers undone by the hands of their own. The images clung to him like frost, and when he woke, breathless and disoriented, it took long minutes before he could shake the sensation of not being alone.
The days that followed blurred. Magnus hid the worst of it from Alec—he always did. He kept the quiet tremble of his magic buried under layers of charm and sarcasm, but the truth remained: it had unsettled him. The summoning, the demon, the sheer weight of power that had nearly buckled through his wards. It had left him drained in ways he hadn’t anticipated. It took almost three full days before his magic felt fully under his control again, and even then, he caught himself flinching at shadows.
The nights were the worst. When sleep came, it was restless. Fragments of Bifrons' voice still echoed in the back of his mind, weaving through his dreams in twisted whispers. When those moments came, when his breath hitched and his heart raced in the dark, Alec—without fail—shifted beside him. Sometimes just an arm thrown across his chest, other times the quiet, instinctive brush of his Scent filling the air between them, wrapping him in warmth that Magnus never quite admitted to needing. It always brought him back. It always calmed the wild thrum of turmoil beneath his skin.
He promised himself, lying there in the soft dark of their shared space, that he wouldn’t let himself be shaken like this again. That he wouldn’t let fear take root. But he knew even as he made the vow: it would last only until the next foolish risk. Because that was who he was. Because control was fragile, and curiosity was a dangerous thing.
Alec, meanwhile, threw himself into his investigation with quiet determination. He spent hours combing through the Clave’s warlock files, searching for anything that might give them a lead on the three strange warlocks who had slipped away during the conference and the four dead. Page after page, report after report, but nothing emerged. No connections. No records. It was as if they had never existed. Alec’s frustration remained mostly unspoken, but Magnus could see it in the tight set of his shoulders, the way he frowned faintly at the pages long after any sane person would have given up for the night.
And so the days passed. Slowly. Softly.
No more warlocks were found dead. No more dimensional tears appeared. The city, for the time being, rested.
The uneasy calm allowed them to slip into something that—against all odds—began to resemble domesticity. Catarina visited for her scheduled check-ups, Alec as unmoved and stoic about it as he was about everything else. He sat through her gentle prodding and magical scans with the same barely-there tolerance, his face neutral, his body language closed off, but he didn’t resist. He never resisted. Magnus watched him from the kitchen those mornings, the way Alec let it happen without complaint, and he always felt something small and sharp twist in his chest. It wasn’t indifference. It was control. It was Alec’s particular brand of survival.
Jace and Isabelle came by more than once, turning the penthouse into an impromptu training ground. They sparred in the living room while Magnus rolled his eyes from the sidelines, offering commentary and occasional magical assistance when asked. Even Chairman Meow seemed to have settled into the rhythm of things, lounging in the warm patches of sunlight and ignoring the bursts of activity around him.
They existed in it—this strange, golden bubble of routine. Days that slid into one another with the gentle predictability that Alec had never really known before. Morning runs. Training. Shared dinners. Quiet evenings. Nights spent curled into each other’s warmth. There was an ease to it that neither of them spoke aloud but both of them clung to in their own ways.
And then—
Three months. Give or take.
It crept up on them almost unnoticed. They had done it many times since that first night—desire shared in soft hours, in heated glances, in the space where words no longer mattered. They had tangled in sheets, against walls, on half-forgotten furniture. Each time had brought them closer, melted more of the distance that still tried to pull them apart.
But some consequences weren’t so easily forgotten. Some lingered.
The time had come.
And as the quiet days drifted by, as the soft spell of domestic safety stretched thin at the edges, something new was stirring. The consequence of that night, of that fragile, terrifying moment when their lives had shifted forever, was approaching.
And this time—
This time, it couldn’t be ignored.
**********
The phone rang sharp and sudden, cutting through the relative dark of Magnus’ penthouse. Magnus stirred weakly, groaning as he tried to swat at the sound, barely more than half awake. Alec was already sitting up, hand reaching for the phone on the nightstand. The screen glowed ghostly against the dark.
“Yeah,” Alec said, voice low and rough with sleep.
Magnus shifted, barely prying his eyes open. “What time is it?” he murmured, words slurred.
Alec’s expression sharpened as he listened. Vampires feeding of mundanes in some nightclub.
Magnus’ eyes fluttered half open. Alec leaned down to brush his fingers against Magnus’ hair. "Go back to sleep."
And then Alec was on his feet, moving with quiet efficiency, pulling on clothes, slinging weapons over his shoulder. Within minutes, he was gone.
The Institute was cold in the early hours, the air sharp and still. Jace and Isabelle were already waiting, both looking as tired and annoyed as Alec felt. Without much preamble, they geared up. The ritual was familiar: stele drawn, skin bared, runes inked with swift precision.
Drawing runes was muscle memory by now—each stroke precise, fast, almost thoughtless. But when Alec lifted his arm and caught sight of what Jace had carefully sketched along his bicep and then all over his back and ribs, he froze mid-motion.
"Seriously?" Alec muttered, eye narrowing as he inspected the tangle of elegant lines that glowed faintly on his skin. He recognized the runes instantly: layers of protective sigils—defense, shielding, reinforcement—more than necessary, more than he'd asked for.
Jace just grinned, utterly unrepentant. "What? You’re delicate. I worry."
Alec gave him a deadpan glare, arching one dark brow. "Too bad there isn’t a rune to stop you from being an insufferable ass."
Isabelle, standing at the weapons rack, snorted without looking back. "If there was, we’d have drawn it permanent on him years ago."
Jace pressed a hand to his heart, mock-wounded, but his eyes glinted with warmth. "I’m just being thoughtful."
Alec rolled his eyes but said nothing more, drawing swift counter-runes on Jace’s arms with perhaps a little more pressure than strictly necessary. Parabatai runes always held longer—stronger—when marked by the one who bore your oath. The old magic settled beneath their skin like a heartbeat, faintly pulsing, threads of something ancient weaving between them.
They moved through the rest of the preparation quickly: seraph blades, daggers, throwing knives, every movement practiced and sharp. Jace, as always, lingered too long at the weapons wall, indecision slowing his fingers.
Isabelle gave him a look over her shoulder, dry as bone. "Come on, Jace. We’re not packing for a vacation."
Jace grumbled under his breath but made his choices, and together, the three of them vanished into the night.
The club was in the Meatpacking District, cloaked in layered glamours and runes so old they almost hummed against Alec’s skin. Once past the outer wards, the illusion peeled away like forgotten spider webs, revealing the building for what it was: something decayed and sinister. The place stank of rot, blood, and something worse.
Inside, the air hit them like a physical force—thick, humid, heavy with the scent of sweat, sex, blood, and something darker beneath it all. Alec’s stomach coiled immediately, a visceral knot of unease crawling through him as the sound pounded through his bones: bass so deep it felt like it was rattling inside his chest, vibrating through skin and sinew.
The lighting was oppressive—low and blood-red, the kind of shade that didn’t so much illuminate as smear everything it touched into something unclean. The shadows stretched and pulsed with every flicker of the beat, bodies lit in jagged flashes of scarlet and black. It wasn’t a nightclub. It wasn’t anything close to that. It was a den. A lair. A shrine to indulgence and predation, woven through with lust and sin so thick Alec could taste it on his tongue. Every step deeper into the building revealed more.
Figures writhed in the corners, some swaying to the music, but most locked together in frenzied, shameless contact. The walls were lined with doors, most slightly ajar, none concealing what lay beyond them. Alec tried not to look—he really did—but it was impossible not to catch glimpses: hands gripping flesh, mouths pressed hungrily to throats slick with sweat and blood, limbs twisted together in poses that made his breath catch in discomfort.
One room—they passed too close, the door wide open—held a vampire feeding leisurely from the curve of a young man's neck, his fingers already buried inside the mortal's backside, the mundane's head tipped back in what could have been pleasure or drugged oblivion. Another door half-open revealed a pair of warlocks entwined mid-spell, their bodies naked and gleaming under the flickering light, mouths clashing in kisses that burned too hot, their magic spilling in illusionary sparks that painted the walls with ghostly, obscene images that shifted and danced alongside them. Further in, they passed a room where Alec could see figures on hands and knees—collared, chained, flesh striped red from hands or whips he couldn't see. Some of the creatures feeding in the dark weren’t even fully human in form—twisted limbs, monstrous shapes, teeth where there shouldn’t be teeth. The stench of it—sex, blood, magic—was suffocating. Alec’s face burned, every muscle drawn taut with a mix of revulsion and something colder: the sense of trespassing into a place that should not exist, that breathed filth into every corner of the Downworld.
The music throbbed around them. The walls felt alive. The heat was obscene.
Alec swallowed hard, jaw tight, forcing himself to move, to focus, to keep his hands near his blades instead of letting the unease paralyze him. He could hear Jace beside him, hear the amused huff of laughter when Alec jerked his gaze away from yet another open door where bodies twisted in ways that made his pulse spike.
“Delicate,” Jace murmured, low enough only Alec could hear.
“Shut up,” Alec growled, but his voice came out hoarse.
And still, they moved deeper, through sin made flesh, toward something worse still waiting below. It was Isabelle who spotted the guarded door first. Two vampires stood before it—predatory stillness etched into every line of their bodies.
Alec stepped forward first, trying diplomacy. "We’re here on Clave business. We need access."
The vampires smiled, sharp and empty. "No entry."
Jace gave Alec a pointed look but stayed silent, letting him try. Alec’s second request earned only amusement. Jace, of course, didn’t wait for a third. He moved with brutal efficiency—stepping in close, disarming the nearest vampire with the speed of instinct and knocking him unconscious before the second even realized the fight had started. The door gave way. They descended into something vile.
The corridor they entered felt suffocatingly tight, its low ceiling looming like a threat, the air heavy with decay and a sharper, more sinister stench. The walls glistened with dampness, but the slickness was too thick, too crimson under the stuttering, dim lights. A relentless drip echoed close by, its soft patter clawing at their nerves.
The lights overhead sputtered, casting broken, trembling shadows that danced along the cracked plaster. Every few feet, a door—some closed, some ajar—lined the corridor like silent witnesses to unspeakable acts. Each one seemed to breathe faintly with the vibrations of bass still pulsing from the floors above, but the sounds here were different. Muffled moans. Wet gasps. The occasional scraping of something dragging against metal.
Alec’s breath caught in his throat as he passed the first open doorway. A mundane—young, early twenties maybe—lay sprawled on a stained mattress, his eyes glassy and unfocused. His neck bore fresh punctures, blood drying down the curve of his collarbone. His fingers twitched weakly against the soiled sheets, his breath shallow, skin tinged with the sickly pallor of someone too far gone to care. The next room was worse. Two mundanes, tangled together, faces slack and empty, both marked by bites, their veins a soft blue under papery skin. Their hands fluttered in the air as if reaching for something that wasn’t there. The glaze in their eyes spoke of complete detachment from reality—bodies used, discarded, and left in a haze of chemical oblivion. Alec’s gut coiled tighter with every step. His fingers itched near his blades. The weight of sickness and violation pressed into his skin.
“Yin fen,” Isabelle murmured, her voice flat, brittle. Her jaw was clenched tight as she swept her gaze over the unmoving bodies. "They’re dosing them."
Alec swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Are they here by choice?"
Isabelle’s eyes—sharp, furious—snapped to his. "Doesn’t matter," she said, her voice low but fierce. "They’re so far gone they can’t say no. This... this isn’t choice. It’s barely life."
The flickering light caught the curve of her blade as her fingers twitched around the hilt. Alec forced himself to keep moving, but the images stayed burned behind his eyes: the slack mouths, the punctured throats, the reek of sweat, old blood, and decay thickening with every door they passed. Every breath tasted like ash. This wasn’t just a crime scene. It was a tomb. And the worst of it, Alec knew, was still waiting deeper down. They reached the end of the corridor and what awaited them was worse than anything Alec had imagined.
In the shadowed depths of the final chamber, three vampires sprawled indolently, the air a choking miasma of hot blood, acrid sweat, and the bitter iron bite of rot. Crimson smears scarred the walls in haphazard layers—faded ghosts of past feasts overlaid by glistening fresh kills. Candle flames sputtered feebly, hurling twisted, leering forms across the fractured plaster like fevered nightmares.
One vampire dominated a threadbare armchair, his posture a throne of indolence, with a woman sagging boneless against him—pale silk unraveling in his grasp. Ragged puncture wounds wept from her throat, crimson trails slithering down the elegant arch of her neck to drench her shredded bodice. Her eyes drifted half-shut, lost in a haze of oblivion; her lips parted on a vacant, euphoric whimper as his claws grazed greedily over the swell of her exposed curves.
The others huddled deeper in the gloom, their faces slick and wet with blood. One had a young man pinned on a filthy mattress, his teeth buried deep in the mortal’s throat, while his other hand—obscene and casual—moved beneath the boy’s waist. The mundane shuddered, limbs twitching, but there was no life in his eyes. Only glassy vacancy and the dull flush of forced pleasure, the sheen of Yin fen laced through his veins. The third vampire looked up from another pair of bodies entangled on the floor—mundanes, dazed and pliant, their clothes in shreds, bite marks littering their skin. The vampire’s mouth dripped crimson, but the hunger in his eyes wasn’t only for blood.
Alec’s stomach twisted violently. The sheer perversion of it, the mingling of violence and lust, of predation made into sport—it was wrong in every possible way. The mundanes weren’t just victims. They were toys. Vessels for both hunger and sadism.
His voice was ice when he spoke. "By order of the Clave, you’re under arrest."
The vampires barely reacted. One licked blood from his lips, the others smiling with slow, terrible delight. They weren’t going to surrender. They had nothing left to lose. And Alec knew, as the first one lunged forward, that this would not end without blood.
The first lunge came too fast to track. Alec’s blades flashed up, barely in time. The enclosed space made his bow useless—he abandoned it instantly, twin seraph blades igniting in his hands. The fight exploded. It was chaos—tight corridors, slippery floors, bodies moving with inhuman speed. Alec struck, parried, the glow of his runes flaring hot. Jace fought like liquid fire, a blur of steel and golden hair, but they were outnumbered as the two guards had joined in. Isabelle’s whip flashed, severing limbs, but even she couldn’t keep them all at bay.
The blow hit like a hammer to Alec’s ribs, cracking the air out of his lungs in a sharp, ugly gasp. Pain flared white-hot along his side, and the world tilted. He tasted blood—metallic and bitter—spilling across his tongue as he stumbled back a half-step. He didn’t have time to recover. The vampire was already on him, moving with feral speed, blade glinting like a shard of night in his hand. Alec barely registered the slash before his back slammed into the pavement, stone biting through his jacket and sending another jolt of pain up his spine. The impact rattled his teeth, stars bursting behind his eyes. The vampire straddled his hips in a blur of black leather and cold fury, weight pinning Alec to the ground. The knife arced down in a vicious thrust aimed for his ribcage—a clean kill, straight to the heart if Alec faltered for even a breath. Instinct roared louder than pain. Alec shot his arms up, catching the vampire’s wrist mid-swing. Metal kissed the edge of his gear, inches from his skin. He snarled through clenched teeth, muscles burning as he locked both hands around the hilt and shoved back with everything he had. The vampire hissed, fangs flashing, its strength a brutal tide against Alec’s braced arms. Tendons strained, veins standing stark under pale skin as they grappled in the grit and blood, the knife trembling between them—a seesaw of death. The blade inched closer, glinting in the harsh spill of red light, so near Alec could feel the chill radiating off its steel, the promise of a punctured lung, of darkness swallowing everything.
The world narrowed to pressure and breath and the savage grind of willpower. Alec’s back screamed against the unyielding stone, his ribs throbbing in time with the pounding in his skull. Every muscle locked as the vampire bore down, snarling, the blade hovering just above his heart. And Alec pushed back, jaw clenched, teeth grit against the copper flood in his mouth, knowing this was the line—his strength or his life. Alec felt his strength rune flare and he pushed the blade back.
But then a second vampire appeared—a blur in the corner of his eye—and Alec felt the weight shift, felt the cold kiss of steel breach skin. The blade slid in—two inches—white-hot pain blooming. He gasped, vision swimming, his grip faltering, his strength rune burning.
And then—
The world snapped.
A slash of silver light cleaved through the suffocating dark—a single, blinding arc of magic that was vast and silent, sharp as breathless terror. The vampire above Alec stiffened violently, his body convulsing mid-motion, his hands jerking away from the knife as his torso split—clean, impossible—his upper body sliding grotesquely from his lower half as he crumpled in two before Alec’s eyes. Hot blood spattered across Alec’s face in a scalding wave, the metallic tang of it flooding his mouth, his nose, clinging to his skin and lashes.
For a heartbeat, Alec could only stare, frozen in place, his mind fracturing between shock and the dawning knowledge of something else—something worse. There was a sensation growing beneath his ribs, not burning exactly, but writhing, tingling, as if a thousand unseen insects were crawling just beneath his skin, scratching, clawing, uncoiling in unnatural rhythm. It wasn’t pain—not yet—but it was unbearable: an electric wrongness that pulsed through his bones and muscle, foreign magic flaring outward in wild, instinctive panic.
He didn’t hear his own scream—didn’t even know if he’d made one—but the magic inside him surged without consent, raw and untethered, and the blast that followed erupted in a brutal wave that slammed outward with concussive force, hurling the remaining vampires back down the narrow corridor. The sound was deafening, the flare of light searing and blinding, as the unleashed power tore through the suffocating gloom in a brutal, unstoppable wave, striking the vampires with such force that their bodies twisted mid-air, limbs snapping, skulls splitting, blood spraying in grotesque bursts as they were shredded like paper beneath the blast—reduced to mangled, twitching ruin before they even hit the ground.
Hands grabbed him then—strong, urgent—Jace’s hands, Isabelle’s too, dragging him upright though his legs wouldn’t hold, their voices distant and indistinct through the ringing in his ears. He felt weightless, the blood still sticky on his skin, the ache in his side pulsing white-hot, sharp, but distant—like something happening to someone else. The knife had bitten deep, but the pain was a background hum now, secondary to the strange, consuming pulse inside him. The world tilted, slanting at impossible angles, shadows bleeding together. Alec’s breath caught, and then the darkness folded in around him, heavy and final, as his vision gave way and the world disappeared.
**********
Magnus felt it first—a subtle ripple through the wards, an unfamiliar shudder that prickled against his magic and drew his eyes toward the door before any sound reached him. It wasn’t just the passage of anyone. It was Alec. He knew it with an unsettling certainty—the familiar pulse of his magic brushing against Magnus’ own—but something was wrong. Very wrong. He was already moving before the knock came, heart hammering with a sudden urgency he didn’t fully understand. Every instinct inside him was alight, his magic twitching uneasily as though tasting something sour in the air.
The door burst open before he could reach for it properly, wards shivering weakly as Jace and Isabelle stumbled through, half-carrying Alec between them. Magnus stopped cold. For a moment, his breath simply left him.
Alec—barely standing—was slumped against their shoulders, his body limp and shivering despite his eyes being open. He was awake. Or at least his eyes were. But the boy he knew wasn’t there—not fully. His face was colorless, waxen beneath smears of gore, his gear clinging in soaked, ruined patches to a body that looked more broken than alive. Blood stained everything—his arms, his neck, the side of his face where it had dried in clotted streaks—and for a heartbeat Magnus couldn’t even tell how much of it was Alec’s.
Magnus’ heart caught in his throat. "What happened?" His voice was sharp, urgent.
Jace's expression was grim, his jaw tight. "Vampire den," he said shortly. "Not a bar fight—something worse. We were outnumbered. Alec—he—"
His breath hitched faintly as if the words cost him something. He swallowed, forcing the story out in sharp, clipped bursts “They were feeding on mundanes," Jace said, his voice tense, breath still ragged from exertion. "We followed protocol, tried to bring them in—standard arrest. But they knew what was waiting for them if we did. They knew they were already dead. So they went for it. Straight for the kill. No hesitation."
Jace’s hands twitched at his sides, stained dark with blood. He didn’t meet Magnus’ eyes when he added, "Alec—he was pinned. One of them... I thought—"
He shook his head once, hard. “The blast came from Alec. I think. It killed them—messy. Fast. Blood everywhere. There wasn’t time to react. One second they were on him—the next they were dead.”
Magnus’ stomach coiled tight with cold dread. His gaze flicked to Alec, whose glassy eyes stared unfocused at nothing. He reached for him gently. "Alexander."
No response. The boy’s breathing was shallow, trembling. His hands were sticky with drying blood, his lips pale and slightly parted but utterly silent.
"Help me get him to the bathroom," Magnus said tightly.
Between the three of them, they guided Alec across the floor. His feet barely moved under his own power, his body limp and pliant in their hands. When they reached the bathroom, Isabelle caught Magnus’ wrist before he could pull Alec fully inside. Her face was drawn tight with worry, her eyes flickering from Alec’s battered form to Magnus’ tense expression.
“Can you handle him?” she asked, voice low but urgent. "We have to go back. The mundanes are still down there—we can’t leave them like that. We need to call the Clave and get a team in quickly."
Magnus hesitated only for a second before nodding, his grip steadying around Alec’s waist. "I’ve got him," he murmured, his voice soft but firm. "Go."
Isabelle's hand brushed Alec’s arm briefly, her lips pressing into a thin line, then she turned on her heels, her footsteps fading as she and Jace moved swiftly back toward the door. Magnus exhaled sharply, drawing Alec carefully into the bathroom, the door shutting softly behind them, closing out everything but the broken boy in his arms. The bathroom was warm, softly lit, the marble cold beneath bare feet. He lowered Alec carefully onto the edge of the tray. Alec swayed slightly but made no move to stop him. His eyes were so distant Magnus felt his own breath catch painfully in his chest.
"You’re safe," Magnus murmured, voice low, soothing, even as his hands worked to peel away blood-soaked gear. "You’re home."
Alec didn’t answer. He shivered faintly, breath ragged, muscles locked.
Magnus swallowed. He pressed his hand briefly to Alec’s cheek. "I’m here."
Still nothing.
The task became mechanical. Piece by piece, Magnus stripped away the torn, ruined layers of Alec’s clothing. The blood was everywhere—some of it Alec’s, but more of it not. He worked in silence, hands steady despite the tight coil of dread in his chest, voice soft and near-whispered as he peeled away the layers of torn, blood-soaked gear. Bit by bit, the ruined fabric fell aside until only skin remained—pale, smeared with streaks of crimson, but not unscathed. Magnus’ breath caught when his eyes landed on the wound—ugly, deep, a jagged stab just below Alec’s ribs where a blade had driven deep into soft flesh. The edges of the gash were raw and red, the bleeding slowed but not stopped. It looked worse in the soft bathroom light—vulnerable, far too close to organs that mattered.
“Alexander,” he murmured, setting aside the last of the ruined clothes. “Stay with me.”
But Alec was still far away, his eyes vacant, breath coming in shallow pulls. Magnus didn’t waste another second. His magic flared to life beneath his fingertips as he pressed them gently around the wound, a whisper of power threading into muscle and tissue. The blood was sticky, hot against his hands, but the magic flowed smooth and sure. He whispered under his breath—low, precise incantations—until the torn flesh knit together, the angry edges sealing slowly as the glow of his magic pulsed faintly under skin. When the worst of the wound closed, leaving only faint pink where blood had run moments before, Magnus let out a slow breath and cupped Alec’s face briefly, his thumb brushing along the boy’s clammy cheek.
“Safe,” he whispered, more to himself than to the boy. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
Alec’s fingers clung to Magnus’ shirt, a faint tremor betraying the fragility beneath his stoic exterior. A shaky breath escaped him, the first fragile spark of awareness piercing his haze of shock. Magnus paused, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat, steadying himself. He turned the faucet, coaxing warm water to fill the small bathroom with gentle steam. With tender precision, he eased Alec to his feet, hands steady despite the ache in his chest. The healing magic had sealed the worst of the stab wound, leaving only faint, knitted skin, but Alec’s pallor remained, his clammy skin cool to the touch, his gaze lost in a faraway void. Magnus guided him into the shower with unhurried care, each movement soft and deliberate. Alec followed, pliant yet unsteady, his steps faltering but trusting. No words passed between them—Magnus knew Alec wasn’t ready for them. Instead, he let his quiet, unwavering presence speak, his heart clenching at the sight of Alec’s vulnerability laid bare.
The water was warm when Magnus reached for the handle, steam already beginning to mist the air. He helped Alec step inside, guiding him under the flow, and the blood—so much of it—began to slide away in dark rivulets, curling down the drain like ink. Magnus stayed with him, close but careful, reaching for a soft cloth to wipe gently over pale skin. His hands were light, reverent, as he washed the blood from Alec’s throat, his arms, the planes of his chest. He lingered only long enough to be thorough, never invasive, speaking in low, murmured reassurances as his fingers worked.
"You’re safe," he whispered once. "You’re here. I’ve got you."
Alec’s head tipped slightly under the water, his eyes half-lidded, his breath shallow. He let himself be moved like a marionette, his arms lifting when Magnus needed them to, his weight shifting when directed. The heat of the water brought the faintest color back to his cheeks, but the faraway look in his eyes remained. Magnus’ thumb brushed over Alec’s cheekbone as he wiped the last smudge of blood away. The gesture was soft, almost reverent. When the water finally ran clear, Magnus guided him back out, careful to wrap him immediately in thick, warm towels, the air in the bathroom now clouded with steam. He lowered Alec gently to sit on the tiled floor, making sure the towel stayed snug over his shoulders. Alec blinked, slow and empty, unmoving except for the bare rise and fall of his breath.
“I’ll be right back,” Magnus murmured softly, smoothing damp hair away from Alec’s face. "Stay here."
Alec didn’t react. Magnus rose and moved swiftly through the penthouse, pulling fresh clothes from Alec’s dresser—soft cotton, dark, familiar. His hands shook slightly this time, fury and fear still simmering beneath his skin, but he forced it down. He gathered what he needed, returning within moments. Alec hadn’t moved a single inch. The sight broke something in Magnus’ chest all over again.
Kneeling, he gently set the clothes aside and helped Alec to his feet once more. "Come on," he murmured, barely more than a breath. "Let’s get you dressed."
Alec rose with the motion, his body loose, cooperative but utterly unseeing. He let Magnus pull the towel away, let him guide his arms into the sleeves of a soft shirt, fingers barely twitching as Magnus dressed him with infinite care. Every motion was slow, deliberate. The warmth of clean clothes helped, Magnus hoped—but Alec’s eyes remained distant, his expression eerily blank. When the last button was fastened, Magnus pressed his hands gently to Alec’s shoulders, steadying him.
“Almost done,” he murmured.
He led him from the bathroom, still moving as though guiding a sleepwalker, and eased him down onto the bed. Alec lay back without resistance, his head resting lightly on the pillow, his limbs falling loosely into place. But his eyes—his eyes remained open, wide and unfocused, fixed on something Magnus couldn’t see. The warlock exhaled slowly, carefully settling onto the edge of the bed beside him. He watched Alec’s breathing, slow but shallow, the faint tremble still in his fingers. He reached out, brushing damp strands of hair from Alec’s forehead, his touch feather-light.
“I’ve got you,” Magnus whispered again, his voice barely audible. "You're home."
Alec made no sound, no reply. Magnus stayed at his side, the quiet stretching long between them, the weight of the moment sinking deep into the bones of the room. Magnus sat motionless for what felt like hours, his hand resting lightly against Alec's damp hair, his breathing held in careful rhythm with the rise and fall of Alec’s chest. The boy's eyes remained wide, unfocused, his lashes barely fluttering. But eventually—mercifully—his eyelids drifted shut. The tension in his muscles eased minutely, his breath deepening. Sleep took him.
Magnus exhaled, his hands trembling as he slowly stood. The weight of it hit him all at once—panic, sharp and suffocating—rising in his throat with unbearable force. He stumbled into the living room, his magic jittering uselessly at his fingertips as he snatched up his phone with fingers that wouldn’t quite steady. He barely managed to dial. The second ring hadn’t finished before Catarina’s voice came through, soft but alert.
"Magnus?"
"Cat—" His voice broke immediately, hoarse and raw. "Cat, I—"
"Magnus," she said again, firmer this time. "What’s wrong? Did something happen?"
He could barely force words through the haze of panic. "It’s Alec. I don’t know how to explain it. There was an explosion. A blast. It killed them, Cat. It tore through them. He’s not—he’s not talking, he’s not..."
He heard the sharp intake of her breath.
"Where is he now?" she asked slowly, deliberately. "Magnus. Where’s Alec? Is he breathing? Is he hurt?"
He closed his eyes tightly. "Asleep. I got him into bed. He’s breathing but he’s not... he hasn’t said a word."
"Is he hurt?," she said instantly. “Magnus, is he hurt?”
“No, I don’t know. I healed him but he won’t talk, he’s asleep now I think”.
"He’s alive. That’s what matters right now. Listen to me. I’m coming over. Stay with him. Keep calm."
Her voice was steady, a lifeline in the spiraling chaos inside his head.
He swallowed hard. "Hurry."
She didn’t need to say anything more. The line went dead, and Magnus dropped the phone with shaking fingers. Minutes—no, seconds—later, Catarina was at the door, her arrival smooth as breath, her hair still damp from whatever she'd been doing before. She took one look at Magnus’ face and brushed past him without waiting.
"Bedroom?"
He nodded, breath catching again. "Yes—he’s—"
She didn’t wait. She moved quickly, efficient as always, but when Magnus trailed after her, panic crawled up his throat again.
"Cat—he—he was bleeding, and then he—his magic—it came out of him, it killed them—" He stumbled, his words jumbled. "I healed the stab wound—he’s not physically hurt—but I—"
Catarina was already kneeling beside the bed, her fingers brushing gently over Alec’s temple, her other hand hovering above his abdomen, magic stirring faintly at her fingertips.
"Tell me again," she said softly, her voice calm. "All of it."
Magnus forced the words out, steadier this time, describing the attack, the vampire, the knife, the explosion of magic, the gruesome disembowelment of the vampires. He held his arms tight across his chest, his voice raw. "I’ve seen magic surge under stress before but this—this wasn’t just a flicker. It ripped through an entire room. It tore vmpires apart."
Catarina’s magic pulsed faintly, her expression softening as she closed her eyes, concentrating. The faintest smile tugged at her mouth after a moment “The surge happened because it was time. The little one’s here now—I can feel it. Anchored right where it should be, solid and steady.”
Magnus breath hitched. "What?"
She nodded faintly. “The blast shouldn’t have been that destructive, but I imagine that daddy nearly being stabbed through the heart by vampires gave it a little extra punch.”
Magnus’ hands flexed uselessly at his sides. "Cat—" His voice cracked. "I can’t—I don’t know how to—"
She straightened and reached for him without hesitation, taking his hands in hers. Her palms were warm, grounding.
"Calm down," she said gently. "I want you to feel it. You’ll understand."
He blinked, confused. "Feel it?"
She guided his hands to Alec’s abdomen, laying his fingers carefully over the soft fabric there. "Use your magic," she whispered. "Reach. Gently."
Magnus hesitated, but she squeezed his hands. He forced himself to close his eyes, to breathe. To still the panic that buzzed like static under his skin. He let his magic rise slowly, carefully, sending it like a breath toward the space beneath his hands. And then—he felt it. A tiny spark. Warm. Alive. Something small, new. Fragile and impossibly fierce.
He exhaled sharply, his eyes flying open. His panic faltered. "Oh," he breathed, tears stinging the backs of his eyes. "Oh."
Catarina smiled faintly. "See? Solid. Anchored."
He shook his head helplessly. "Adrienne—Adrienne’s magic went wonky when the embryo awoke, but she blew out a few light bulbs. Made some car alarms go off."
Her smile tilted into something wry. "Well Adrienne wasn’t hunting down vampires between morning sickness, Magnus."
That pulled a short, broken laugh from him. The panic receded just enough.
She patted his hand, her eyes still gentle. "I think he’ll wake in the morning. Probably shaken. Probably needing you close. But he’ll wake."
He nodded, his throat too tight for words.
She stood, her expression softening further. "Call me in the morning. No matter what."
And then she was gone, leaving Magnus alone in the quiet with Alec. He moved on instinct. A flick of his fingers cleaned the dried blood from his skin, set himself in clean, soft lounge wear. He slid beneath the sheets, his body curling close to Alec’s without hesitation. His hand drifted back to his lover’s stomach, his magic brushing once more against that impossibly small, impossibly strong potential of life. Only when he felt it—only when it settled through his bones like a whisper—did his breathing steady enough to let sleep take him.
**********
The afternnon light filtered soft and pale through the curtains, casting a muted glow over the penthouse bedroom. Magnus stirred, groggy and sluggish, his limbs heavy with exhaustion. He blinked slowly at the ceiling, then immediately shifted his head to the side to check. Alec was still there. Exactly as he’d been hours ago, lying in the same position, the same stillness, his breath shallow but steady. He hadn’t moved once, not even in sleep. Magnus exhaled softly, a small knot of tension in his chest easing but not fully dissolving. The night and morning had been long—he’d woken more times than he could count, each time startled by dreams of silver light, blood, the shatter of magic, and always the fear that Alec wouldn’t be breathing when he opened his eyes. He was paying for it now, bleary and aching with fatigue, but it didn’t matter. Alec’s hair was still damp from the shower a few hours before, strands curling softly at his temple. Magnus’ fingers moved before he could stop them, brushing gently through the dark locks, tracing along Alec’s pale cheek.
“You’re still with me,” he whispered, the words meant for no one but himself.
A few minutes passed in that fragile quiet before Alec stirred. His lashes fluttered faintly, his breathing hitched, and then slowly, heavily, his eyes cracked open—unfocused at first, then blinking sluggishly as his gaze tried to settle.
Magnus smiled faintly, relief pulsing sharp and soft all at once. “Hey,” he murmured. “There you are.”
Alec’s lips parted slightly. His voice was rough, hoarse from disuse. “What... happened?”
Magnus kept his hand gentle against Alec’s hair, his thumb brushing along the edge of his cheekbone. “What do you remember?”
Alec frowned, his brows knitting. His eyes were still fogged, sluggish. “I—” He blinked again. “We went to the nightclub. I remember... the entrance. Nothing after that.”
Magnus’ fingers stilled for a moment. “How do you feel?”
There was a long pause. Alec’s eyes closed briefly, his throat working as he tried to swallow. “I don’t... I don’t feel right,” he admitted quietly. “Something’s off. I feel... strange.”
Magnus’ smile tilted into something softer, touched with sadness. “That’s because you entered a new phase,” he murmured gently. “During your mission. It stirred some trouble.”
Alec’s eyes sharpened slightly, confusion giving way to a flicker of alarm. “Trouble?”
Magnus let out a soft breath. “For the bad guys,” he added with a faint smirk, his tone meant to soothe. He dropped his gaze briefly, his fingers resuming their light touch over Alec’s temple. “Your magic reacted. That’s all. It’s... it’s normal. Sort of. But things are going to be wonky for a few weeks. Which means you’re grounded.”
That earned the barest glimmer of surprise from Alec. “Grounded?”
Magnus nodded, leaning back slightly. “No missions. You stay home. You rest. Non-negotiable.”
Alec hesitated, his lips parting like he meant to argue—but Magnus saw the faint crease between his brows, the flicker of unease that hadn’t left his eyes since they opened. He thought, fleetingly, that if Alec actually remembered the blast—remembered the destruction—he wouldn’t be hesitating at all. He’d be terrified. But Alec said nothing. He just exhaled, the faintest trace of tension in his jaw.
“Come on,” Magnus said softly after a moment. “You need to eat.”
That, at least, earned a reaction. Alec blinked, then muttered, “I... am starving.”
Magnus’ lips twitched. “I thought you might be.”
He helped Alec upright, careful, steady hands guiding him despite the younger man’s subtle frown of suspicion. Magnus caught the look—the way Alec’s eyes followed him with mild confusion, like he wasn’t sure what had changed, why Magnus’ hands were so gentle, why the concern on his face was so palpable. He didn’t say it out loud—didn’t tell Alec that he was eating for two now. That some deep-rooted instinct in Magnus’ chest wasn’t going to settle until Alec was safe, fed, and untouched by danger for as long as Magnus could possibly make it so. Alec let himself be led without protest, still unsteady on his feet, still pale. Magnus summoned the breakfast with a flick of his fingers—a full spread materializing across the dining table: eggs, bread, fruit, tea, and a dozen other things.
Alec’s lips quirked faintly. "I’m not that starving."
Magnus only smiled, ushering him into the chair with a light touch. He didn’t press. He knew Alec would eat—he could feel the undercurrent of real hunger in the way the boy’s fingers twitched faintly toward the food, even as his expression stayed wary.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” Magnus murmured.
He stepped away, leaving Alec at the table as he slipped back toward the living room to call Catarina. His eyes drifted once to the boy he’d left in the kitchen, and a quiet determination settled in his bones. He would keep Alec safe. No matter what.
Chapter 9: THE DAY AFTER
Chapter Text
Magnus wasn’t a stranger to tension. He’d lived through wars that left cities burning, magical plagues that melted flesh from bone, political collapses that reduced entire Courts to ash. He knew how to read a room. He knew the taste of fear, the shape of silence stretched too thin. He knew when something was wrong. And Alec—Alec was wrong. Not overtly. Not in any way Magnus could immediately name or call out. There was no panic, no outward sign of unraveling. Just a too-careful stillness, a brittle grace stretched tight over something that was quietly splintering. It was the little things: the way Alec sat too rigid when Magnus left the room, the way his fingers would drift—absently, unconsciously—toward his lower belly before he caught himself and pulled them back. The way his eyes—usually sharp, steady—had gone too wide at times, shadows bruising the skin beneath them.
And then there was the Scent.
That was the thing Alec couldn’t control, no matter how carefully he stitched his composure together. Even when his voice was level, even when he managed one of those small, careful smiles and teased Magnus about bringing coffee, the Scent told the truth—rising sharp and restless, frayed so thin at the edges it felt close to snapping. It wasn’t faint anymore. Not subtle. It pressed against Magnus’ senses with quiet, desperate insistence, like a living thing frantically tugging at his sleeve, pleading to be seen. The sweet, familiar threads of Alec’s usual scent were warped now—sharpened by the metallic sting of fear, the bruised undertone of exhaustion, the unmistakable iron-slick tang of pain that no amount of effort on Alec’s part could bury. But it wasn’t just the sharpness of it that struck Magnus. It was the tenderness beneath: the deep, aching weight of something quietly tangling, something too raw to voice aloud.
It brushed over Magnus’ magic like a whisper tugging at the hem of his coat, gentle but persistent, as if even Alec’s own body—his own nature—was begging Magnus to look closer. To see the bruised exhaustion in his bones, the restlessness he wouldn’t admit to. The quiet plea he didn’t know how to speak. And Magnus did see. The Scent wove through every breath Alec took, every careful word he shaped, every fragile wall he tried to keep standing. The Scent would not let Magnus forget. Would not let him look away. And Magnus—who had already once gathered Alec’s broken pieces and held them safe until he could breathe again—promised himself, silently, that he would do it as many times as it took.
The first time Magnus had to leave after the vampire incident—a brief meeting, something that couldn’t be avoided—he’d felt Alec through the wards when he returned. Not in the usual way. The magic in the air had been stretched thin, vibrating too high, too tightly wound. When he walked through the door, Alec was there on the couch, still as stone, his hands folded carefully, his mouth tugging into a ghost of a smile that didn’t touch his eyes.
“Did you bring coffee?” Alec had asked, voice light. Normal. As if everything beneath the surface wasn’t screaming.
Magnus smiled back. Played along. Set the paper bag down. It was nothing, he told himself. Except it wasn’t. The Scent gave him away—grief, exhaustion, a sour thread of fear beneath it all. Alec’s magic bristled softly beneath his skin as if it couldn’t decide whether to defend or collapse entirely. Magnus said nothing. He didn’t press. But something deep in his chest—something old and sharp and cold—began to coil with quiet dread.
The dreams were harder to miss.
Magnus woke more than once to the sound of Alec's breath hitching in his sleep, caught on some invisible hook. More than once, he felt the tremors before he saw them. He would reach out—gentle, careful—and Alec would startle awake, gasping, too pale. He never explained. He always shook his head, pulled away too fast. But Magnus could feel the magic trembling just beneath his skin, wild and unsettled. The boy was drowning in something, and Magnus didn’t know how to pull him free. He tried not to hover. Alec hated hovering. Magnus knew that well enough by now. He kept close instead, careful but constant, letting their days fall into a rhythm of small, quiet things: books left open on the coffee table, half-finished cups of tea, training sessions that ended in breathless laughter or rare, fragile smiles. The ordinary domestic nothings that filled the in-between. And it worked, for a time. Magnus could see the difference when he was near—the way Alec’s breathing steadied, the way his shoulders untensed by quiet degrees. The way his Scent smoothed, if only slightly, into something less jagged.
It reminded Magnus, painfully, of before—of the first time Alec had fell apart in front of him. The day he'd told Alec the truth: about being an Omega, about the bearing. The way Alec had pulled away, cold with shock and fear, until he'd slowly—hesitantly—allowed Magnus to help him stitch himself back together. They had made it through that. Somehow, against the odds. Magnus held onto that memory like a talisman now, silently praying that they would pull through this too. That Alec would come back to him, to himself, before whatever darkness was coiling in his mind hollowed him out completely. But Magnus couldn’t stay every moment. The world still pressed in: clients, minor disputes, cursed objects that needed seeing to, people who would not take no for an answer. Every time he left—even briefly—he felt the penthouse shift. The magic itself grew heavier in the air. Tight. Restless. Alec’s own power bristled faintly against Magnus’ absence, even when the boy sat still and said nothing.
The first few times Magnus brushed it off as apprenhension.
He didn’t anymore.
But he didn’t press. He didn’t ask. Alec wasn’t ready to answer. And Magnus—terrified of pushing too hard, too fast—wasn’t ready to lose the fragile trust they’d built either.
When Catarina came, Magnus felt Alec's tension spike the moment he stepped out for his Seelie meeting. He didn’t question it. Catarina was careful with her words when she returned, but Magnus saw the fine lines of worry around her eyes. She deflected his quiet inquiries with that patient doctor’s calm he hated so much.
“Let him rest,” she told him gently. “Keep him calm.”
Magnus kept his teeth clenched and nodded.
The magic inside Alec was… different. Magnus had expected shifts. He remembered Adrienne—how her magic had flared unpredictably in the early months, how his own magic had gone unstable at a touch or surged brighter without warning when she was near. He’d seen magic settle strangely before. He knew the odd currents that came with early bearing. He wasn’t new to this. But Alec’s magic wasn’t just strange. It was something else entirely. He could feel it—sometimes just brushing Alec’s skin when they sat close or when Alec shifted in sleep and Magnus’ fingertips skimmed his side. It wasn’t dark. It wasn’t corrupted. If anything, it felt cleaner than any magic Magnus had ever touched—something ancient and pure, humming with a sharp, silvery undercurrent that set his own senses buzzing. It felt, impossible, angelic. Power that belonged to something higher, something brighter than what either of them was made for.
And that was the danger.
Not the child. Not the magic itself. But the weight of it—the sheer magnitude of that unfiltered force tangled up inside a body not willing to bear it. It was too much. Too sharp. Too relentless. Alec’s very cells were straining under it, his magic cramping at the seams not because something monstrous was growing, but because something impossibly pure was. Magnus didn’t fear the child. He feared what the magic would do to Alec before it settled. Before his body found the strength to hold it without breaking. And Alec—he could endure. He was strong. Stronger than most. Magnus believed that. But somewhere, buried deep beneath that belief, in the quiet dark corners of his heart, the smallest thought took shape:
And if he can’t?
Magnus exhaled, pushing the thought away like smoke. He let his palm settle gently against the low warmth of Alec’s belly and whispered softly into the air between them:
“You’ll hold. I know you will.”
There were moments—quiet ones—when Alec would let him touch, when Magnus could press his hand gently against the boy’s belly and feel the warmth there, the faint flicker of something impossibly small and impossibly alive. It soothed him. Calmed the restless pacing of his mind. But even then… even then there was something in Alec’s eyes. A distance. A barely-hidden dread. Magnus noticed every time Alec tensed when magic brushed too close. Every time he caught him pressing hands to his ribs in restless unease. Every time he claimed he wasn’t hungry or shrugged off fatigue. He knew Alec was lying. He just didn’t know how to make him stop. The night before it all changed, Magnus lay awake longer than he let on. Alec slept—or something close to it—tense even in unconsciousness, his breathing shallow, his face pale in the low lamplight. Magnus brushed fingertips against his hair, feather-light, barely daring to touch.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he whispered, the words so quiet they barely shaped sound. “I won’t let you break.”
Alec shifted in his sleep but didn’t wake. And Magnus, too, eventually drifted—his hand resting carefully over the warmth of new life, guarding it even in dreams.
**********
The first time Magnus left after the vampire incident, Alec told himself he was fine. Truly. He did. He’d nodded when Magnus said he had to meet someone for a short exchange. He’d even managed to kiss him goodbye, though the motion felt stiff, foreign, like it belonged to someone else's body. He watched Magnus leave, the soft click of the door louder than it should have been, and sat there for a while, telling himself the twist in his gut was nothing. It wasn’t nothing. It started slow, that creeping, tightening cold. Not the lingering ache from the stab wound, not even the flicker of residual magic that still seemed to crackle faintly beneath his ribs. It was the stillness—the sheer unnatural absence that draped itself over the penthouse the second Magnus was gone. He sat where Magnus left him. He crossed his arms. He stared through the windows at the slow pulse of Manhattan’s lights. His own reflection gazed back, pale and drawn and too sharp around the eyes.
By the first hour, the silence had teeth.
By the second, it had weight.
By the third, it was suffocating.
When Magnus finally returned—smiling, casual, the warm brush of his presence sweeping gently across the wards—Alec didn’t move much. He barely looked up. But his hands were clenched so tightly into the couch cushions that he had to force them to relax finger by finger. Magnus didn’t seem to notice. And Alec didn’t tell him.
The dreams started the next night. They dragged him down like weighted chains, clamping over his chest, filling his lungs with tar. He was back in the vampire den—except distorted, wrong. The colors too dark, the air too thick. Faces twisted into monstrous caricatures. Teeth too long, fingers too thin. And worst of all: the baby faces. Pale, soft-lipped, grinning grotesqueries with wet red mouths and gleaming teeth. Infant eyes set into bodies that crawled and slithered in impossible shapes. He could feel their breath. Could taste the rot. He woke up screaming. Magnus’ hands steadied him, soft and grounding. Whispered nonsense in his ear until the tremors stopped. Alec lay rigid, breath ragged, but when Magnus asked if he wanted to talk, he shook his head. He didn’t. He couldn’t. How did you tell someone you were dreaming about monsters wearing the faces of children?
He waited three days before he asked Catarina. Magnus had left that afternoon—another brief meeting. Alec didn’t even listen to the details. He only heard the door close. He only felt the weight roll back in. He sat frozen on the couch for too long before Catarina arrived for her scheduled check-in. She smiled as usual. Warm. Grounded. Alec could barely meet her eyes.
“Can you get rid of it?” The words came out flat. Brittle. His voice didn't sound like his.
She blinked, confused. “Alec…”
“The baby,” he forced out, jaw tight. “Or whatever it is. Can you take it out of me?”
Her face changed—not with horror, not with disgust. Something worse. Sadness. Pity. Real, raw compassion that twisted in his gut like a blade. She looked at him like he was small. Fragile.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmured, the words sharp-edged.
She hesitated. “I… I’ll look into it. But Magnus—”
“He can’t know,” Alec snapped. “Not yet.”
Something in her gaze softened further. But she didn’t argue. And that bothered him most of all.
The days blurred together after that. When Magnus was near, the weight lifted. He could breathe. He could eat. He could pretend that things were normal, that he was just tired or shaken from the last mission. Magnus didn’t push, didn’t crowd him. He stayed close without smothering. It helped. Enough that Alec could function. But every time Magnus left—every hour he was gone—the knot in Alec’s chest pulled tighter. He told himself it was temporary. He told himself he could handle it. But his body disagreed. His heart beat too fast. His hands trembled. Cold sweat soaked his clothes. Sometimes he caught his reflection in the dark glass of the windows and didn’t recognize his own eyes. His thoughts spiraled. He tried to train it out. He ran, practiced, sparred in empty air when Magnus was gone. It didn’t help. Nothing burned the unease away.
Because he remembered. Flashes of the vampire fight. Blood. Screams. And then—nothing. Magnus had told him gently, carefully, that Catarina suspected the blast of magic had been protective. Instinctive. A defense mechanism tied to the growing life inside him. But Alec couldn’t believe that. He felt the wrongness too clearly. The cold was still in his bones. The power that had cracked out of him—it hadn’t felt like his. It had felt like something other. Something monstrous.
The nightmares worsened. Night after night, things with too many limbs, infants with rows of teeth, hands where faces should have been. He woke gasping, sometimes not remembering the scream still lodged in his throat. Magnus always pulled him close. Always held him steady. Once, Alec cried. Silent, bitter tears pressed into Magnus’ shoulder, and the other man said nothing, just held him tighter until he could breathe again. Alec never spoke of the dreams. And then the unease turned to pain. First a dull throb under his ribs, then sharper twinges, deep and low. Something inside him stretched—shifted. He could feel it. Clawing. Curling. The wrongness was growing. He stopped mentioning it. He stopped asking about it. Catarina still came. Magnus still stayed close. But Alec didn’t let the words come out. He buried them in training, in silence. He was running out of time.
One evening, he sat alone by the window. Magnus had only been gone an hour, but the weight was already back. He pressed both hands flat against his abdomen, over the faint, pulsing warmth that never seemed to fade anymore. It wasn’t comfort. It was warning. And he didn’t know what terrified him more: what he might be becoming—or what he might have to do to stop it.
**********
In the New York Institute, Jace and Isabelle were training in the room dedicated to that function up in the attic. Jace was smirking devilishly, he could see Isabelle mirroring his smirk. Training with Isabelle, there was no holding back, there was no need to follow the guidelines. Just pure instinctive, pristine fighting. They always were on the same page about their drive for a good fight even if Isabelle was a lot less hotheaded than Jace. She was the middle chain between Jace’s recklessness and Alec’s overcautiousness. As a team the three of them had perfect balance, to each their skills and their own aspirations used in the most efficient way.
Isabelle was ablaze, striking relentlessly. Her chain of attacks left Jace no respite, forcing him to simply parry or dodge. She was taunting him viciously not that this would ever have any effect on his ego, Jace was pretty much immune to teasing. He did feel a little sore and she was particularly sprightly today and some of her blows had hit the mark. When Jace felt a piercing pain through his flank, he just figured she had broken his defense quite more effectively than she ever had. But then he felt through his Parabaï bond a sense of dread that overtook all his senses and sent him to his knees.
Isabelle stopped in mid jab hastily going to him and kneeling beside him she said concerned:
“Jace! What is it? Did I hurt you?”
“No… it’s Alec” Jace answered a little shaken “I think he’s hurt, I don’t know” He staggered back to his feet shaking off his tremors “I’ll go check on him, it’s probably nothing” he added.
Isabelle leapt to her feet and said:
“I’ll come with you”
“Hum… no better you stay; we can’t let the Institute unattended. I’ll call you when I get there”
Isabelle hesitated; her brother’s welfare trumped the Institute’s interests any day. Before Alec had awakened to his breed, the bond would only be sensitive if one of the two boys was precariously in danger or hurt. But now, it seemed to have been a little more unbalanced and Jace had grown much more acute to Alec’s circumstances. But Jace was right, it really wasn’t the time to intrigue the Clave or Hodge. They felt Hodge knew but acted as he didn’t, they felt the older Shadowhunter was not in agreement with the ways of the Clave towards how they’d dealt with Alec’s nature and was inclined to let Alec deal with this mess as he saw fit. But since what happened at the vampire club they were being checked upon around the clock by a senior Shadowhunter. So, she let him go on his own.
Outside of the Institute’s walls, Jace drew a speed rune on his right hip and started running at full speed. He could be at Magnus’ penthouse in less than 35Z minutes by rooftops and transportation, and damn they needed a fucking car! He would make sure he was there in 25 even if both his ankles should break.
It wasn’t so much the pang of pain that’d worried him, but the dread. He’d known this, he’d felt this, utter hopelessness. There were no runes to mend this kind of wound.
Jace saw the penthouse, situated in the renown industrial parts of Greenpoint, and dashed to the entrance. He buzzed, once, twice. He didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t think there would be any. He tried the doors, putting all his weight and strength into the push, and barreled inside very ungracefully when it opened at once with no resistance. He took the stairs by twos and barreled into the penthouse doors. He shouted Alec’s names while slamming the doors with both fists. Jace was not a patient person by any stretch of imagination, he took out his stele and drew an opening rune. But nothing happened. He knew that the building was heavily warded, all the more since Alec had somewhat moved in, Magnus expecting the Clave to break down the door any minute to take no prisoners. Jace had a three attempts policy: one, going with the rule book, two, bending the rules, three, blowing everything out. He took out his Seraph blades, he spoke aloud the name of Jophiel and as the blades ignited with heavenly fire, he plainly thrusted them within the weakest spot between the wood and the metal. The door opened, fuming.
Jace called for Alec, looking around everywhere his steps took him. He was relying on his Parabataï rune and the bond it created between the two Nephilims to guide his long strides. And then he found him. Laying on the hardwood floor, facing the ceiling. The older boy was motionless but for the slow rises of his chest. A pool of blood surrounded his lower body in a round velvet shape. A seraph blade was lying on the floor by his right knee clean and dormant and an oblique incision was oozing blood on his left wrist.
Jace estimated the amount of blood to be around the litter, he concluded that the artery had been nicked and not cut through as the wound seemed to start clotting, the blood seeped in slow droplets. Jace quavered with stupor and anger. He kneeled beside the inert body taking out his stele and started to draw an Iratze near the wound cursing his friend and threatening extensive butt kicking for fuck’s sakes! The Iratze worked awfully fast, the wound not being much deep and the rune being drawn by a Parabataï therefore enhancing its power. Also, the rune was perfectly shaped, Jace used and abused this rune to a point of being able to draw it with both his eyes closed. He then activated Alec’s stamina rune to accelerate his blood regeneration.
Alec began to stir, moaning faintly. Jace was difficultly withholding the need to shout at the guy. What the hell did you do!? To grab his brother by his shoulders and to shake him until Jace had tired his arms enough they would stop fucking shaking. But Alec opened his eyes, levered his eyes to Jace’s ones burning with fury and burst into tears covering his face with his left upper arm. Jace, with no pause to think, seized Alec’s upper body and brought him to his chest, burying the older boy’s face in his arms and pressing kisses to his hair. He just held tight, letting his brother sob without restraint for as long as he needed.
It was by now late in the afternoon, Alec was seated on the couch, knees opened over and holding in his hands a steaming cup of some healthy nutritive beverage he said Magnus forced fed him every time he could.
Jace had left to clean the pool of blood. He had thrown, in a big shopping bag, all the paper towels it had taken and all of Alec’s tainted clothes. Alec had sobbed for what seemed like a long time and then he had settled but for the hand that gripped solidly to Jace’s shirt. Then he had slightly shifted on his side and Jace had loosened his embrace. Jace had inspected his face, Alec looked strained and pastry white with a dull calmness. Without a word Jace had gotten up lifting the other man with him and keeping a strong hold on Alec’s body had dragged him into the bathroom. He’d taken the time to undress him, wary of his wounded wrist, which was well healed but still a little blotched and probably tender. He’d wiped the blood that had sipped through his clothes onto his skin and had seated him gently onto his bed while he had gone to grab some clean clothes. Alec had mindlessly let him maneuver him around with a distant look in his eyes.
Jace had dressed him up into something comfy, which wasn’t hard to find as Alec had nothing but comfy clothes, too big and too old. And he’d taken him back to the living room to settle him on the sofa. Then he went back to the kitchen to find something hot and soothing for the troubled teen to drink. That’s how he found what looked like homemade tea. Alec had said it was fine and had told Jace about Magnus’ desire to drown Alec in this mixture which was supposed to provide about every vitamin that ever existed. When Jace got back to Alec, he sat opposite him and began to assess the best way to make his friend talk. Jace knew how to be cute and persistently pressing. And eventually Alec caved in and with a detached voice explained how he felt a pain in his middle and how it had freaked him out. Alec was straightforward, in a sense that he always went for the plain and simple facts. Witch sometimes was helpful and sometimes not. Over the years, Jace had learned to read between the lines and every so often, he figured he knew things about Alec that the older boy ignored about himself so much he worried about how he was perceived than who he was truly.
He guessed the pain he felt hadn’t him freaking out about his health, nor the one of the child’s growing inside him. It had just painfully shocked Alec into acknowledging said child. Alec had been, since he’d known, nothing but fleeting from the whole thing. He knew it was happening but he didn’t really feel he was a part of it, all the less the main protagonist of this affliction. He’d said to Jace, his thumb and index finger pinching the corners of his eyes, that he had felt the need to have it gone. He needed it to be gone. He’d taken his Seraph blade and just horror stricken had wanted to rip it out. But he hadn’t dared, and it left him hopeless. And he couldn’t bear it, he wanted this feeling to end.
Jace had no idea what Alec felt as an Omega, as someone who could bear life, as a man who could bear life but he knew this feeling. When grief reached a level to which you no longer could remember ever feeling any other way and couldn’t imagine ever feeling any other way. He’d wanted to make it stop too. Jace had squeezed his shoulder reassuringly and Alec had finally looked at him uneasily. Jace had said sensibly that Alec should speak of this with Magnus and Alec jerked sitting straight, both foot on the floor with his eyes wide with horror. And he had begged Jace to not tell anything to Magnus, it would devastate him! Alec could never handle to cause this kind of harm upon Magnus. He’d made him swear by the Angel he would keep his mouth shut. And Jace did to calm his brother down. And as he was still shaken by the mere idea, Jace had told him he would clean everything so that Magnus would never know.
And then he went on telling little bits of stories from their childhood, like when they told Isabelle that the Silent Bothers were naked under their robes and how she’d totally freak when they approached her from then. But then, they’d also started to think that maybe it was indeed the truth, and they couldn’t stop themselves looking when they’d see them in case something would show, and they’d freak a little too.
Or when the three of them had for weeks changed the location of Hodge’s books and stuff as soon as he’d put them down and the man had started to think himself going crazy. But then Hodge had caught them doing it and he’d made them clean all the weapons until they shone. Jace hadn’t been so frustrated with this punition, he just loved his weapons all smooth and shiny anyway. But Isabelle was pissed because it had screwed her evening plans to go out and Alec had been just feeling so bad to have displeased the older man (who Jace had and still thought so exaggerated the seriousness of the ordeal and totally guilt tripped Alec).
Jace had obtained a few shy smiles from Alec recalling and he was content because it was his intention to do so. And when Alec was acting a bit less disturbed, he had gone to clean up the place. Then he had called Isabelle (who had called him a couple thousand times) she had shouted at him for way too long, listing everything that made him a bad brother. He would hang around until Magnus showed. Alec kept to the couch but seemed appeased to have Jace rambling through the place. Jace had gone probing all over the kitchen for something to eat and found plenty. Magnus usually didn’t have anything to eat in his apartment, but he had stuffed massively all the cupboards with every food there was if Alec wanted a snack. He brought it over and stuffed himself, attempting now and then to interest Alec with some food, to no success.
When Magnus came home, he first saw his door broken and burnt, which worried him obviously and he rushed to the living room seeking Alec. He first saw that pretentious little blond Shadowhunter being way too comfortable in his home. Then he saw Alec seated who, upon seeing him, dropped him a light smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was no Scent coming off him, but he could feel in his bones that the boy was worn.
“Well me meet again” Jace said with that little smirk that certainly would’ve been his demon mark had he been a warlock “I’ll see myself to the door now” he said.
The golden boy squeezed Alec’s knee as he stood up and Magnus could see real lovingness there, and most parts of himself approved but a little part felt the need to see him to the door and to close it behind him. He followed Jace to the entrance and asked:
“Social call? A little visit? Did something happen?” he said trying to be nonchalant.
Jace lost the smirk then, and with levity, Jace clapped his shoulder and said:
“Just a little freak out. But I took care of it, free of charge” he winked and turn to the door. But as he was about to take his leave, he turned back a little more sternly “Perhaps Alec shouldn’t be left on his own from now on, you know.” He added with a meaningful look. And he went back to his usual smirk.
“A little freak out?” Magnus repeated “So why is my door wreaked?”
The boy had at least the decency to look a little sheepish.
“Well, I did get passed the first doors but I couldn’t open this one with my stele”
“Of course you wouldn’t, first because should I need a lock, it would certainly not be freed by something as poor as Nephilim magic and second, the door is never locked. Perhaps the functioning of knobs has escaped you?” Magnus answered, jesting not addressing the reason why Alec couldn’t just open the door for him.
“Oh well that is a shame isn’t it”.
Magnus watched him leave with an incredulous look on his face. And as he approached the entrance of the living room, he watched Alec and seemed to understand that something serious had transpired today and maybe he would prioritize working jobs from home from now on.
**********
Magnus hadn’t left the apartment in nearly two weeks. Not since that evening he had found Jace in the penthouse, the door stabbed open and Alec sitting on the couch, knees drawn to his chest, looking incredibly small and drained. The memory lived beneath his skin like an open wound. He still wasn’t sure what had happened. Jace’s words had only hinted, in that callous tone of his he used to smooth chaos into something reasonable. And Magnus hadn’t been there. That thought gnawed at him more than anything else. He hadn’t been there.
He had promised himself, quietly, long ago—he wouldn’t leave Alec to face anything alone. Not again. Not after what had already happened between them. Not after the unbearable days of confusion and fear, of Alec unraveling piece by piece right in front of him. But that day, something had happened. And he had known his lover wasn’t stable.
And still he had left, trying to hold onto normalcy to please a man who had spent his entire life under the strange belief that if he did act as if nothing was wrong then maybe everything would be fine. It actually had never really worked out for Alec so Magnus didn’t quite understand why he’d let himself being pulled into such a strange mindset.
Since then, Magnus hadn’t so much as looked at the door. He didn’t take outside clients, didn’t answer half the warlocks who came knocking. He handled the bare minimum of his duties as High Warlock—urgent calls, the most essential magical decisions—conducted with sharp, clipped words over the phone. Even during those calls, his mind stayed half-drawn to Alec: to the living room couch where the boy sometimes sat in silence, or the bedroom where Magnus would find him hours later, staring blankly at the ceiling as if caught in a dream he couldn’t wake from.
The smell of blood lingered. Even after days of washing, of scrubbing and burning incense, Magnus swore he could still smell it—caught between the notes of Alec’s Scent, threaded through the air like ghost-smoke. He hated it. He hated how still the penthouse had become. He hated how quiet Alec was, how pale his face looked in the morning light, how even in sleep his breathing was tight and uneven.
And more than that, he hated the part of himself that kept whispering: What if this is something you can’t fix?
But the decision not to leave—no matter how much it frayed his nerves, no matter how stir-crazy it made him—had been the right one. He could see that much. Something in Alec had begun to settle in the days since. Slowly. Carefully. A little more each time Magnus stayed close. The first time Alec let Magnus touch him without tensing—just a simple touch, fingertips brushing his arm—Magnus had felt something in his own chest loosen. It was nothing dramatic. No sudden collapse of the wall between them. Just a shift. A fraction. A breath. He held onto that.
By the end of the first week, Alec was eating without prompting. By the second, he was sleeping more often. The dread that had lived in his eyes—the hollow glassy-eyed terror—seemed to ease by degrees. Until Alec's breathing deepened. Until the quiet began to feel like healing instead of drowning. Until the shadow in Alec’s eyes faded enough that Magnus could, at last, let himself believe— They might just pull through this. Together.
Of course Magnus’ absence from the scene hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Word had spread—of course it had—that Magnus was marked. It was impossible to hide. The rune Alec had left on his skin, bright silver and pulsing with quiet magic, wasn’t the kind of thing even Magnus could fully veil. Some of his fellow warlocks—those who knew what such markings implied—had backed away. Even those who had tolerated or feared him before gave him space now. And of course with Alec rampaging the entire downworld looking for warlock killers with his Omega aura all around him untamed and lush, every downworlder Alpha or sensitive to the Scent had quickly whispered around about the curious novelty.
Lorenzo, predictably, had been the first to recoil, his disdain sharpened to pure venom at Magnus. Not that the other warlock had ever needed incentive to maintain his hatred for Magnus but the news didn’t help to appease his jalousy. Magnus found he didn’t care.
Catarina came daily, though she rarely stayed more than a breath longer than she had to. Hospital shifts, patients, life—she balanced it all with the kind of dry grace only Catarina could manage. She didn’t meddle, didn’t hover. She did what she came to do: checked Alec, glanced at Magnus with that old half-smile that said you’re a mess but I’m still here, and vanished again. Somehow, it always helped. And, in time, things… shifted. The worst of it passed.
Perhaps Catarina had been right. The dread, the brittle paranoia that had twisted Alec into something ghost-like began to fade, little by little. The Scent that had haunted Magnus senses—sharp with panic, with pain—dulled by degrees. The air of the penthouse stopped vibrating like a plucked string every time Magnus brushed Alec’s skin.
The magic inside Alec settled. Not entirely, not fully—Magnus could still feel it pulsing there, deep beneath the surface, silver-bright and otherworldly. But it no longer lashed out. It no longer trembled as if every breath might trigger another blast. Alec had even smiled once. A real one. Small, crooked, but real. Magnus had kissed that smile like it was the first sunlight he’d seen in years. By the end of the second week, when Alec finally—hesitantly—asked Catarina if he should expect any more “life-shattering bearing symptoms” in the near future, Magnus felt something in his chest ease for the first time in days.
Catarina, soft-eyed but dry-voiced as ever, had told him gently that no—aside from hunger, exhaustion, and the more familiar discomforts that came with any bearing—Alec should be fine. His magic was settling. His body was adjusting. For now, she’d said, her tone even but her gaze carefully watchful, there was nothing else to fear.
For now.
At least until the birth.
The word hung there, too heavy, too final. Magnus felt it land even before he saw Alec’s reaction. It was barely a twitch—just the barest tightening at the corner of Alec’s mouth, the faint crease between his brows—but Magnus caught it instantly. A flicker of tension. Of dread. The visible echo of everything Alec wasn’t yet ready to say aloud.
The idea for the weekend had come to Magnus in the small hours of the night, lying awake while Alec slept at last, his breath soft and even. They needed to breathe. Both of them. Before something else found them.
Bali had seemed… right.
And Alec—after a long, suspicious pause—had agreed.
They didn’t speak of demons, of magic, of the Clave, of the child. They let the sun burn across their skin. Let the saltwater drag the tension from their bones. Magnus found a version of Alec he hadn’t seen in weeks—looser, sharper with humor, slow to smile but warm when he did.
They spent hours on the sand, Magnus sprawled under the shade of an umbrella with Alec half-draped beside him, lazily reading or doing absolutely nothing at all. Magnus summoned fresh fruit, cold drinks, lazy comforts. Alec teased him about his inability to not show off and Magnus, in turn, kissed the words right out of his mouth. There were moments—small, quiet, sacred—where Magnus would catch Alec watching him. Not with fear. Not with dread. But with something softer. Something almost peaceful. In Bali, they remembered how to touch each other—not with urgency, but with slow, aching reverence. Magnus’ hands mapped Alec’s skin with the kind of focus that made Alec tremble, every brush of fingers against bare flesh a reminder that they were still here, still whole, still theirs. Every kiss dragged out until breath lacked, until Alec melted beneath him, soft and pliant and wanting. It wasn’t forever. Magnus knew that. The world would come for them again. But for a little while, it was enough.
When they returned, golden from the sun and just barely beginning to feel whole again, Isabelle called. And when she told Alec—gently, carefully—that their parents were returning to the Institute… Magnus felt the first threads of tension begin to wind tight again.
Chapter 10: The weight of normalcy
Notes:
Explicit sex scene in this chapter.
Chapter Text
The Institute library was quiet when Alec stepped inside, the hush of old books and flickering witchlight settling over the room like a breath held too long. His footsteps echoed faintly against marble floors, the familiar weight of the place wrapping around his shoulders like armor—armor he wasn’t sure would hold.
Maryse was already there.
She stood near the far shelves, dark hair pinned neatly, her thin frame taut with impatience. She turned when she heard him, her sharp eyes raking over him, assessing. A breath of hesitation—a flicker of something softer—before she crossed the distance and wrapped her arms around him.
“Alec,” she murmured.
The hug was brief. Alec returned it stiffly, arms looping around her with mechanical care. His face, however, stayed carefully blank. Walls, he’d built high.
When she pulled back, her eyes narrowed slightly. “I heard you were injured,” she said at last. “No one could seem to give me a clear explanation as to what happened. Is something going on?”
Alec said nothing. He shifted, half-sitting on the edge of the long oak table, arms crossing over his chest in deliberate stillness. He watched her without expression, but beneath it—beneath the blank stare—something bitter churned. The resentment was rising.
Maryse started pacing, her heels striking soft against the stone floor. “You’re supposed to report these things, Alec. I expect you to be responsible. I can’t have half-answers and rumors.”
Still he said nothing. Still he watched her. His silence was weight, was challenge.
Finally, she stopped. Folded her arms across her chest to mirror his. “Are you going to tell me what’s happening? Or not?”
For a moment they were mirrors—thin, wiry frames, dark hair, cold steel eyes. The resemblance struck sharper than usual. Something about the angle of her chin, the stubborn line of her jaw. It might have been funny if it hadn’t been so devastating.
Alec exhaled. Dry. “If you’d stop talking for a second, maybe.”
Her eyes flared, caught off guard by the sharpness in his tone—one she clearly wasn’t used to hearing from him. But she masked it quickly. Recovered. “Then talk,” she said, just as dry.
He studied her for a breath longer, then—without embellishment—said, “I met someone.”
Her brows lifted. “You met someone?”
“A guy,” Alec clarified, lifting a single brow in quiet, stubborn defiance.
Her lips pressed thin. She resumed pacing—sharp, agitated. “Meeting someone doesn’t excuse you from protocol, Alec. It doesn’t exempt you from duty. We raised you to be better than that. To be—”
“Responsible?” Alec cut in, voice flat.
“Yes.” Her eyes flashed. “I won’t have you throwing away everything we’ve built for some crush. You’re too young to vanish off somewhere with someone and forget the oaths you took.”
That word—young—landed wrong. Alec’s other brow arched. “Ah,” he murmured, voice edged with sarcasm. “Guess I’m only too young when it involves making my own choices—not when I’m bleeding out there for the cause.”
Maryse stopped mid-step, spun to face him.
“We’re Shadowhunters Alec, this is our duty. Is that what this is about?” she demanded. “Is it because it’s a man?”
The air between them thickened. Alec’s stomach twisted, but he held her gaze, jaw set.
“It’s more complicated than that,” he said.
She squinted. Suspicious now. Sharp. “Then explain.”
Alec’s chin lifted slightly. His arms stayed crossed, his posture iron. “You might want to sit down,” he said, voice too calm. “That was nothing. It only goes downhill from here.”
She didn’t sit. She squared her shoulders instead. Dared him, without words, to go on.
He did.
“It’s not just a man. He’s a downworlder,” Alec said evenly. “A warlock.”
The color bled from her face in slow motion. She stared. “A warlock?” she echoed, her voice laced with pure repulsion.
He nodded once. “His name is Magnus.”
The name hit like a blow. She froze—completely still. Her breath caught audibly. “Magnus?” she whispered, horrified. “Magnus Bane?”
She snapped, the control she clung to shattering in an instant. Her voice lashed out, sharp as broken glass.
“Do you have any idea what he is? What people like him are? He’s dangerous, Alec. He’s—he’s filth. Beneath you. Beneath us.” Her hands cut through the air as she paced, her breath quickening with each word. “A warlock of the worse kind. A creature who trades in deception and chaos. You’re a Shadowhunter—how could you let yourself fall into something so… so base? So degenerate?”
Her eyes burned into him, frantic and disbelieving. “I raised you better than this. We gave you everything. And this is what you do? You throw it away for that man?”
Alec didn’t flinch. He stayed cold, eyes glinting with anger, lips pressed thin. “Jace was dying,” he said, his voice soft but laced with steel. “The Silent Brothers sent me to get Magnus. He saved Jace’s life. Perhaps that doesn’t mean much to you, but it meant something to me.”
Her mouth curled in a sneer. “I didn’t raise you to be so easily led. To throw everything away because someone lit up the sky and whispered in your ear.”
Alec’s snort cut her off. He shook his head, dropped his gaze. Then—without looking up—he said with chilling calm: “He’s an Alpha.”
The effect was immediate. She blanched. Panic. Her voice broke. “How do you know that? Alec—are you off your medication?”
The words burned. His eyes snapped back up, full of fury. “How could you hide this from me?”
She crumpled into the chair as if her legs no longer belonged to her, hands clasping her knees, knuckles drained of color. Her breath came short, her lips parted, but no words formed. She didn’t look at him—she couldn’t. The distance between them now felt far too deep to cross.
“You don’t understand,” she whispered. “You don’t know what could happen. You have to take them again. Alec, please—”
But Alec—voice shaking now, but iron beneath it—said softly: “I know exactly what could happen.”
Her head lifted sharply. Horror etched into every line of her face. She stood suddenly, hands flying to his shoulders. “Why? Alec—what happened?”
For a moment he couldn’t speak. The words caught. His breath hitched. Then, finally—barely more than a whisper: “The worst.”
Her gasp was ragged. She stumbled back, eyes wide, one hand lifting to her mouth in horror. Her gaze dropped—reflexive—to his abdomen. Alec looked down too, shame scorching through him for half a breath—before anger burned it clean away.
“This is your fault,” he said, voice low, fierce. “You should have told me. You let me walk into this blind. You have no idea how hard—”
His voice broke. He swallowed hard. Tears blurred his vision but he didn’t stop.
“It’s been killing me,” he rasped. “And you—”
Her head shook. “I was trying to protect you.” Maryse’s voice broke at last, brittle and unsteady, her hands clenched in her lap. “I just—” she exhaled sharply, as if the words scraped on the way out—“I wanted you to have a normal life, Alec. I wanted you to be safe. It is so much harder to be different in those law abiding institutions.”
The words tasted like surrender, but they were laced with a desperate kind of love. A mother's fear she couldn't quite disguise.
Alec’s jaw tensed. His throat felt tight. When he spoke, his voice came out low, cold, but shaking at the edges.
“Normal?” he echoed, the word soft as a blade. “I’ve spent years ripping myself apart trying to be normal for you. For the Clave. For everyone. And I’m so tired of fighting myself just to make everyone else comfortable.”
His arms crossed tighter over his chest, the weight of it all pressing down until his breath came sharp. “I’ve spent so long pretending I barely remember who I’m supposed to be. And I’m so tired of it.” The word cut both ways. She flinched. Her breathing was fast, uneven.
“I never wanted you hurt,” she whispered. “I swear on the Angel—I never meant—” Maryse—eyes wide, hands trembling—finally exhaled. Slowly. She sat back down, visibly shaken.
When she spoke again, her voice was small. “I’ll fix this,” she said. “I promise. I’ll make this right.”
The words rang hollow.
Alec didn’t answer.
**********
The penthouse felt too large when Alec wasn’t in it. Magnus paced, barefoot, restless, the polished floor cold under his steps. It was nearly dawn. He hadn’t slept—not properly, not since Alec had gone to the Institute the day before to speak with his parents. He stayed overnight. He’d kept in touch—messages, short calls—but every one of them left Magnus more uneasy, not less. He hated this. The not knowing. The waiting. The ghosts of old memories gnawing at the edges of his mind like teeth.
Maryse and Robert Lightwood. How easy it was to recall the sound of their orders during the uprising years ago—how their voices rang cold and sharp as they led slaughter after slaughter. Magnus remembered the stain of blood in the air, remembered the howls of dying downworlders. Those were not good people. Whatever polite faces they wore now, whatever titles the Clave still bestowed on them, Magnus had seen the truth of them before. He’d known the steel in their hearts. And now Alec—his Alec—was in their orbit again. Alec wasn’t a child. But family… family could cut deeper than anything.
Magnus pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharp through his teeth. He poured himself tea just to have something to do with his hands, then left it untouched on the counter. It was unbearable—the stillness of the flat without Alec’s presence in it. It felt wrong. He told himself they wouldn’t hurt him. That even they couldn’t.
And still. But what if they did?
He nearly jumped when the intercom buzzed. Magnus blinked, set the cup down with a sharp clink, and stalked over to the panel. His heart gave an uneven thud. The voice on the other end was one he hadn’t heard in over fifteen years.
“This is Maryse Lightwood,” she said crisply. “I need to speak with you.”
Magnus closed his eyes. He breathed in through his nose and out through his teeth. There it was—the migraine, already coiling behind his eyes. He pressed the button, his voice sweet with acid.
“Top floor,” he said flatly, then clicked off.
He didn’t rush. He didn’t pace. He made her wait. He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves. He made tea. Only when the knock came—and a few breaths beyond that—did he finally, slowly, open the door.
Maryse Lightwood stood on the threshold exactly as he remembered her—razor-sharp, composed to the point of cruelty, dressed in black with precision-cut grace. If time had touched her, it had done so lightly: her hair was lighter now, her face more lined, but the steel in her eyes was untouched.
For half a breath, Magnus was struck—not by the memory of her, but by the uncomfortable familiarity in her features. He saw it: the shape of Alec’s mouth, the cut of his jaw, the color of his eyes, his thin toned silhouette. Everything he was attracted to in his lover. The resemblance was undeniable. And it unsettled him more than he liked.
“Don’t just stand there,” she said coolly. “May I come in?”
He stepped aside with a theatrical flourish of his hand. “By all means,” he murmured, voice honey-smooth with contempt. “Make yourself at home.”
She didn’t waste time. She moved through the penthouse as though she owned the place, her every step sharp and deliberate. She paused in the living room, her gaze flickering briefly over the expensive furniture, the gleam of magic in the air, the decadent stillness of the space he’d built. Her mouth tightened slightly in distaste.
Magnus leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “I assume you didn’t come all this way just to brighten my day.”
Her chin lifted. “I know everything,” she said without ceremony. “I know about the relationship. The bearing. The mark.”
Her tone was surgical, cold as frostbite. She didn’t flinch. She wasn’t here to negotiate.
Magnus arched a brow. “I’m surprised you didn’t bring a battalion,” he said lightly. “Or is that tomorrow’s entertainment?”
She cut him off with a swift raise of her hand—imperious, haughty, perfectly rehearsed. The kind of gesture that made him want to hex her straight through the window. For half a second, something in him burned, old and deep and poisonous. But he kept still.
She folded her arms. “I know what you’ve done,” she said crisply. “I know how you seduced a teenager, how you preyed on his isolation and his weaknesses. And now you’ve put him in a situation that could very well cost him his life.”
The words hit him squarely in the chest. Despite everything—the venom in her voice, the arrogance in her stance—that was the line that twisted the knife. It was the single nightmare that never loosened its grip—the one that made his chest seize in the dark: that Alec’s heart would stop before Magnus could find a way to keep it beating.
She wasn’t finished. “This is over,” she went on, her voice hardening. “His parents will take control of the matter. The Clave has already been informed and made its decision. Alec will be moved to Idris without further delay. It’s time this… farce ended.”
For a moment, Magnus said nothing. He stood perfectly still, but every muscle in his body was pulled taut, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. His mind raced—calculations, memories, fury—and through it all, that old familiar chill of helplessness seeped under his skin. Idris. They were going to take Alec to Idris.
His voice came out low, smooth as glass. “And once he’s in Idris, I assume they’ll put him right back on suppressants. Back where you want him. Neat, quiet. Contained.”
She offered a brittle smile. “We won’t force the suppressant on him. But he must understand—if he refuses it, he forfeits the field. Idris is where he’ll stay. For his safety. For everyone’s safety.”
There was something… something almost gentle in her voice, but it was the gentle edge of a scalpel. She sounded almost regretful—as if this weren’t cruelty but mercy. A necessary correction.
“People like him,” she added, quieter now, “don’t belong on the field. We both know that.”
Magnus’ hands curled into fists at his sides.
She drew a breath and smoothed her tone again, all icy Clave propriety. “The Clave will see to his comfort and his safety. His present predicament,” she gestured vaguely, her meaning clear, “will come to its natural conclusion. And once it has, Alec can live peacefully in Idris and be useful there.”
Magnus’ voice, when he found it, was brittle, dry as ash. “So you’d have him cast out in Idris. Alone. You can’t even set foot there anymore, and we both know why.”
Maryse’s lips twitched into something that almost resembled a smile—thin, sharp, entirely devoid of warmth. “He won’t be alone,” she said coolly. “And he won’t be punished. His condition isn’t illegal. He’s committed no crime.” Her words rang with the brittle sharpness of glass—polished, cold, and designed to shatter. “The suppressant,” she went on smoothly, “has always been tradition more than law. The Clave doesn’t mandate it. But Shadowhunters are born to be soldiers. Focused. Reliable. That is why we suppress Omegas. Because as Alec has… demonstrated”—her mouth curled with faint contempt—“they are liabilities when allowed to spiral unchecked.”
The words landed sharp, but she wasn’t finished.
“You needn’t worry, of course,” she added with almost polite malice. “Idris has no shortage of proper Alphas. Males, even.” Her eyes glittered when she said it. “And as you certainly know, there’s no resisting an Omega’s call when it comes. Alec won’t be alone for long. He’ll have someone worthy of him.”
The air in Magnus’ chest twisted, pulled too tight. For half a breath, he couldn’t move.
“And if he has to bear,” Maryse continued softly, “then he’ll do it for his people. Not for…” She waved a delicate hand vaguely in his direction. “Not for a hybrid creature.”
The words gutted him. He forced his expression to stay flat, forced his breath to stay even, but the grief coiled deep. He felt it press under his ribs like something breaking.
His voice came thin, blank. “And what about the child he’s carrying now?”
Her eyebrows lifted in a slow, disdainful arch, her mouth tightening in a half-roll of her eyes. “Alec will be monitored. If the bearing endangers his life—if it comes down to it—then the choice will be obvious. There will be no hesitation and Alec’s life will prevail at all costs”
Her words carried the ache of someone who had made peace with hard choices—painful, inevitable choices she believed were for Alec’s own good.
“But,” she added after a beat, her voice softening into something almost civil, “if the child survives… we’ll see. If it’s human, I may push for you to take it. Alec doesn’t want it, you know. He’s too soft, too sentimental to say it outright, but he would find comfort in knowing the child was cared for. And of course—” her lips curved, “the Clave has no right to harm a child with Shadowhunter blood. That’s forbidden by the Law.”
Magnus’ heart twisted. He swallowed down the surge of nausea.
“And if he doesn’t want that?” he asked flatly.
Her eyes gleamed—sharp, dangerous. “Alec has always done what’s asked of him,” she said. “He will comply.”
The words were spoken with such absolute certainty it made something inside Magnus lurch.
Then, with a breath of false sweetness, she added, “And if you care for him—even a little—you won’t interfere.”
And there it was. The warning. The knife beneath the silk. She let the words settle. Smoothed her coat. Straightened her cuffs. And without another glance, she left.
**********
The Institute always felt colder on quiet mornings. Maryse Lightwood’s heels clicked against the stone floor as she made her way toward the library, each step echoing in rhythm with the distant hush of the city beyond the stained glass. The place smelled of parchment and dust and old blood—comforting, in a way she barely registered anymore. She paused before the half-open door. Voices drifted through—low, tense, familiar.
She heard Alec’s voice first. “I haven’t heard anything since yesterday,” he was saying softly, the words heavy with something brittle. “I don’t know. Magnus is usually better at… letting me know.”
Maryse frowned. Her spine stiffened unconsciously. Magnus Bane.
Her eyes drifted to the figures inside: her children—grown now, in body if not always in judgment—huddled together in a quiet conclave of whispered confidences. Alec, perched stiffly on the edge of the desk; Isabelle crouched close, her expression drawn in careful lines; Jace leaning back, knife spinning lazily between gloved fingers. It struck her suddenly, with almost painful clarity, how much they resembled the children they’d once been—plotting ridiculous, childish schemes underfoot. Alec always the reluctant voice of reason, Isabelle all fire, Jace the reckless spark. The sight twisted something old and fragile in her chest. She straightened. Time to end it. She stepped into the room without knocking. The shift was immediate. The low whispers stopped. All three of them turned to face her—Alec, Isabelle, Jace—like a single organism snapping into defense. For a moment, she said nothing. She simply took them in. They were arranged in a rough semicircle, instinctive, almost unconscious—Alec at the center, the other two flanking him. She hadn’t seen them like this in years. Not since they were children who’d scraped their knees and bloodied their hands and still looked to one another before they looked to her.
“Alec,” she said calmly, carefully.
He didn’t rise from the desk. He only watched her with a shuttered expression, his arms crossed, his body language taut but eerily still. The tension hummed beneath his skin.
“We need to speak,” she continued, her tone quiet but firm.
Neither Jace nor Isabelle moved. She felt the flicker of irritation before she smothered it. Of course they wouldn’t leave. The three of them had spent too many years closing ranks without her to break that habit now. It should have angered her—it might have, once—but instead, something in her chest pulled tight in a way that almost hurt.
They would burn the world down for him, she thought distantly. And he would still follow them into the fire if they asked.
She allowed herself one measured breath. Then she softened her expression by degrees. “I spoke to the Clave,” she said gently. “I wanted to update you on what’s been decided.”
The words hung between them, and Maryse could feel the shift immediately—the subtle sharpening of their gazes, the sudden, bristling stillness. It was Isabelle who reacted first. Of course it was.
“You did what?” Isabelle’s voice cracked sharp, rising an octave as she shot to her feet. Her eyes blazed, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “How could you? The Clave? You know what they’ll—”
Maryse raised a single hand, palm outward. “Izzy. Please.” Her voice stayed calm, cool, measured. “No one is coming for him. No one is dragging anyone anywhere. That isn’t what this is.”
She saw the way Jace’s jaw flexed, the way Alec’s eyes darkened with guarded suspicion. Isabelle’s fury didn’t dim, but she stayed silent—barely. Maryse drew another breath, chose her next words with precision.
“I’ve recommended to the Clave,” she said softly, “that Alec be temporarily relocated to Idris. Just until… until this situation has reached its natural conclusion. For his safety. And for others’.”
The silence was instant. Heavy.
Jace, still twirling his knife lazily, tilted his head in that dangerous way he had—like a cat about to strike. “Natural conclusion,” he echoed with a small, humorless smile. “That’s a polite way of putting it.”
Maryse ignored the barb. She kept her gaze on Alec.
“You’re not well,” she said gently. “And no one—no one blames you for that. But you’re at risk, Alec. You can’t stay on active field duty. It’s not safe. Not for you. Not for anyone else.”
For the first time, she saw it: the flicker of raw fear in Alec’s eyes. He masked it well, but it was there—buried deep.
She pressed on, softer now. “Idris is safer. You’ll have support. Healers. Silent Brothers if necessary. And when it’s over—” she let her voice drift carefully—“we’ll see what’s next.”
The words landed like a blow.
Isabelle’s face twisted in fury. “Safer?” she hissed. “You think locking him away across the ocean is safer? The Clave—our people—they’ll destroy him. You know they will. How can you even—?”
Jace didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The cold gleam in his eyes, the sharp angle of his jaw as he flicked the knife between his fingers—it said more than words ever could. The threat was there, unspoken, simmering.
Maryse lifted her hand again. “Enough.” Her voice was quiet, but the steel in it snapped through the room. “No one is going to harm Alec,” she said softly, insistently. “No one is punishing him. He has done nothing wrong.”
Her gaze flickered to her son—his stillness, the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his hands tightened where they rested on his thighs. He was watching her, his expression unreadable, but his magic—it hummed. She could feel it in the air, brittle and tense.
“You’re not soldiers,” she murmured, her voice softening almost imperceptibly. “Not right now. None of you have grown up in Idris. You don’t understand how things are handled there.”
Alec’s eyes narrowed slightly, but still he said nothing.
She pressed forward. “You’ll have friends there. You’ll see Aline again, there will be others—Shadowhunters who care about you. Isabelle and Jace can visit whenever they like.”
She let her voice warm, tried to paint the picture as something tolerable. Safe. Temporary.
Jace’s scoff broke the silence. “Right,” he drawled. “Because Idris is famous for how well it handles people who don’t fit the mold.”
Maryse’s jaw tightened. “Be reasonable,” she said sharply. “This is about Alec’s life. His condition is unstable. We’ve all seen it. If you cared about his safety—”
That was when Alec finally spoke.
Alec’s voice was quiet. Strained. “I can’t,” he said simply. His eyes met hers with exhausted grit. “I can’t just leave. Magnus—he can’t come to Idris. I won’t disappear on him.”
The use of his name—Magnus—twisted something sharp under Maryse’s ribs. She swallowed the spike of irritation before it could rise to her face. She couldn’t let it show, not here, not now.
She stepped forward a pace, her expression softening into something carefully maternal. “Alec,” she murmured, “I’m sure even your warlock would agree that your safety has to come first. Don’t you think he’d want you somewhere protected? Somewhere secure?”
There was the faintest flicker—hesitation in Alec’s eyes. She seized on it.
“None of this is permanent,” she added gently. “We can re-evaluate everything once you’re well. Once the… situation is resolved.”
She didn’t speak the words she was truly thinking. She didn’t say what the Clave had already quietly decided: that once Alec was in Idris, once he was settled, once his ties to this warlock were strained to snapping, he would not return. That he would find his place, as Shadowhunters always did, among his own kind. The mark could be dealt with in time. There were ways. The words about Alphas and worthy pairings stayed behind her teeth. Too soon for that.
Isabelle’s voice broke the quiet. Sharp. Suspicious. “So what? He’s supposed to just sit in Idris until when? Until after? You expect us to believe the Clave will just let him go after that?”
Maryse’s lips curved into a careful half-smile. “Why wouldn’t they? He’s done nothing wrong. His condition isn’t a crime. The Clave doesn’t punish Omegas—they protect them.”
None of them looked convinced. Not Jace with his blade still spinning, not Isabelle with her eyes narrowed in open distrust. Alec most of all. But Maryse pressed on. She knew when to let silence work in her favor.
“You don’t have to decide now,” she said softly, addressing Alec alone. “You can take a few days. Think about it. We have plenty to focus on in the meantime. Portals. Demons. Warlocks. Let’s revisit this by the end of the week.”
She let the words settle. Let her voice stay calm. Reassuring. Even as her mind moved several steps ahead—calculating how to ensure the decision she wanted was the only one that remained. She met Alec’s eyes once more before she turned to leave. And as she stepped out of the room, she exhaled quietly, her thoughts sharpening back into steel:
He’ll come around. He always does.
**********
The library was quiet, but Alec's mind wasn’t. It hadn't been in days.
He sat perched on the edge of one of the old oak desks, arms crossed over his chest, the weight of his mother’s words still digging into him like splinters beneath the skin. The logical part of his brain—the part that had been raised on law, on order, on oaths—kept turning it over: Idris. Safety. Protection. Temporary.
It sounded reasonable. Almost merciful. But all he could think—the thought that sank its teeth into his ribs every time he tried to breathe—was Magnus.
He ran a hand through his hair, restless. Six months. It wasn’t much time even by Shadowhunter standards. And yet—was it possible? Could he be so hopelessly tangled in someone after so little time? Or was it the Omega in him, the instincts he’d never been trained to understand, never been allowed to even acknowledge until now?
And if it was the Omega part… did that make it less real? Less his?
He felt unsteady. Pulled in opposite directions—duty, blood, history on one side, and on the other—something warmer, deeper, terrifying in its intensity: the thought of losing Magnus. Of not seeing him. Of not being allowed to see him. He swallowed hard. The ache in his chest sharpened.
He’d sent messages—casual ones at first. Nothing pressing. But Magnus hadn’t answered in two days. And the quiet was gnawing through him. The idea of staying here, of sitting still, was unbearable. He needed—he needed. He wasn’t even sure what the word was for it. He stood abruptly and reached for his jacket.
“Where are you going?” Isabelle’s voice was quiet but pointed from the corner.
“Out,” Alec murmured. He managed a half-smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “I just… need to walk.”
She didn’t press. Neither did Jace. But he still took the back way, still avoided the library entrance where he knew his mother might cross paths with him.
The streets blurred past him as he walked. Fast. Faster than necessary, but he couldn’t slow down. His thoughts were a mess of too many things: the cold clinical way his mother had spoken, the gnawing anxiety in his chest, and beneath all of it—steady and unrelenting—Magnus.
By the time he reached Magnus’ building, dusk was falling. The familiar wards swept over him as he passed through, the recognition magic rippling along his skin in a soft shimmer. He paused at the door. His hand hovered over the handle for half a heartbeat too long. I live here, he told himself. This is where I belong. But something inside him still trembled. He pushed the door open.
“Magnus?” His voice came out hoarse, too thin.
The soft scuff of footsteps on polished floors answered him before Magnus himself appeared in the hall. His hair was loose around his face, his expression tight—strained in a way Alec felt more than he saw.
“Hey,” Alec said, a little breathless, the weight in his chest twisting tighter. “I—”
Magnus gave him a faint, tired smile. “I know, your mother came by the other day.”
Alec’s stomach dropped. His hands clenched reflexively at his sides.
“Of course she did,” he muttered, teeth gritted. He stepped closer without thinking, but Magnus didn’t mirror the motion. He stayed still—held in place by something Alec couldn’t see but could feel.
“I’m guessing she told you,” Magnus said quietly. “About Idris.”
Alec’s breath hitched. “She mentioned it,” he said, his voice flat.
Magnus hesitated. His eyes flickered—open, then guarded again.
“She means well,” Magnus offered softly, though the words tasted false even as he said them. “If you… if you think that’s what you need to do—” His breath caught. “It’s your people, Alec. You’re free to—”
Even as Magnus spoke, Alec could feel the truth sliding underneath the words—grief stretched thin, barely contained. It pressed against his skin, thrummed in his bones, trembled through the fragile tether of their bond until Alec thought he could taste it in the air: heartbreak, thick as smoke. It made something inside Alec snap.
Alec’s breath quickened, his heartbeat thudding sharp in his ears. He didn’t think—didn’t need to think. His body moved before his mind could catch up. He closed the distance in three quick steps and caught Magnus’ face between his hands—gentle at first, then desperate as he crashed their mouths together with bruising force. Magnus made a soft sound of surprise—one that was swallowed immediately as Alec deepened the kiss, urgent, breathless, frantic. His fingers threaded into Magnus’ hair, pulling him closer, anchoring them both.
It was messy. Uncoordinated. But Alec couldn’t stop. He couldn’t.
Magnus responded in kind—slightly stunned, but giving, softening beneath Alec’s weight. His hands skimmed uselessly at first along Alec’s sides as though he wasn’t quite sure whether to hold him back or pull him closer. The choice vanished the second Alec’s hands yanked at Magnus’ shirt, the fabric tearing with a sharp rip. Magnus gasped, their mouths breaking just long enough for breath, and Alec was already working at Magnus’ belt with shaking hands.
“Alec—” Magnus breathed, stunned, still breathless, “what—?”
“I can’t—” Alec panted. “I can’t—” He couldn’t finish the thought. He didn’t even know what he was saying.
All he knew was the panic clawing through his ribs, the need burning under his skin, and the way the thought of letting go—of leaving—made him feel like he couldn’t breathe. The next thing he knew, Magnus was flat on his back on the couch, shirtless, stunned, and Alec was half on top of him, yanking at both their clothes like a man drowning. Magnus' pants hit the floor. Alec’s jacket landed somewhere behind him. And then there were hands—Magnus’ now—gripping at Alec’s bare arms, pulling him closer, mouth chasing his like he finally understood just how much this wasn’t about choice anymore.
Alec couldn’t stop shaking.
It wasn’t fear—at least, not just fear. It was need, blinding and frantic, roaring through his blood so fast he felt dizzy with it. He pressed his mouth to Magnus’—devoured him—and Magnus kissed him back, dazed and breathless, his hands moving instinctively now to Alec’s waist, his bare chest rising and falling in ragged breaths beneath Alec’s touch. Clothes vanished in hurried, careless movements—Alec tugging Magnus’ last layers away with a sharpness that bordered on violent. He didn’t even know when his own shirt had disappeared. He was barely present enough to care. He just needed more—needed closer—needed to feel Magnus beneath him, around him, with him.
“Slow down,” Magnus whispered hoarsely, but it came out broken, his voice already thick with arousal, with the tremble of it.
“I can’t,” Alec rasped—his hands already pushing Magnus’ knees apart, already grinding down between them. His voice shook, wrecked and raw. “I can’t.”
And he meant it.
The thought of slowing, of stopping, of losing this—losing Magnus—was unbearable.
He kissed down Magnus’ neck, tracing the warm line of his throat with trembling lips. He bit softly, then licked over the skin, breathing in the scent of sweat and magic and something that grounded him in a way nothing else did. Magnus’ breath caught—his head tilted back as Alec’s mouth traveled lower, lower, across his chest, his stomach, down to the place that made Magnus’ back arch off the couch with a gasp.
Alec took him into his mouth with feverish urgency—too desperate to be careful, too hungry to show mercy. He heard the broken sound Magnus made above him, the helpless way Magnus’ fingers knotted into his hair. And Alec felt like he could do this forever.
But the taste—the warmth—it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.
He barely paused to slick his fingers—barely waited to make Magnus ready because every part of him screamed now, now, now—and then he was moving up again, reclaiming Magnus’ mouth in another frantic kiss as he pressed forward, sliding inside with one desperate thrust that left them both breathless and shaking.
Magnus gasped—torn between pain and pleasure—and Alec nearly sobbed into the kiss as he began to move, rough and unsteady and utterly lost.
“Look at me,” Alec gasped, his forehead pressed to Magnus’. “Please—look at me—”
Magnus’ eyes—wide, dark, shining—met his. And Alec fell apart.
The air between them burned. Alec’s breath came in short, ragged gasps, his hands gripping Magnus’ face, Magnus’ hips, any part of him he could hold onto as if letting go would kill him. The desperation clawed through every nerve, every breath, every frantic movement of his body. He thrust harder, faster—his lips never far from his lover’s skin, from the curve of his mouth, from the sharp line of his jaw.
He could taste salt. Sweat and fire.
He didn’t know when the sound started—his own broken whimpers or Magnus’ breathless moans—but the wet slap of skin, the gasping rise of their voices, filled the room with something raw and unbearable. And then Alec’s mouth found the mark. That silver rune, still faintly aglow on the warlock’s shoulder—his mark. Alec’s lips brushed it—his tongue darting over it without thought, without plan—and Magnus broke.
The sound he made wasn’t human—wasn’t anything Alec had ever heard from him before. Magnus’ body bucked under him, hands scrambling over Alec’s back as his spine arched off the couch meeting roughly each of his hard thrust, his breath shattering in desperate, wordless cries. Alec moaned into skin—his own body seizing under the pull of it, the need of it—and then Magnus’ hand was around himself, stroking hard, fast, frantic, and with a broken cry he came, spilling hot between them.
Alec followed moments later—the pulse of Magnus’ body around him too much, the scent of sex and him overwhelming every sense. He groaned low in his throat as he thrust one last time, burying himself deep as he fell apart, shuddering, gasping, losing every piece of himself into Magnus’ hands, Magnus’ skin, Magnus’ breath.
The world blurred.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Alec’s chest heaved as he lay over Magnus, the taste of release still on his lips. Magnus’ arms were still tight around him, his head tilted to the side, the slow rise and fall of his breath the only sound in the room besides the distant heartbeat still pounding in Alec’s ears. Alec buried his face in Magnus’ neck. He pressed his lips there softly—barely a ghost of a kiss. His fingers, shaking, traced uselessly over Magnus’ ribs, over his stomach, over his hips as if memorizing the shape of him would stop the world from pulling them apart.
He knew it then—clear and sharp and unshakable. This was where he lived now. Here, in Magnus’ arms, in Magnus’ breath, in the impossible warmth of his body.
He wasn’t leaving.
Not ever.
Chapter 11: Ungodly nerves
Chapter Text
Maryse didn’t say a word when Alec told her. He’d stood in the center of the Institute’s library—Isabelle on one side, Jace on the other—and delivered it in the quiet, steady voice she’d taught him to use when facing down the Clave. No shouting. No tears. Just the words: I’m not going to Idris. I’m staying. For a moment, she didn’t even blink. She just… looked at him. And in that stillness, Alec felt the cold steel of her disappointment settle into the room like a tomb. Then, with the smallest nod—sharp, brittle—she turned her back. And she left. No explosion. No argument. No maternal warmth, false or otherwise. She walked out without looking back, her footsteps echoing like a closing door. Isabelle hugged him afterward, fierce and unhesitating. Jace just shook his head, jaw clenched, disgust written in the tight lines of his face—not at Alec, but at them. At her.
And when Alec finally stumbled outside, heart still hammering, he’d found Magnus waiting in the alleyway just as promised. Without hesitation, without question, he leaped into Magnus arms and kissed him—not because it was a choice but because it was breathing like some over-dramatic scene from one of Isabelle’s sappy movies. Jace had been there—he’d seen the way Alec practically glowed, the ridiculous soft look on his face as he launched himself into that warlock’s arms like something out of a badly written romance.
That was three months ago.
And now, well—now Alec was mostly exhausted, frequently grumpy, and as Jace would say: “delightfully unhinged.”
Now Alec was miserable. Gloriously, spectacularly, hilariously miserable.
He was heavy. Not just in the physical way—though that too, judging by the way he rubbed absently at his lower back and glared murderously at every uneven patch of sidewalk—but in that deep, soul-weary, why-is-everyone-breathing-too-loudly kind of way. The prissiness radiated off him in waves so potent Jace sometimes swore he could feel it clinging to the air.
Every time Catarina stopped by, smiling that knowing, unbothered smile, telling Alec he was perfectly fine and everything was normal, Alec would mutter something under his breath that, judging by the sharp consonants, had to be curses in at least three languages. Jace didn’t even ask anymore. And Magnus—Magnus was maddeningly cheerful. Always smiling, always compliant, no matter how sharp Alec’s words got, no matter how magnificently bitchy Alec became. It was eerie, actually. Unsettling. The warlock took it all with the patience of a man who either had no survival instincts or had spent too many centuries around volatile creatures to bother flinching. Alec would mutter more curses. Jace had learned to translate them: “Stop being so happy when I’m so obviously miserable, it’s rude.” He was heavy in his body, heavy in his mind, and it made him furious that the world—Magnus, Catarina, even the bloody weather—didn’t seem to be collapsing right along with him.
And yet… on patrols, with a blade in his hand and demons in his sights, Alec still moved like Alec. His training took over. He found himself again, piece by piece. Except the edges were… frayed. His patience ran thinner, his usual diplomacy wore paper-sharp, and the man who once smoothed over Jace’s more reckless edges had taken to snapping his orders with a sharpness that honestly gave Jace a little thrill.
Because it was funny. It was. And tonight—tonight in particular—it was pure entertainment.
Jace leaned back against the park bench, arms folded as he watched his Parabatai huff and stomp after yet another naked mundane who squealed and darted between the trees like a streaker on too much pixie dust. It was the third one that had slipped through Alec’s gloved fingers—literally—and Jace was biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud.
“This is undignified,” Alec muttered, breath puffing in the cold night air. His face was flushed with effort—and probably rage. “This is beyond undignified.”
Jace grinned. “You think the Seelies screen their potion buyers? Because I’m starting to think they just hand them out to whoever looks the most likely to lose their pants.”
Another naked man shrieked past, arms flailing. Alec lunged, caught an arm—and then let go with a disgusted noise when he realized the only thing he’d grabbed was a handful of skin.
Jace lost it.
He doubled over, laughter shaking his shoulders as Alec glared at him with the expression of a man one wrong word away from homicide.
“This isn’t funny,” Alec snapped, adjusting his gear and brushing mud off his knees. “This is an actual breach of Seelie treaty conduct. Do you know how many laws they broke just by allowing this to happen?”
Jace wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “Oh, I’m fully aware. I just… didn’t think I’d live to see you lecture a naked rave crowd like a scolding librarian.”
Alec growled something under his breath—something that sounded suspiciously like curses in Old Romanian—and stalked off after the next runner without another word. Jace followed, smirking the whole way.
Honestly, Jace had expected weird. He lived for weird. But even by his standards, this was something else. They’d been called in for what the report had described—with heroic understatement—as “civilian disturbance involving possible magical interference.” Translation: a bunch of mundanes high off something that should not have made it into the mortal world.
What they got was naked tag.
Half a dozen mundanes—young, sweaty, and utterly clothes-free—were sprinting across the frost-dusted grass of Central Park, shrieking with laughter as they played what looked like the world’s most uncoordinated game of hide-and-seek. Except they were glowing. Literally glowing. Their skin sparkled faintly under the moonlight like something out of a failed Disney reboot.
“It’s the potions,” Isabelle said with a sigh as she jogged beside him, not even winded. “Seelie brew. Probably got into a batch of party favors.”
“Honestly,” Jace panted between laughs, “if they weren’t naked, I’d almost call this charming.”
Alec was not amused.
“Diplomacy,” Alec muttered through gritted teeth as he lunged after a particularly fast sprinter, only to recoil mid-grab when the man’s very naked backside presented itself as the only available handhold. Alec made a strangled noise of pure offense.
Jace nearly tripped over his own boots laughing.
“I swear to the Angel, if one of them grabs me—” Alec’s voice rose as another naked man darted past, giggling, “—I will throw someone into the river.”
“You need longer arms,” Jace wheezed, tears prickling his eyes.
“Or pliers. Or… something.” Alec groaned, wiping a hand down his face in horror. “I can’t grab them without—without—” He made a flailing gesture that said naked flesh everywhere.
“Poor baby,” Jace offered sweetly. “Bet Magnus would just magic them into sweaters or something.”
Alec gave him a death glare so withering Jace nearly tripped again from sheer delight.
They finally managed to corral the last of the potion-addled mundanes, mostly by herding them toward a closed gate where Isabelle flicked her blade out and calmly zapped the remaining energy from their veins with a single touch of runic magic.
The mundanes slumped in a loose pile of bare limbs and Jace—grinning ear to ear—tossed Alec a smirk. “Well. That was dignified.”
Alec looked like he wanted to die. Or possibly commit murder.
By the time they made it to the Seelie outpost to report the incident, Alec was done. Jace could see it—could feel it radiating off him like heat from a forge. The sheer prissiness of it. His Parabatai’s stride was clipped and sharp, his hands twitching at his sides like he was already mid-argument in his own head. The three Seelie guards standing at the threshold of the outpost barely had time to blink before Alec launched into them.
“—utterly unacceptable—” Alec snapped, his voice tight and sharp as glass. “Do you realize the breach this represents? Do you understand the danger you’ve allowed to spill into mundane hands?”
One guard—a tall fae with silver braids—opened his mouth. Closed it again. He looked like he was trying to remember whether Nephilim had the legal right to stab Seelie nobility for sheer incompetence. Jace leaned casually against the nearest tree, arms folded, wearing the laziest grin he could manage.
“Oh no,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “Here we go.”
Alec, undeterred, jabbed a finger—actually jabbed, because apparently, pregnancy hormones gave you the right to physically poke faerie royalty—directly into the Seelie’s chest.
“We had to chase six mundanes through the park,” Alec snapped. “Naked. They were naked. Do you know what I’m supposed to do with that? Hm? There is no protocol for—naked—”
The Seelie stammered something, but Alec barreled right over him.
“—public exposure, violation of magical containment laws, endangerment of civilians, and frankly—” Alec huffed, drawing himself up to his full height, “—I expect better from an outpost that claims neutrality.”
Jace pressed a hand to his mouth to keep from laughing. Beside him, Isabelle had already quietly wandered off to flirt with one of the Seelie guards who looked far less terrified. Alec kept going.
“I will be writing a report,” he informed them, his tone dangerously crisp. “A detailed report. Names, descriptions, incidents. This is not just some… Seelie mischief. This is a problem.”
One of the fae guards blinked and muttered, “We… we are very sorry…?”
“Not sorry enough,” Alec growled.
It was magnificent. It was honestly better than theater. Jace watched in total amusement as Alec’s index finger delivered what was probably its third or fourth scolding jab to the poor fae’s chest. The other two guards looked like they were considering fleeing the scene entirely. And Alec—prissy, furious, completely fed up Alec—was still going.
By the time Alec hit what Jace could only assume was paragraph eight of his righteous tirade, one of the Seelie guards had visibly wilted, another looked moments away from fainting, and the third—poor silver-braided disaster—was standing there with the exact expression of a man being scolded by an enraged duck in military gear.
Jace was thrilled.
He bit down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood, but it didn’t stop the smirk curling across his face. He caught Isabelle’s eye where she stood chatting languidly with her Seelie warrior—she raised a delicate eyebrow, then rolled her eyes in amused solidarity.
Alec’s voice had climbed to what Jace could only describe as his official Clave briefing pitch: that tone halfway between military protocol and someone about to stab you politely in the kneecap.
“And furthermore,” Alec was saying, hands on his hips now, utterly exasperated, “if this is the level of oversight the Seelie Courts think is acceptable—acceptable—then I will be forced to escalate this through official channels.”
The fae blinked rapidly. “Escalate…?”
Jace had mercy. Well—some mercy.
He moved in, casual as you please, slinging an arm around Alec’s tense shoulders. Alec jolted slightly, startled, but Jace didn’t let him wriggle free.
“Okay, okay,” Jace said cheerfully, steering Alec backward a step. “They get it, buddy. You’ve made your point.”
“I haven’t made my point,” Alec snapped, eyes flashing. “I’m halfway through making my point—”
Jace gave the poor guards a dazzling grin. “Sorry. Hormones,” he called over his shoulder, with a mock-wince. “You know how it is.”
Alec let out an offended squawk—actual offended squawk—but Jace just kept pulling him away before the Seelies lost the will to live entirely.
“You are not blaming this on hormones,” Alec growled as he stumbled alongside, still half-twisting to glower at the guards. “I am perfectly capable of—”
“Of being a menace? I know,” Jace grinned. “You’re doing amazing.”
Alec shoved him, but Jace just laughed harder. Behind them, the fae guards visibly slumped with relief. One of them actually wiped sweat off his brow. Jace couldn’t help it. He was dying. It was the best entertainment he’d had in weeks.
Jace finally managed to steer Alec far enough down the path that the Seelie outpost faded from view, though Alec was still muttering under his breath—mostly in rapid-fire Shadowhunter dialects mixed with curses Jace was pretty sure weren’t taught in any official training manuals.
“I mean it,” Alec grumbled, straightening his gear as they walked. “It’s one thing to bend the rules when you’re Seelie. But when you’re actively endangering mundanes—naked mundanes—”
“Yes,” Jace cut in smoothly, “the nudity really bothered you. Very obvious. Want to talk about that, by the way?”
Alec shot him a look of pure disbelief. “Excuse me?”
Jace made an exaggerated thoughtful face. “I mean, the grabbing thing clearly traumatized you. And you seemed very… focused on the naked part.”
Alec’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Jace,” he warned.
“Look,” Jace said, raising both hands in a gesture of exaggerated innocence. “If you’re this frustrated, we could always ask Magnus to conjure you some kind of naked-mundane-proof gloves. Or better yet—” he dropped his voice into an exaggerated whisper—“a magical stick to poke them from a distance.”
“Stop talking,” Alec muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just. Stop.”
Jace snorted but let him be.
They walked in silence for a while, their booted footsteps crunching on the frost-glazed leaves. The night was calm now, the wild energy of the chase behind them. Somewhere far off, Isabelle’s laughter drifted faintly on the breeze—no doubt still tangled up with her Seelie warrior.
Alec sighed eventually, his hands dropping back to his sides.
Jace didn’t look over, but he heard it—the edge softening in Alec’s voice when he finally muttered, “They were naked though. It was ridiculous.”
Jace smiled. “Told you.”
They started the walk back in companionable silence, the sounds of the park quieting around them. Alec’s breathing had evened out, though he still looked like he was composing strongly worded letters to the Seelie Queen in his head. Jace caught the familiar flicker of tension in his Parabatai’s face—the fatigue, the weight, the way Alec pressed a hand unconsciously to his stomach before shaking his head sharply and brushing the gesture off. Jace pretended not to see it. Instead, he offered Alec his laziest, most insufferable grin.
Jace stuffed his hands into his pockets. “So, just for the record,” he said casually, “you’re officially against naked diplomacy?”
Alec shot him a look—half scowl, half reluctant amusement. “Jace,” he grunted.
Jace grinned. “Just saying. I feel like we’ve set an important precedent tonight.”
Alec groaned. “I hate you.”
But Jace caught the faintest twitch of a smile on his lips as they kept walking, the cool night air crisp and the weight of the ridiculousness slowly fading into something lighter.
**********
Magnus heard the knock first. Well, not a knock exactly. More of an impatient thud-thud-thud that vibrated through the penthouse wards like someone determined to be annoying. Which, knowing the visitor, tracked perfectly. He opened the door to find Jace Wayland looking entirely too smug for someone who clearly should’ve been bruised, bloodied, or both.
“Special delivery,” Jace announced cheerfully, stepping aside to reveal Alec—still in gear, still upright, but radiating the kind of exhausted, prickly energy that practically sizzled off his skin. Alec didn’t say anything. Just made a low sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl and stalked inside like the building had personally offended him.
“Evening,” Magnus offered mildly.
“Evening,” Jace echoed, but his grin sharpened as Alec disappeared down the hall without a backward glance.
The moment Alec was out of earshot, Jace leaned in, voice dropping into wicked amusement. “He’s had a night, your boy. You’re in for it. Good luck.”
Magnus quirked an eyebrow. “Should I be concerned for my life?”
“Not your life,” Jace smirked. “Your nerves, maybe.”
Magnus gave a soft exhale through his nose, watching the way Jace’s eyes sparkled with that familiar mischief. “You do realize his nerves aren’t toys for you to poke, don’t you?”
Jace gave the most offensively innocent expression Magnus had ever seen. “Me? Never. I’m pure-hearted.”
Magnus didn’t bother dignifying that with a response.
“I mean,” Jace added, tilting his head with mock thoughtfulness, “I could warn you how spectacularly grumpy he’s been all night, but where’s the fun in that? Besides, you seem to like him crabby.”
Magnus’ lips twitched despite himself. “I like him alive,” he murmured. “The rest is negotiable.”
Jace laughed, clapped Magnus on the shoulder, and made for the door. “Well. Enjoy the rest of your night. He’s all yours.”
Magnus showed him out with the faintest shake of his head.
The door clicked shut.
And when Magnus turned back around—he barely had time to brace before Alec barreled straight into him like a human hurricane. He barely had time to blink. One second he was closing the door, the next Alec was there—shoulders tense, lips pressed into a flat, unhappy line, every inch of him vibrating with unspent energy. He practically crashed into Magnus’ chest, hands braced against Magnus’ ribs like he wasn’t entirely sure whether he wanted to collapse or throw something.
“Bad night?” Magnus ventured softly, voice deliberately light.
Alec made a noise. It wasn’t a yes. It wasn’t a no. It was something deep and irritated and perfectly Alec.
“I cannot,” Alec said, voice sharp, “believe the absolute idiocy of—”
And he was off.
Magnus didn’t even try to interrupt. He let Alec pace across the living room, arms waving, words pouring out in a glorious tirade that ranged from the Seelie courts’ incompetence to the sheer undignified absurdity of chasing naked mundanes through a park at two in the morning. There were complaints about cold air, sticky hands, idiotic fae, Jace’s face (“Why is he always smiling when I’m suffering, it’s pathological”) and even a minor rant about public park lighting (“Why is it always so dim? Is it atmospheric? Is that it? Because I slipped twice.”)
Magnus folded his arms, leaning casually against the wall, utterly unfazed. It was honestly… adorable. The storm raged for a solid ten minutes before Alec, still breathing hard, threw his jacket in the general direction of the coat rack—missed—and huffed in frustration.
“I hate everything,” Alec muttered.
“Clearly,” Magnus murmured, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Alec glared, but the expression lacked any real heat. He stalked toward the bedroom without another word, still muttering. Magnus followed at a safe distance, his amusement soft and genuine. It was ridiculous. It was petty. It was pure hormonal tempest—and he found it completely endearing. Which, of course, probably made it worse.
By the time Magnus followed Alec into the bedroom, the mood had only soured further.
Alec was already muttering to himself, stripping out of his gear with brisk, irritated movements of someone personally offended by the existence of clothing. His vest landed in a heap on the bed with a very sharp sigh that escaped him,
“Stupid buckles,” Alec muttered under his breath. “Who even designs this crap?”
Magnus leaned casually on the doorframe, not bothering to hide the small curve of amusement on his lips. “The Clave,” he offered helpfully.
“Of course,” Alec huffed, throwing the offending garment onto the bed like it had personally betrayed him. “Because heaven forbid anything actually practical be approved.”
His tunic followed, along with his boots—one of which he kicked halfway across the room with a growl of frustration.
“Taking it well, I see,” Magnus murmured lightly from the doorway.
Alec shot him a withering look. “I smell like Seelie potion, my wrists are bruised from grabbing naked idiots, and I’m sticky.”
“Charming visual,” Magnus said, raising a brow.
“I’m taking a shower,” Alec declared flatly, already heading for the bathroom like a man on a mission. He paused only long enough to pull his undershirt over his head with an exaggerated grunt before slamming the door—more dramatic than necessary.
Magnus let out a soft breath of laughter and busied himself tidying the gear Alec had all but exploded across the bed. By the time Alec emerged—hair damp, wearing one of Magnus’ oversized shirts and a scowl—he looked slightly less like a man about to commit murder. Only slightly.
Without a word, Alec climbed into bed and flopped face-down with the kind of theatrical despair that made Magnus’ lips twitch. He crossed the room and switched off the lights before quietly slipping under the covers.
Or at least, he tried.
The second the mattress dipped with his weight, Alec’s groan split the air.
“Magnus,” Alec snapped, voice muffled by the pillow. “Seriously? Was that necessary? Could you not crash into the bed like a wrecking ball?”
Magnus blinked, startled—and then utterly failed to suppress a small laugh. “I apologize,” he murmured, voice soft with amusement. “Next time I’ll levitate in.”
Alec grumbled something dark and wordless, curling tighter into himself. Magnus’ humor faded into quiet concern.
“What hurts?” he asked gently, already reaching a hand out toward the tense line of Alec’s back.
“My spine,” Alec mumbled. “Everything. But mostly my back. It’s tight.”
Without hesitation, Magnus settled closer, pressing his palm to the small of Alec’s back and rubbing slow, careful circles. The tension under his fingers was immediate—muscles pulled taut with strain and stubbornness both. Alec made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a low hum, breath hitching as Magnus’ touch worked lower, firmer. Magnus smiled faintly in the dark, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the back of Alec’s neck as he worked.
“You could’ve just asked,” he murmured.
“Didn’t feel like being polite,” Alec grumbled—but his voice was softer now, the bite draining out of it with every pass of Magnus’ hands.
“Duly noted,” Magnus said, his smile widening.
They stayed like that, the room quiet save for the soft rhythm of breath and the gentle press of Magnus’ fingers. The storm had passed. For now.
Alec’s breath was evening out by degrees as Magnus’ hands moved steadily across the tight muscles of his back. His skin was warm, still slightly damp from the shower, the fine lines of tension slowly unwinding beneath Magnus’ palms. Magnus shifted, careful not to jar the bed further. He knew better now—Alec in this mood was half-cat, half-sharpened dagger. He smoothed his thumb down the curve of Alec’s spine and felt the soft exhale that followed.
“Better?” Magnus murmured.
Alec made a small, reluctant noise of agreement, head still buried in the pillow. “Don’t stop.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
The quiet settled between them, thick but gentle. Alec’s earlier tirade seemed to fade as Magnus continued—his breathing slowed, the sharp edges of his frustration softening until only the raw exhaustion remained. After a while, Magnus shifted slightly closer, draping an arm around Alec’s waist with deliberate care. He half-expected another muttered protest, another sharp comment—but instead, Alec shifted back into him without hesitation, fitting against Magnus’ chest with a soft sigh.
“See,” Magnus whispered, voice playful but soft, “I can be gentle.”
Alec didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was low. “Wouldn’t hurt you to actually hold me,” he mumbled, the words muffled but clear. Something flickered deep in Magnus’ chest—something warm, something achingly tender. He tightened his arms without hesitation, pulling Alec snugly into him, pressing his face into the back of Alec’s neck as he let his magic swirl faintly over them both like a protective shroud.
“Of course,” Magnus murmured softly. “I’ve got you.”
Alec’s breathing deepened, his body finally relaxing fully into Magnus’ hold. The tension bled away in slow, sleepy exhales. Magnus stayed that way long after he was certain Alec had drifted off—holding him close, hands moving in lazy, absent patterns across his skin.
**********
Magnus woke first. He had, for the past week at least. It was still something he wasn’t entirely used to—Alec, of all people, sleeping late. The Alec he’d first met had been sharp, quick, and always awake with the kind of deadly focus that Magnus used to find both fascinating and deeply annoying. Now, though? Now Alec barely cracked an eye open before ten unless someone set something on fire. And even then, Magnus suspected there were at least three housefires he might sleep through without flinching.
The second trimester had hit him hard.
Magnus stretched lazily, careful not to jostle the bed, and glanced over to where Alec lay half-curled, breathing soft and even, his hair an absolute disaster. A fond smile tugged at Magnus’ mouth before he could help it. The exhaustion was normal—Catarina had said so more than once. With the embryo no longer feeding solely on magic but on everything Alec’s body could give, the drain was heavier, sharper.
It would pass. Eventually.
Magnus eased himself out of bed with the silence of long practice. He magicked on soft clothes and padded barefoot through the penthouse, casting the wards a gentle check as he went. Nothing amiss. Just quiet. Morning light cut across the high windows in silver slants. He’d already told Catarina ten-thirty.
That gave him just enough time to casually make a little noise.
Not much—just the creak of a chair leg here, the clatter of a spoon there. All very innocent. All very subtle. But Alec could be feral when woken too sharply, and Magnus had no plans to start his day with that kind of tragedy. At precisely ten-twenty five, the familiar weight of Alec’s Scent shifted in the back of Magnus’ mind. A sleepy hum of annoyance, barely stirring. And then—
“Agh,” came the eloquent greeting from the hall.
Magnus smothered his smile and turned just as Alec shuffled in—barefoot, still in the too-big shirt he liked to steal, his hair everywhere. He looked like someone who’d lost a bar fight with a particularly aggressive pillow.
“Morning,” Magnus offered lightly.
Alec gave him a flat, unimpressed look and dropped onto the couch with a grunt.
The wards chimed softly a moment later, and Catarina swept in, brisk as always, already snapping off her gloves as she crossed the room.
“Morning,” she greeted, her voice warm but no-nonsense. She paused only briefly to take in the sight of Alec—sprawled, hair wild, wearing what could only be described as the physical embodiment of do not talk to me yet.
“Morning,” Alec mumbled back, barely lifting his chin as he slumped further into the cushions. Magnus raised one amused eyebrow but kept his smile carefully neutral.
Catarina set her bag down, flicking a glance at Magnus, who nodded once in greeting and retreated to his usual armchair—just far enough not to hover, but close enough to watch every little twitch in Alec’s body.
“You’re looking…” Catarina hesitated delicately, her mouth twitching, “… well. In a very sleepy sort of way.”
Alec groaned softly. “I feel like I’ve been hit by something. Or run over. Possibly both.”
Magnus’ lips twitched.
“Totally normal,” Catarina said cheerfully, kneeling beside the couch and already sweeping her hand over Alec’s midsection, her magic humming soft and golden through her fingertips. “The second trimester’s the transition point. Magic alone doesn’t cut it anymore—your body’s doing the heavy lifting. You’re adapting.”
“Feels like I’m dying,” Alec muttered, shutting his eyes.
Magnus lifted an eyebrow, nonchalant. “Little dramatic,” he murmured.
Alec cracked one eye open to glare but said nothing.
Catarina finished her initial sweep, frowning in concentration. “Vitals are good. Magic’s stabilizing the growth just fine. And no signs of magical surges. You’re ahead of the curve, honestly.”
Alec gave a faint hum that might have meant thanks, or might have meant why am I still awake—hard to tell.
Magnus let out a soft exhale, relaxing marginally. He knew this. He’d scanned Alec’s body himself more times than he could count, but still—Catarina’s word held weight.
When she straightened, she dusted her hands and offered Alec a kind smile. “Any weirdness? Anything you’ve noticed?”
Alec hesitated, eyes flickering to Magnus briefly before he shifted uncomfortably.
“… Maybe,” he admitted. “I—” He trailed off, frowning, clearly self-conscious.
Magnus sat forward slightly, curiosity piqued.
Catarina’s brows lifted encouragingly. “Go on. Anything is good to know.”
Alec rubbed the back of his neck, awkward. “I’ve just… been feeling off. Like… down, I guess.”
Magnus let out a sharp snort that he immediately smothered behind a cough. Alec’s head snapped toward him, blue eyes narrowed to furious slits. If looks could kill, Magnus would’ve been a scorch mark on the carpet.
Catarina, for her part, barely hid her own smile. “Down, how?” she pressed gently, but her eyes danced.
Alec groaned, slumping deeper into the couch. “I mean—I feel off. But I look exactly the same. Shouldn’t—shouldn’t something show by now?”
And suddenly Catarina’s face lit with understanding.
Catarina’s expression softened, the corners of her mouth lifting in quiet amusement. “Ah,” she said, the sound warm with realization. “That.”
Alec blinked at her, clearly lost.
“That…?” he prompted warily.
Magnus sat back, hiding his grin behind a hand because he could already see where this was going.
“You’re glamouring it,” Catarina explained gently. “Your body, I mean. You’re doing it without realizing.”
Alec frowned, then frowned harder. “I’m not… I’m not doing anything.”
She chuckled. “Yes, you are. Not consciously. Omegas don’t necessarily need conscious control for this. Your magic’s been instinctively concealing the changes in your form.”
Alec looked somewhere between baffled and personally betrayed. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Oh, it does,” Catarina assured him. “It’s the same instinctive magic that lets warlocks hide their marks. I mean—” She lifted her hand—and without warning, her skin shifted to a soft sapphire-blue, her warlock mark manifesting fully across her face and arms.
Alec startled, sitting up straight, eyes wide. “You’re—! You—”
“Blue. Yes.” Catarina smiled, letting the magic fade so her skin returned to its mundane shade. “I glamour it constantly. You can’t exactly work in a mundane hospital looking like a Smurf.”
Magnus made a soft choking sound.
Catarina gave him a sharp glance but continued, her attention back on Alec. “You’re doing the same thing. The change is there—the womb has grown—but your magic is smoothing over the visual layer. You don’t even notice. It’s pure reflex.”
Alec sat frozen, his brows drawn in sharp concentration as if trying to feel it. “But I’m not… I’m not consciously hiding it.”
“You wouldn’t be,” she said gently. “Omega magic doesn’t always ask permission. It protects. It preserves. It hides things when you’re not ready to see them.”
Magnus watched Alec’s face carefully. The confusion. The faint disbelief. But also—something shifting. A deeper understanding beginning to settle.
Alec let out a breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t even know what’s worse,” he muttered. “The fact that my body’s lying to me or the fact that it’s better at this than I am.”
Magnus couldn’t help himself—he let out a soft breath of laughter, the sound slipping free before he could stop it.
Alec immediately turned a murderous glare on him. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Obviously,” Magnus murmured, the corners of his mouth twitching despite his best effort to look sympathetic. “You’re adorable when you’re annoyed.”
Alec groaned, exasperated, and flopped backward onto the couch like gravity itself had betrayed him. “I hate everything.”
“Also adorable,” Magnus added under his breath, earning another dagger-glare for his trouble.
Catarina patted his shoulder with a wide grin.
Catarina packed up her bag with practiced efficiency, her magic flickering faintly around her fingertips as she gave Alec one last sweep of her senses. “Everything looks good,” she said lightly, her voice easy, her eyes still warm. “Honestly, you’re adapting faster than most would.”
Alec made a noncommittal sound, still sprawled like a sulking cat, his hand absently tugging at the hem of Magnus’ stolen T-shirt. Magnus caught Catarina’s eye across the room, and she gave him a small, knowing nod. She didn’t say it aloud, but he could feel the silent exchange between them: He’s fine. He’s tired, cranky, but fine. He exhaled quietly in relief.
As Catarina reached for her coat, Alec—half mumbling—added, “No more… weird surprises coming, right?”
She smiled gently. “No. Just the usual. More hunger. More fatigue. Some dizziness maybe when the next phase kicks in, but you should be through the worst of the magic instability.”
Magnus’ fingers twitched faintly. He felt it too—Alec’s magic had settled, quieter, smoother under the surface. He still kept a mental hand on it, tracing its edges when Alec slept, but it was no longer brittle or sharp. When Catarina slipped out, calling over her shoulder to ring if anything felt off, Magnus closed the door softly behind her and returned to find Alec still in the exact same position on the couch. Staring at the ceiling. Magnus’ heart squeezed in a way he didn’t expect. Without a word, he flicked his fingers—and breakfast appeared on the dining table: stacks of buttery pancakes, honeyed fruit, charred bacon. Grumbling under his breath, Alec made his way to the table, too hungry to keep up the full scale of his sulk. And then, somewhere around his second bite of toast, he frowned deeply and fixed Magnus with a sharp look.
“…Could you eat any louder?” Alec demanded flatly.
Magnus watched Alec with all the love he could muster to hide the slight irritation he felt “I believe it is more of a brunch hour” he muttered and magically had an alcoholic beverage appear in his hand. He sipped his drink as Alec was looking at him as if daring him to make a slurping noise.
Chapter 12: Always on the job
Chapter Text
Did the knob always stuck like that?
Magnus grimaced immediately, freezing half-bent over the knob like some sort of second-rate cat burglar. He paused, one hand still braced against the door, and held his breath. The penthouse was dark. Blessedly, beautifully dark. Maybe Alec was asleep. Maybe the universe was kind. The door finally gave way with a quiet snick, and Rien slipped inside as delicately as a man three glasses of something too strong could manage.
Step one: don’t die.
The thought floated lazily in his mind as he toed his shoes off in the hall, leaving them slightly crooked on the mat. He padded forward on bare feet, coat slung over his arm, and paused only to blink at the slight shift in the wards as they adjusted around him. There was something… off. A ripple of faint tension in the air. But Rien, slightly buzzed and wildly preoccupied with not waking up the possibly hormonal Nephilim in his bed, brushed it aside.
He tiptoed like a criminal. He bumped into the end table immediately.
“Shit,” Magnus hissed under his breath, catching the lamp just before it toppled. He steadied it, breathing through his nose, then whispered: “You’re fine. It’s fine. No one heard that.”
He crossed to the bedroom with exaggerated care, limbs loose, mind spinning just enough that the floor seemed fractionally tilted. The bedroom door creaked. He winced. Of course it creaked. Why wouldn’t it?
No magic, he reminded himself. No bright sparks. No flashy tricks. Normal. Quiet.
He closed the door with painstaking slowness, the latch clicking home softly behind him. He let out a breath. His heart still thudded like he’d evaded some high-stakes heist. The lump on the bed—definitely Alec—didn’t stir.
Magnus sagged, the relief making his knees soft. He set his coat down quietly. Then—because he wasn’t that drunk—he peeled out of the rest of his clothes with the slow-motion care of a man dismantling a bomb. Half undressed, he stumbled lightly into the bathroom. And immediately knocked over the shampoo bottle.
Clatter. Clang.
“Damn it—!”
He cursed under his breath, caught the rolling bottle with his foot, fumbled it twice, somehow made it worse, and then just gave up and shoved the thing into the corner like a defeated toddler. He stood there for a moment, breathing hard, then laughed silently to himself.
“Brilliant,” he muttered. “Truly masterful. Smooth.”
The shower, predictably, made everything worse.
Magnus stepped inside hoping for quiet, swift dignity. What he got instead was a metallic clang as the shower handle slipped from his damp fingers, the sudden splatter of water hitting tile with the fury of a thunderstorm, and an involuntary yelp as the first spray was absolutely, unnecessarily cold.
“Hell—” Magnus hissed through gritted teeth, shivering as he yanked the handle back toward hot. Steam billowed up in seconds, thick enough to fog the glass, but the noise—the noise—was deafening.
It sounded, to his slightly wine-fogged brain, like someone had dropped a waterfall into the bathroom from a great height.
He stood there dripping, hands braced against the tile, breathing deep through his nose. “Quiet,” he whispered at the water, as if it might listen. “Quiet quiet quiet.”
It was not quiet. By the time he stumbled out—toweling off with one hand while hastily pulling on soft cotton pajamas with the other—he felt only marginally less drunk and ten times more frantic. The apartment was still quiet.
Alec’s still asleep. Please let him still be asleep.
Barefoot, Magnus crept toward the bed like a man on a tightrope. Every floorboard creak, every sigh of the wind outside, every shift of fabric sounded catastrophic to his overanxious ears. He made it to his side of the bed, carefully peeled back the covers, and eased in. The mattress dipped. He held his breath. He froze. The lump beside him—mercifully—did not move. Magnus exhaled in pure, unfiltered relief. He let his head fall back against the pillow, limbs soft with the clumsy grace of someone just drunk enough to relax and just sober enough to still panic. He stared at the ceiling, heart thudding loud in his ears. Safe. He was safe. For now. For a blissful thirty seconds, Rien allowed himself to believe he’d made it.
The sheets were warm, Alec hadn’t moved, the penthouse was silent. He let out another breath—slow, controlled, victorious. His fingers curled loosely around the edge of the blanket, and the tension in his chest finally started to bleed away.
And then—
The lump beside him shifted. Just the smallest movement. The barest twitch of fabric. Magnus’ breath caught sharply in his throat. Alec mumbled something unintelligible, shifting half an inch deeper into the mattress, his breathing still slow and even. Still asleep. Magnus stayed absolutely, perfectly still, as though the air itself might betray him. The seconds stretched. The silence held. And then Alec, in his sleep, let out the softest, most disgruntled sigh—his brows pulling together, his face buried in the pillow—before settling again. Magnus exhaled through his teeth, barely suppressing the manic little laugh building at the back of his throat.
Survived.
He closed his eyes, let the warmth soak through his skin, and murmured into the darkness, voice dry as bone:
“Smooth as ever.”
Just as sleep began to pull at him, Magnus felt the faintest ripple—a soft tug at the edge of his wards, distant and oddly thin—but the weight of wine and exhaustion dragged him under before the thought could take shape.
**********
Magnus woke to warmth. A lot of warmth. For a few blissfully slow seconds, he floated somewhere soft between sleep and awareness, heavy-limbed, the air thick with the gentle weight of dreams. And then the weight on his chest shifted—and the sound of very faint purring made its way to his ears. He cracked one eye open.
Alec.
Alec everywhere.
The younger man was sprawled entirely across him, one leg slung over Magnus’ hips, an arm half-pinned beneath Magnus’ neck, his breath soft and even against Magnus’ collarbone. As if this weren’t enough, the very last unclaimed bit of Magnus’ lower legs was currently occupied by the smug, imperious form of Chairman Meow, who lay curled like a king in the sliver of space between Alec’s thighs. Magnus stared up at the ceiling for a beat, then let his head fall back into the pillow with a soft sigh.
“Well,” he whispered to the room, “this is my life now.”
He thought about moving. He really did. He considered, very carefully, the logistics of wriggling his way out from under one (1) Nephilim octopus and one (1) moderately heavy cat without dislodging limbs, setting off beasts, or waking anyone who could murder him for the offense. And then he very deliberately did not move.
It wasn’t worth it.
Instead, he let one hand trail lazily along the curve of Alec’s back, the other idly stroking Chairman Meow’s soft fur. Both living weights stayed mercifully still, the soft purr of the cat blending with the slow exhale of Alec’s breathing. Magnus’ thoughts drifted as his hands moved. The golden morning light slid through the windows, warm on his skin. He felt the quiet hum of his wards through the back of his mind—a faint ripple, a small disturbance far-off, just enough to register. He filed it away absently for later. Not urgent. Nothing was urgent right now. Not when Alec’s hair tickled his jaw, not when the weight of the other man’s body kept him cocooned in sleepy heat, not when even the cat, usually so merciless at breakfast time, had given in to the haze of soft, lazy morning peace.
I could get used to this, Magnus thought with a small, private smile.
Alec stirred first. It was subtle—just the faintest twitch of fingers against Magnus’ chest, the sleepy furrow of his brow. He shifted, exhaled, and snuggled closer in that absent, boneless way that people half-asleep sometimes did, as if Magnus were merely another blanket to burrow into. Chairman Meow gave a protesting chirp as Alec’s leg nudged him, then stood with immense feline dignity, stretched, and padded off to the foot of the bed with a deeply offended meow. Alec’s eyes blinked open groggily.
For a moment, he looked vaguely confused by his own location, then his gaze landed on Magnus—still beneath him, still lazily carding fingers through the dark strands of his hair. He made a small noise, somewhere between sheepish and grumpy, and dropped his head back down onto Magnus’ shoulder.
“Good morning,” Magnus offered, voice soft with amusement.
Alec groaned. “It’s too early.”
“It’s nearly ten,” Magnus pointed out mildly. “By your standards, that’s practically lunch.”
Alec shifted only slightly, just enough to lift his head groggily and squint blearily up at Magnus without making any real move to sit up. His hair stuck out in every possible direction, a complete disaster, and he looked thoroughly unimpressed by the existence of morning. Instead of rising, he sighed—long, dramatic, and thoroughly done with everything—and flopped right back down, burrowing against Magnus’ chest like movement itself was too much effort. Magnus propped himself on one elbow, gaze soft as he looked down at the gloriously rumpled creature in his arms. His fingers drifted lazily through Alec’s tangled hair, a fond grin tugging at his lips before he could stop it.
“Did you have fun last night?” Alec asked, voice still hoarse with sleep.
Magnus raised a brow, feigning innocence. “Wildly,” he said dryly. “I have so many riveting conversations about ley line stabilization and the politics of glamour taxation.”
Alec made a small noise that might have been a laugh. He rubbed at his face with both hands. “Sounds thrilling.”
“Truly,” Magnus sighed, flopping dramatically onto his back. “I barely survived.”
He turned his head sideways, half-expecting Alec to shift, but the younger man remained stubbornly sprawled on top of him—heavy, warm, and clearly unwilling to move. Alec’s hair was still an ungodly mess, wild strands tickling Magnus’ chin as he gave a soft, sleepy sigh and burrowed deeper against his chest.
Magnus huffed a quiet laugh, lifting one hand to brush through the tangle of dark hair. “I see,” he murmured. “So getting up is just… off the table, then.”
Alec made a low, noncommittal noise without lifting his head. Definitely not moving.
“Plans today?” Magnus asked casually.
Alec shifted against him with a small shrug, his cheek still pressed to Magnus’ chest. “No. Jace and Izzy are… I don’t know. They’re keeping me out of something.” His voice was soft but edged with mild irritation. “It’s weird. Annoying.”
Magnus’ lips twitched faintly. “A conspiracy? Already?” he teased, smoothing a hand through Alec’s unruly hair.
Alec huffed. “Feels like it.”
Magnus wisely said nothing. Of course he knew exactly why Isabelle and Jace were gently shuffling Alec to the sidelines. The last time Alec had lost his patience on patrol, half the Seelie guard had looked one step away from crying. But Magnus wasn’t about to say that. Not if he valued his limbs.
He just hummed noncommittally and kept his hand moving through Alec’s hair, watching the grumpy set of his mouth with quiet affection. There was a pause.
Without bothering to move, Magnus let his fingers trail lazily along Alec’s spine. “We should get out for once,” he murmured, voice soft. “Just us. Something normal. Something that doesn’t end with me stitching someone back together.”
Alec blinked.
“We never really…” Magnus hesitated. “You know. Just do normal things. Sunlight. Ice cream. The occasional terrible café.”
Alec’s lips twitched faintly. “Okay,” he murmured after a moment. “Sure.”
“Really?”
Alec rolled his eyes but smiled, small and tired and real. “Yeah. Let’s go be normal.”
It turned out that being normal was surprisingly easy.
The sky was clear, the kind of blue that only happened when the city smog got bullied into submission by actual sunlight. The park was busy but not suffocating, full of families, joggers, and the occasional warlock or faerie trying very hard to pass for mundane.
Magnus walked beside Alec, hands tucked into his pockets, a lazy grin playing at his mouth. Alec, for his part, had settled into that rare quiet mood—loose, relaxed, something soft in the lines of his face that made Magnus chest ache in a way he didn’t fully examine.
They’d gotten coffee. Well—Magnus had gotten something complicated and obnoxiously sweet, and Alec had flatly ordered black like the rest of the world was personally offensive.
They wandered without aim: sitting on park benches, watching clouds, the occasional ridiculous commentary from Magnus about the state of mortal fashion. Alec smiled more than once. Laughed even. Magnus mentally counted each one like they were gold coins in his pocket. At some point they stopped for actual ice cream. Magnus insisted, of course.
“I feel ridiculous,” Alec muttered, eyeing the double scoop Magnus had handed him like it was plotting against him.
“You look perfect,” Magnus said serenely, licking his own in a way that was frankly obscene.
Alec flushed.
They found a sunny patch of grass and sat, Magnus sprawling back while Alec sat cross-legged beside him. The warmth, the rare stillness—it felt fragile and real all at once.
Magnus tilted his head back, smiling lazily at the sky. “You know,” he said, “this is almost suspiciously pleasant.”
Alec made a soft sound of agreement, his fingers brushing over the grass absently.
For a while, they just sat. The city hummed around them. Nothing pressed. No one interrupted.
Until Alec froze.
It was subtle—his entire body going still, head tilting slightly. Magnus blinked, sat up, already catching the flicker of something sharp in Alec’s Scent.
Alec’s hand shot out, finger pointing across the park. “That,” he said under his breath. “That’s one of them.”
Magnus barely had time to react before Alec was moving—springing to his feet, muscles already shifting beneath his skin as he sprinted after a figure darting between the trees.
“Of course,” Magnus muttered, standing with a soft sigh. He dusted nonexistent crumbs from his sleeves, flicked his fingers to vanish the coffee cups, and took off at a more leisurely—but efficient—pace.
Alec was already halfway across the park, agile despite everything, weaving through startled mundanes with that smooth, practiced ease that came from a lifetime of chasing things much faster and much deadlier than ordinary criminals.
Magnus followed, the sun still warm on his skin, the taste of coffee still lingering on his tongue.
The day had been lovely.
While it lasted.
Magnus finally caught up to Alec near the edge of an alleyway, the younger man half-sunk into the shadows, his sharp eyes locked onto something ahead with that unsettling hyper-focus that screamed Shadowhunter business. He was pressed to a crumbling brick wall, body tensed, magic pulled taut beneath his skin. Magnus, on the other hand, strolled up without the faintest hint of stealth.
“Darling,” Magnus murmured lazily, voice soft but playful as he stepped up beside him, “are we hiding from someone or did you just feel like leaning dramatically against old brickwork for fun?”
Alec didn’t even blink. “That’s one of them,” he said under his breath, nodding toward a figure moving casually through the thinning crowd beyond the alley. “From the conference. He’s a warlock.”
Magnus’ expression sharpened, but before he could say anything, Alec shot out a hand and—rather forcefully—shoved him back behind the wall. His fingers curled briefly in Magnus’ shirt, the contact brief but sharp.
“Stay down,” Alec murmured without even looking at him, eyes still locked on the target.
Magnus, who now found himself half-pinned against grimy brick, raised both eyebrows but let himself be shoved without resistance. He folded his arms, adopting the exact kind of smug, long-suffering expression that tended to make Alec roll his eyes.
“Of course,” Magnus murmured. “By all means, use me as furniture.”
Alec ignored him, his gaze laser-focused. A moment later, he raised one hand and made a series of sharp, clipped gestures—fingers twitching in what looked like some ancient military code.
Magnus blinked. Squinted. Then blinked again.
“Is that supposed to mean something?” he asked flatly.
Alec exhaled through his nose, clearly struggling for patience. “He’s on the move.”
“Ah,” Magnus said, entirely unbothered, “right. Obviously. That’s what the hand dance was for.”
They trailed the man through the winding streets for several blocks. Or rather—Alec trailed, sharp and precise, every muscle tight with focus, while Magnus walked casually next to him, hands in his pockets, offering no particular stealth whatsoever.
“Could you not walk right beside me?” Alec muttered under his breath as they crossed into a quieter street.
Magnus tilted his head, unhurried. “Everyone’s walking beside everyone. You’re the only one here looking suspicious.”
Alec shot him a lethal side glance.
Magnus, without missing a beat, added smoothly, “Also, I love you.”
That earned him a very narrow-eyed glare—part disbelief, part reluctant exasperation—but Alec didn’t break stride.
They followed the man through tighter alleys and finally watched as he slipped into a storefront that shimmered faintly at the edges—glamoured. A familiar washed-out wooden sign read something half-legible about magical supplies. Magnus didn’t bother to read it properly. He knew the place.
Alec came to a stop, muttering darkly. “That’s your informant’s shop.”
Magnus raised a brow. “Convenient.”
Alec made another sharp hand gesture—this one, Magnus was fairly sure, involved some version of you’re an idiot. He gave an exaggerated sigh and muttered, “You know I can actually hear you, right? And he can’t see or hear us where he’s at. You can just talk.”
Alec gave him the most withering look imaginable, then moved. With barely a hesitation, Alec slipped inside. Magnus sighed, muttered something obscene under his breath, and followed. The magic shop smelled like every questionable back-alley den Magnus had ever walked into: stale incense, burnt herbs, and a faint undercurrent of something far less legal. The air itself felt sticky, the wards thin but clever—barely enough to keep out mundanes, but enough to keep out trouble unless trouble knew exactly what it was looking for. Alec froze just inside the doorway, eyes scanning fast. Magnus stepped in behind him at a far more leisurely pace, dusting imaginary lint off his sleeves as he surveyed the shelves stacked with arcane junk, half-spent charms, and enough dodgy ingredients to get someone exiled.
But their quarry? Gone.
Completely.
Alec's frustration was immediate. He strode forward, boots clicking on the warped floorboards, his voice low and dangerously polite as he addressed the man behind the counter.
“Where is he?” Alec asked, ice in every syllable.
The warlock—a thin man with oily skin and a permanent sneer—blinked in mock surprise. “Who?” he asked sweetly. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
Magnus hung back, leaning casually against a shelf. He gave the man an idle smile when the informant’s gaze flicked his way.
“Well, well,” the warlock drawled, straightening slightly. “Didn’t expect to see you here, High Warlock.”
Magnus let his smile stretch lazily, deliberately sharp around the edges. “I usually have better taste in shopping,” he murmured. “But I do hear your rat’s nest has a certain underground appeal.”
The warlock’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t rise to it.
Alec, however, looked about two seconds from setting the place on fire with sheer willpower alone. His fingers twitched near his belt where his seraph blade was sheathed, and Magnus wondered if a normal day out was supposed to include Seraph blades. “We know someone came in here.”
“Don’t know anything about that,” the man said with a shrug, all oily charm. “Must’ve been a ghost.”
Magnus didn’t bother to hide the smirk. Alec, practically vibrating with righteous fury, stared the man down another long moment before spinning on his heel and stalking out the door with a clipped, muttered curse.
Magnus pushed off the wall with a sigh and offered the man behind the counter a tight-lipped smile. “Always a pleasure.”
The door jingled closed behind him. Alec was pacing outside when Magnus stepped back into the daylight.
The Nephilim’s face was dark with frustration, brows drawn tight, jaw clenched hard enough that Magnus could see the muscle jump. His hands moved restlessly at his sides—restless, pent-up energy that clearly had nowhere to go.
“He’s involved,” Alec muttered the moment Magnus joined him. His voice was sharp with certainty, laced with the same quiet rage Magnus had seen in him too many times before. “I don’t care what he says. He’s in it. He’s lying.”
Magnus folded his arms, leaning against the nearest lamppost with careful indifference. “Of course he’s lying,” he agreed mildly. “It’s practically the man’s entire personality. But you won’t get anything out of him.”
Alec stopped pacing and whipped around, eyes flaring dangerously. “Then what do you suggest?”
Magnus’ mouth twitched into something that was almost a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes this time. “He won’t talk. He has a hand in every dirty little scheme in the lower circles of the warlock world. Threats won’t work. Bribes won’t work. And frankly, murder’s too obvious.”
Alec’s expression darkened further, but some of the tension started to fade from his shoulders. He exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair.
“He’s definitely connected to the murders,” Alec muttered again, quieter this time. “I know it.”
Magnus nodded, his voice dropping to something softer. “I don’t doubt you.”
For a few beats, they just stood there—Alec still bristling, Magnus quiet beside him, the street unnervingly still.
Finally, Magnus added under his breath, “We’ll figure it out. But not today.”
Alec’s shoulders slumped slightly. He gave a reluctant nod. They turned together, walking back into the sunlit street. But the warmth of the day had faded from Magnus’ skin. The tension sat behind his teeth now, cold and sharp.
**********
The bell above the door gave a cheerful jingle entirely unsuited to the grime and gloom of the shop it guarded. Jace let the door swing shut behind him with deliberate slowness, the heavy creak of old hinges somehow satisfying.
The smell hit him first—damp incense, herbs long past their prime, and the underlying tang of something unmistakably magical but faintly rotting. He wrinkled his nose faintly but let it pass.
This was going to be fun.
Callas Vree looked up from behind the counter, his expression souring the moment his eyes landed on the golden-haired Shadowhunter who stepped across his threshold with all the lazy grace of a lion at rest.
“Shadowhunter,” Callas greeted, his voice flat, brittle.
Jace offered him his brightest, sharpest grin. “Afternoon.”
He didn’t bother explaining. He wasn’t here to negotiate. He wasn’t here to play nice. He was here to be a pain in the ass until something cracked.
And he was exceptionally good at that.
Without waiting for an invitation, Jace strolled deeper into the shop, gloved fingers drifting lightly over shelves cluttered with magical detritus: cracked crystal balls, dusty potion bottles, rows of grimy scrolls in languages long dead. He “accidentally” nudged a jar. It teetered dangerously before he caught it—barely—flashing Callas an innocent look.
“Oops.”
Callas’ mouth pressed into a thin line. “Is there something you need?”
Jace tilted his head, considering. “Not particularly. Just browsing.”
He let his fingers trail across another shelf, deliberately careless. The toe of his boot nudged a display stand just enough to send a clatter of minor charms spilling to the floor. He didn’t even glance down.
“Oops again,” he said, voice dripping with false apology.
Callas Vree’s nostrils flared as Jace continued his casual destruction, his hands gliding carelessly across another precarious shelf of magical oddities. The warlock's jaw was tight enough to crack stone.
“Do you mind?” Callas snapped, his voice brittle. “These items are—”
“Priceless?” Jace interrupted, plucking up a fragile glass sphere filled with something dark and glittering. He turned it slowly between his fingers, watching the liquid swirl. “Rare? Illegal? All three, maybe?”
He set the sphere down—hard enough to make it wobble dangerously—before flashing another smile. “You know, it’s interesting. I was under the impression you were very concerned about your reputation. I’d hate for it to get around that you’re keeping secrets about warlocks turning up dead.”
Callas’ expression soured further. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jace tsked softly. “Lying doesn’t suit you.”
With deliberate calm, he reached out and—oops—knocked over a tiny bronze idol. It hit the floor with a heavy thud, the sound sharp in the quiet. He didn’t even glance down.
Callas flinched.
“I could have you thrown out,” the warlock bit out.
Jace’s grin only widened. “Could you though?” He sauntered deeper into the shop, tipping over another stack of tarnished charms with a casual sweep of his hand. “Because here’s the thing: I’m not here to make an arrest. I’m not here for a raid. I’m just here to… check in.”
He picked up a delicate wand from a display case, inspected it briefly, then snapped it in half with a sharp flick of his hands.
Callas’ breath caught audibly. “You—”
“Oops,” Jace said again, voice flat and amused.
Another customer entered—then stopped dead at the sight of him. The man took one look at Jace, at Callas’ pinched face, at the shattered wand—and fled without a word.
Jace raised his eyebrows. “Wow. You’re losing business fast.”
“Get. Out,” Callas snarled.
Jace clicked his tongue thoughtfully. “Mm… no.”
He leaned one elbow on the counter, impossibly relaxed. “I’ll be back tomorrow, you know. Or someone will. Might be me. Might be Isabelle. Could be Alec. We’re thinking of making this place our new hangout spot. Sort of a… second home.”
The blood drained from Callas’ face.
Jace tapped the countertop lightly with one finger. “Tick tock, warlock.”
And with that, he turned on his heel—utterly at ease, leaving a trail of small, deliberate wreckage in his wake—and sauntered out the door.
**********
For seven long days, the quiet war of attrition against Callas Vree unfolded with the precision only Shadowhunters could muster. It wasn’t the kind of operation that involved blades or blood, but it was warfare all the same—one of relentless pressure, petty disruption, and absolutely no chance for peace.
Each day, one of them entered the grimy little magic shop.
Jace had his own little temper. He relished it, naturally. Swaggering through the door with that catlike grace, flashing his teeth in a slow, dangerous grin that made customers hesitate and sometimes flee outright. He’d run his fingers across shelves, “accidentally” knocking things down, snapping charms between idle fingers with murmured apologies that couldn’t have been less sincere. He taunted Callas with slow, honeyed malice, never raising his voice, never letting the warlock breathe. When Callas threatened to call the Clave, Jace had offered him his phone with a smirk: “I have them on speed dial”
Then Isabelle, elegant and devastating in an entirely different way. She didn’t speak much. She’d sit right by the counter, cross one long leg over the other, and slowly file her nails while maintaining unwavering eye contact with the man. The silence stretched longer each time, until Callas visibly twitched at every small movement of her hand. She never broke eye contact. She never smiled. She didn’t need to.
Alec’s method was simpler. He would walk in, stand perfectly still in the middle of the shop, and watch. Silent. Immovable. And just let the weight of the aura that clung to him—be oppressive in the tight quarters of the shop, pressing into every crack and seam until the warlock looked close to shattering. Once, Alec had caught Callas on a phone call muttering something about “needing to hurry things along,” and the moment the words slipped out, Alec’s voice had been sharp and quiet: “Hurry what along?” The man had stammered, shaken, but said nothing more.
And so it went, day after day. Customers vanished. Business crumbled. Callas’ nerves visibly frayed. By the end of the first week, he was so tightly wound Alec could almost hear him grinding his teeth from outside.
They weren’t going to let him breathe.
And Callas knew it.
Alec's last shift had started before sunrise, the soft dawn light barely touching the edges of the city as he perched in his usual spot across from Callas Vree’s shop. He was still, perfectly still—the kind of stillness only years of hunting and discipline could breed—watching without blinking, without moving, as the hours dragged past.
The shop remained unchanged. Shabby. Grim. Its owner no less greasy or tense than before.
By noon, Alec’s body ached. His back throbbed from standing motionless so long, and the leaden weight of exhaustion pressed behind his eyes. He’d barely slept in the last few nights—between the surveillance, the stress, the quiet tension crawling through his bones, everything felt a shade off-kilter.
When Jace arrived to relieve him, he did so with his usual cocky swagger, offering a lopsided grin. “Your turn to nap, Captain Grumpy.”
Alec grunted. “Don’t break too many things.”
“No promises.”
Jace clapped him on the shoulder as Alec peeled himself off the cold stone wall and started for home.
The familiar corner of the penthouse came into view—and so did Magnus, standing in front of it, arms raised, fingers splayed in slow, delicate gestures of magic. The air around him shimmered faintly, translucent threads of protection warping in ways Alec couldn’t fully see.
Alec frowned, approaching cautiously. “What are you doing?”
Magnus didn’t glance over. His concentration held fast, face unusually tight with annoyance. “Something’s off,” he murmured. “With the wards. I can’t find it. But it’s there.”
Alec squinted. “How do you know?”
Magnus’ lips twitched humorlessly. “I can feel it. My wards are a part of me. Right now they’re…” He exhaled sharply. “Itchy.”
Alec arched an eyebrow, a sliver of amusement cutting through his exhaustion. “Is that the technical term?”
Magnus cracked a small, reluctant smirk, but it didn’t last. His eyes stayed fixed on the nearly invisible traces of magic around the building.
“Did Callas say anything?”
Alec shook his head. “Nothing. Same as every day.”
Magnus sighed. “Maybe you’re wasting your time.”
“We don’t have another lead,” Alec said quietly, tugging at his sleeves.
“Maybe check with Alaric,” Magnus murmured. “See if he’s got a list of the attendees from the conference.”
Alec nodded, tugging absently at his sleeve. “Yeah. I’ll check. I’ll get Jace.”
Magnus’ hands moved in slow, frustrated arcs, the air around them shimmering faintly with displaced magic. His mouth was tight, his eyes distant in concentration.
Alec stopped in front of him, tilting his head. “Drop the wards for now,” he said softly, a hint of dry amusement coloring his voice. “Come up”
Magnus didn’t even look up. “It’s like an itch under my skin—I can’t ignore it. If I don’t find what it is it’ll drive me crazy.”
Alec gave a quiet huff, exasperated but fond. He stepped closer, close enough that their boots nearly touched, and with a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth he murmured, “Well, I could drive you crazy too.”
And before Magnus could react, Alec leaned in and pressed a quick, warm kiss to his cheek. Magnus’ breath caught, his magic faltering for just a moment. By the time he blinked and refocused, Alec was already pulling away, heading for the door with the barest satisfied curve to his lips. Magnus stood frozen for a beat longer than necessary—then let out a sharp sigh, shaking his head at himself. He threw one last frustrated glance at the quiet ripples of his magic, dropped his hands in defeat, and hurried after Alec with long strides, still unable to hold back the faint smile curling at the edges of his mouth.
**********
Alec found Jace sprawled casually against the wall in front of Callas’ shop, a throwing knife flipping between long fingers, golden hair catching the sunset light like something out of a particularly smug painting. Jace barely looked up, but a slow grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“You look tense,” Jace drawled, catching the knife one last time before sliding it away. “Which means you need me. Which means I’m going to enjoy this.”
Alec sighed. “We’re going to see Alaric. I need the guest list from the conference.”
Jace’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh, the ancient one who looks like he wandered off the set of some elven high court drama? Fancy.”
Alec ignored him and started walking hugging Isabelle as she took Jace’s place.
In front of the building magic shimmered faintly in the air, rich and quiet. The kind of place that didn’t need to announce its power. They were met by a young warlock assistant, who blinked once at their weapons but wisely said nothing. Within minutes they were ushered into an airy salon, lit by gold-hued windows and the soft hum of distant wards. Alaric arrived not long after, moving with the kind of unhurried grace that made him seem almost otherworldly. His robes were emerald and silver, his beard meticulously trimmed, his eyes sharp despite the gentle smile he offered.
“Shadowhunters,” he greeted, voice warm, timeless. “I didn’t expect to see you back here.”
Alec inclined his head. “We’re sorry to interrupt. We’re following a lead. We need the names of those who attended your conference a couple weeks ago”
Alaric’s eyes flickered—just briefly—toward Alec’s face, and lower, his gaze brushing with faint curiosity over Alec’s carefully neutral glamour. But he said nothing of it.
“Of course,” Alaric murmured. “Though not every guest is formally invited. Some attend by… whim. Still, I will have my assistant fetch the records.”
As the assistant left, Alaric gestured for them to sit. He poured tea, his movements serene, and when he turned back to Alec, his voice lowered a fraction in warmth.
“And how are you, young one?”
Alaric poured tea with the ease of someone who’d hosted kings and monsters alike. The soft fragrance of something citrusy and spiced filled the air as he handed them each a delicate porcelain cup. Jace, predictably, looked at his tea like it was something that might sprout legs.
Alec, polite but stiff, murmured his thanks. He could feel the weight of Alaric’s eyes as the warlock settled into one of the high-backed chairs.
“You look well,” Alaric said gently. His voice was soft, ageless, but there was something knowing in the way he studied Alec. “But perhaps… also not.”
Alec tensed, the tea halfway to his lips. “I’m fine.”
The warlock smiled, not unkindly. “Glamours are useful. But I’ve been alive a very long time. Magic sees more than the eye.”
Jace, unhelpfully, smirked over his cup. “He’s fine. Little moody. Blame Magnus.”
Alec shot him a look that could’ve scorched earth. Alaric, however, only looked amused.
“I see,” the warlock murmured. His gaze remained kind, but something softened further as he addressed Alec directly. “An Omega among Shadowhunters. I confess, I never thought I’d live to witness it. You carry something very rare, young one. Something precious.”
Alec shifted uncomfortably. “I’m still—” He faltered. “I’m still me.”
“Of course,” Alaric agreed, his smile genuine. “But it changes you. Not in the ways you fear. Omegas… carry a touch of the divine. Even among warlocks, they are revered.”
Jace raised an eyebrow. “So he’s holy now? Does that make me right-hand of the angel?”
Alaric laughed softly, the sound musical and sincere. “Something like that.”
The conversation drifted lightly after that, the weight of it softened by Alaric’s gentle presence and Jace’s irrepressible humor. When the assistant finally returned with a slim leather folder, Alec exhaled softly in relief.
They rose, offering polite thanks. Alaric touched Alec’s shoulder briefly in parting, the barest brush of magic beneath his fingertips. “Take care of yourself,” he said softly. “And of what you carry.”
As they stepped back into the sunlight, Jace nudged Alec with a grin. “See? Even ancient warlocks like you.”
Alec groaned. “I hate you.”
Jace’s grin only widened.
As soon as they stepped out of the serene, spell-soaked building, Alec exhaled sharply, adjusting the strap of his gear across his shoulder. The city air was sharp and chill, the brightness of the streetlights already starting to flicker on as dusk pulled over the skyline.
“That went well,” Jace said too lightly, his hands tucked into his pockets. His golden hair gleamed in the fading light, and the way he sauntered down the street could only be described as deliberately smug.
Alec gave him a sideways look. “Do not start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” Jace said, utterly unconvincing. “I’m merely observing that ancient warlocks apparently love you, you’re carrying the next mystical whatever, and somehow I’m still the only one who didn’t get tea.”
“You didn’t want tea,” Alec muttered.
“I didn’t want his tea,” Jace clarified with a smirk. He nudged Alec’s elbow lightly. “You know, I think Magnus’s the one who’s in trouble here. Alaric practically glowed when he looked at you. How does it feel to be the rarest commodity in the market?”
Alec groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I am not a commodity.”
“Right, right,” Jace said breezily, but his eyes sparkled with mischief. “Just saying. If I’d known you’d end up the Nephilim’s most sought-after Omega, I would’ve—”
“Would’ve what?” Alec cut in flatly, arching an eyebrow.
“—asked Magnus for a dowry,” Jace finished with a wicked grin. “He’s practically living in luxury.”
Alec actually barked out a laugh despite himself and shook his head. “You’re an idiot.”
**********
The Institute’s long halls were quiet as Alec and Jace made their way to Hodge’s office. Their footsteps echoed faintly, the early evening light slanting through stained glass windows. For a moment, Alec let himself drift, his mind still replaying Alaric’s warm smile, the weight of unspoken things.
Hodge looked up from his desk when they entered. The older man’s brow lifted slightly in curiosity.
“We’ve got something,” Jace said, handing over the leather folder. “Alaric’s conference attendees.”
Hodge set down his pen and opened the folder, flipping through the neatly handwritten list. He nodded thoughtfully. “Good. Isabelle and I will cross-check it tomorrow.”
Jace gave a casual two-fingered salute and headed for the door, but Hodge’s voice stopped Alec mid-step. “Alec—could you stay a moment?”
Alec hesitated, glancing at Jace, who raised an eyebrow but didn’t protest. “Sure,” Alec murmured.
Jace disappeared, and the door clicked softly shut behind him.
Hodge leaned back in his chair, studying Alec with quiet eyes. “How are you?”
The question was simple. Too simple. Alec’s mouth moved automatically. “I’m fine.”
That earned a low chuckle. Hodge shook his head fondly. “That’s always the answer, isn’t it? You, Isabelle, Jace. Always fine. Even when you’re bleeding.”
Alec’s lips twitched, but he said nothing.
Hodge’s gaze sharpened slightly. “Your mother asked after you.”
That startled him more than it should have. He stiffened. “Did she.”
“Mmm.” Hodge’s voice remained gentle. “She was… concerned, I think. In her way.”
Alec didn’t know what to make of that, so he said nothing, his arms folding tight across his chest.
Hodge sighed softly, then added, “The Clave as well.”
That drew a sharper breath from Alec. He forced his shoulders to stay loose, his voice steady. “What do they want?”
“They want to be informed of your condition. Regularly.”
Alec’s jaw tightened. “And what are you going to tell them?”
Hodge smiled faintly, the warmth in his expression tempered with something older, something careful. “I’ll tell them the truth. That you’re fine.”
Alec blinked, startled despite himself.
Hodge shrugged lightly. “They don’t need to know more. Unless you want them to.”
A beat passed. The tension in Alec’s shoulders eased just a fraction.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
Hodge waved it off. “Remember, Alec. I’m here. If you ever need… anything. You don’t have to carry it all on your own.”
Alec’s throat tightened unexpectedly. He nodded. “I know.”
With that, he turned, the door clicking softly behind him as he stepped back into the stillness of the corridor.
**********
The late morning light in Magnus penthouse was golden and deceptively serene. Isabelle, Jace, and Alec sat clustered around Magnus’ coffee table where a carefully annotated list of names lay between them. Chairman Meow dozed on a velvet armchair like a silent supervisor.
Magnus was out—something involving enchanted safes, rich idiots, and, as he put it, "the last time I let a goblin warlock ward anything." It left the trio with the task at hand: hunt potential suspects from the guest list.
“Alright,” Isabelle began, spreading her notes like a queen laying out her battlefield. “Out of the full list, nine of these people have something on record: minor magic offenses, known associates with shady circles, or just plain weirdness. The other five? Nothing. Hodge and the Clave are on those.”
She looked up, raising a brow. “We split these nine. Three each. Check in. Look friendly. No explosions. Meet back here at four.”
Jace leaned back with a smirk. “So… a light murder suspect brunch run. Easy.”
“Charming,” Alec muttered dryly. “I assume by ‘friendly’ you mean ‘not break down doors immediately.’”
“Unless it’s funny,” Jace added helpfully.
Isabelle rolled her eyes. “You two are idiots. Let’s go.”
**********
The Queens brownstone was a sorry sight—overgrown ivy, cracked steps, and the stale scent of neglect. Isabelle knocked. No answer. She knocked again, sharper. Still nothing. Frowning, she turned as a neighbor across the street—a woman in her seventies wearing a sunflower apron—paused mid-watering can.
“Excuse me,” Isabelle called, stepping closer. She offered a warm smile. “Sorry to bother you. I’m looking for Marcus Ellwood? Lives—or lived—here?”
The woman squinted. “Marcus? Oh, hon, haven’t seen that boy in weeks. Used to come back drunk off his rocker from that nasty bar downtown. Walked like his knees were on backwards. But lately? Not a sign.”
“Bar downtown?”
“Some dive near 18th. Can’t miss it—sticky floors, bad music.” She eyed Isabelle curiously. “He in trouble?”
“Just need to find him,” Isabelle assured, flashing her most dazzling smile.
Walking back to her car, she sighed. “Great. Either he’s hiding or already six feet under.”
The next house oozed pretension before Isabelle even rang the bell. Statues of lions, crystal wind chimes, the works. The door creaked open to reveal a thin man in a velvet dressing gown clutching a wine glass half full of something suspiciously dark at—Isabelle checked her watch—eleven-forty in the morning.
“Yes?” he drawled, already exasperated.
“Good morning. Isabelle Lightwood. Shadowhunter business. May I ask you a few questions?”
“Shadowhunters,” he said with a theatrical sigh, dramatically resting his forehead on the doorframe. “Is this about the summoning incident? Because that wasn’t me.”
“Actually, it’s about the recent warlock attacks,” she said sweetly.
His eyes widened just a touch. "Attacks? Seriously?" He straightened, shaking his head. "I don’t do murder. Ugh. Too messy."
“I’m glad to hear it,” Isabelle murmured, resisting the urge to smirk.
He waved her off. “You people are all the same. Panic first, blame the warlocks. Well not me, darling. I’m practically celibate. Except for my Thursday date nights with Harold. And that doesn’t involve magic. Usually."
Isabelle gave him her best ‘I’m not amused’ look. “Stay out of trouble, Mr. Baudelaire.”
He sniffed. “I am trouble.”
She left him to his wine and faintly suspicious garden gnomes.
The third address brought Isabelle to a cramped apartment complex that smelled of old cigarettes and cheap curry. She climbed the chipped stone steps, heels clicking sharply. The door opened after her second knock to reveal a man in his late thirties, dark circles under his eyes and hands trembling visibly.
"H-hi," he stammered, clutching the doorframe like it might hold him upright.
Isabelle gave him her warmest, least-threatening smile. "Hi there. Isabelle Lightwood. I'm with the Clave. We're checking in with local magic-users—just routine, nothing to be worried about."
He looked like he might pass out. "I—I haven't done anything—! I—I don't—I don't even go out. I—I have cats!"
She softened her expression. "It’s okay. You're not in trouble. Just wondering if you've seen anything strange or heard anything about the recent attacks."
His eyes darted side to side. "No! No, I—I don't know anything! Please."
Isabelle nodded slowly. "Alright. Just be careful, okay? There are some dangerous people out there." She kept her voice gentle. "And feed the cats."
He nodded frantically, closing the door with shaking hands.
As she walked back outside, she muttered, "Definitely not him. Unless his evil plan involves catnip."
**********
Jace’s first stop was in Midtown. The warlock—a stocky man with candy-pink hair and a Hello Kitty sweatshirt—opened the door cautiously.
“Hi," Jace said casually. "Have you been murdering anyone lately?"
The man blinked. "What?"
“Magic murders? Draining other warlocks? Leaving crispy corpses?"
The warlock blinked again. "No?"
“Cool. Stay safe.” Jace gave him a friendly nod and walked off, leaving the man standing there with his mouth slightly open.
The next address belonged to a woman in her sixties, silver bangles clinking as she answered the door.
Jace offered his most charming grin. "Hi. Just checking—any chance you’re involved in a string of magical homicides?"
She barked a laugh. "Darling, the last thing I killed was a bottle of pinot."
Jace laughed. "Fair. If you hear anything, though—"
“Please. If I wanted someone dead, I'd turn their houseplants against them. Less mess.”
He left with a wave, oddly refreshed by her attitude.
The last guy barely cracked the door open. He was in pajamas, his hair an untamed mop.
Jace leaned casually against the doorframe. "You haven’t murdered anyone recently, right?"
“Wha—? No?"
“Cool. Have a good nap."
The door slammed in his face.
Jace grinned to himself. "People skills: 10/10."
**********
The first address brought Alec to a sleek modern apartment with too many plants and a suspiciously pristine welcome mat. He knocked twice, adjusting the fall of his jacket, his hand still near the hilt of his blade out of sheer habit. When the door finally opened, the man standing there made Alec blink. The warlock was short and lean, sharp-featured, with thick blond hair and an expression somewhere between amused and intrigued. He raised an eyebrow as his gaze drifted over Alec’s gear. "Well. Hello."
Alec cleared his throat. "I'm—Shadowhunter. Just following up on some addresses from a recent warlock gathering."
The man smiled slow and lazy, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. "If you’re here to arrest me for too much charm, I surrender immediately."
Alec’s ears went pink. "It’s not… I’m just checking if anyone else lives here."
"My boyfriend does," the man purred. "He’s the actual warlock. I’m just an innocent bystander. Want to see a picture?"
"Uh—sure."
The man held up his phone. Alec squinted. Definitely not one of the guys.
"Thank you," Alec said quickly, already stepping back. "There have been attacks on warlocks. You should be careful."
The man tilted his head, smirk deepening. "Why don’t you come in and tell me all about it?"
Alec coughed, flustered. "No. Thank you. I—I should go."
He nearly tripped down the steps, face burning. Behind him, the man chuckled and called, "Be careful out there, handsome!"
Alec groaned softly, muttering under his breath all the way down the street.
The second house was small, squat, with peeling paint and a sagging porch. Alec knocked politely, then frowned as he heard frantic shuffling inside.
"Hello?" he called, stepping off the porch.
Through the side window, he spotted the flash of someone’s face—wide eyes, pale skin—before the curtains snapped shut. More crashing. Alec circled the house calmly just in time to see a round man in a grubby T-shirt halfway through a tiny bathroom window, legs kicking like a trapped beetle.
Alec crossed his arms. "Franklin?" he called dryly.
The man froze. "Oh crap," Franklin wheezed. "Look, I didn’t think—"
Alec tilted his head. "Enchanted dice again?"
Franklin whimpered, wedging himself free and landing in a graceless heap. "It was one time—okay, two times—but it’s harmless! Tiny charms! For good luck at cards!"
"That’s still illegal," Alec reminded him flatly. He helped haul the man upright by the back of his collar, marching him back through the front door like an unruly toddler. The inside of the house smelled of incense and burnt coffee. "This isn’t why I’m here, but I’ll make it an official warning."
Franklin looked vaguely tearful. "I wasn’t gonna hurt nobody! I just—I just like to win sometimes."
Alec raised one eyebrow. "Stop. Behave. If I have to come back, I won’t be this polite."
He left Franklin on the sagging couch, still wheezing, and shook his head all the way back outside, fighting down a small, reluctant smile.
The last address was unsettling the moment Alec stepped onto the landing. The door was shut, the blinds drawn, and something in the air felt… wrong.
He knocked. Waited. Nothing. He knocked again, sharper this time.
Still nothing.
Drawing his stele, Alec carefully traced an opening rune near the lock. The door clicked open with a soft groan, and he stepped inside, one hand on his blade. The apartment was stale and cold, the air thick with old magic residue. Dust coated every surface. An uneaten plate of something moldy sat on the kitchen counter. No one had been here for weeks. Alec moved silently, eyes scanning. On the floor by the battered sofa he spotted loose papers—scribbled incantations, arcane symbols he couldn’t decipher. He folded them, tucking them into his coat. A glint of something near a low cabinet caught his eye. Kneeling, he fished out a leather wallet wedged half-underneath. Flipping it open, his stomach clenched. The ID photo: one of the murdered warlocks.
“Damn it,” Alec murmured.
His pulse quickened as he stood. He stepped outside immediately, pulling his phone from his pocket.
"Hodge," Alec said as soon as the line picked up. "I think I’ve found a lead. The apartment’s abandoned but tied to one of the victims. I’m bringing the evidence back."
Pocketing the wallet, Alec headed back toward Rien’s building, every step weighted with unease—and something darker beginning to coil in his gut.
***********
The sun had just begun to dip slightly and shone with the light warmth of late afternoon when Alec, Isabelle, and Jace filtered back into Magnus’ penthouse, each of them showing varying degrees of wear and irritation from the day’s work. Alec was the first through the door, carrying the slim envelope with the documents he’d taken from the abandoned apartment. Isabelle followed, already flipping through her notes, and Jace trailed after, balancing an apple he’d picked up somewhere on his fingertips like a bored teenager. Chairman Meow gave them all a withering glance from his perch on the armrest but didn’t move.
“Alright,” Isabelle said, setting her things down on the coffee table with a sigh. “Let’s break it down. Nine suspects. Nine busts, mostly. I got nothing but a half-drunk rumor about Marcus Ellwood being a bar regular before he vanished.”
“Same,” Jace chimed in, flopping dramatically onto the velvet couch. “Which is tragic, really, because I was kind of crushing it on the people skills.”
Alec remained standing, placing the envelope of papers on the table. "I may have found something. The third address—no one's lived there for weeks. But I found something that belonged to one of the victims. And these."
He slid the wallet and documents across the polished wood. Isabelle immediately leaned forward, curious. Jace sat up straighter, eyes narrowing with renewed interest.
“Finally,” Isabelle murmured. "Something real."
Before they could dive deeper, the front door clicked open, and Magnus stepped in. Alec’s eyes flicked up. He blinked. Magnus was not wearing the outfit he’d left in that morning. Gone were the sleek black suit and silver jewelry. In their place: a deep plum shirt, sleeves pushed up, an iridescent sapphire pendant at his throat, and faint traces of glitter still clinging to his fingers. He smelled faintly of ozone and magic, a touch sharper than usual.
“Hi,” Alec said cautiously, taking him in.
Magnus groaned under his breath, tossing his jacket onto the coat rack with more force than necessary. "Don’t ask. It’s been a day."
“Looks like someone’s day went worse than mine. And I interviewed a guy in slippers.”
Magnus shot him a scowl. "If you three are planning on making my place the new command center, I’d like to remind you that you own a perfectly good, ridiculously oversized church you could be haunting instead."
Jace grinned, biting into his apple. “Yeah, but your place has better lighting. And snacks."
Isabelle added sweetly, "And a wine selection the Institute could only dream of."
Magnus groaned again, rubbing at his temple. "Why do I attract strays?"
Alec gave him a faintly exasperated look but smiled. He picked up the envelope again and crossed to Magnus, holding it out.
"You’re actually on point. I need a warlock’s take on this. Some of the documents are written in languages I can’t read."
Magnus raised an eyebrow, hesitating as he accepted the envelope. “Since when,” he asked dryly, “did I start working for the Clave as a translator?"
Alec shrugged, stepping in close and pressing a brief kiss to Magnus cheek. "Since it involved keeping people alive and I never listened in class"
Isabelle cleared her throat lightly but smirked. Jace just smirked wider.
Magnus flipped through the first page, frowning. “This is old. Not just old—ancient. Some of this isn’t even High Warlock standard."
Alec glanced at the clock. "We’re going to check that bar later. Ten p.m. Shouldn’t take long."
Magnus’ head shot up. "What bar? Wait—why do you get to go to a bar while I get to sit here translating dead languages? "
Alec cut him off by stepping back in, catching Magnus by the front of his shirt, and kissing him—this time slow, a soft brush that ended with Alec resting his forehead briefly against Magnus.
“Because you’re the clever one,” Alec murmured, lips ghosting against Magnus’. “And I’m taking a nap before we go."
Magnus exhaled through his nose but let Alec go with a lazy wave. “Fine. But if you lot get yourselves into trouble, don’t expect me to bail you out without making it hurt first.”
Alec flashed the faintest of smiles over his shoulder as he disappeared down the hall. Magnus stared after him for a long beat before muttering, mostly to Chairman Meow, “Absolutely unfair.”
**********
The night air was crisp as Isabelle, Jace, and Alec approached the address Isabelle had found—a bar-slash-nightclub tucked into the industrial outskirts of Brooklyn. From the outside, it looked like a logistics warehouse: steel siding, unlit windows, and not a single hint of neon. The only thing that gave it away was the pulsing bass that seemed to vibrate through the pavement beneath their feet.
Alec adjusted the collar of the tight black leather jacket he’d grudgingly agreed to wear. It clung to his frame in ways that made Isabelle smirk as they walked. He had paired it with dark jeans and a buttoned-down shirt, just enough to blend in without crossing too far out of his comfort zone.
“Nice jacket,” Isabelle teased as they approached. "Is that Magnus’s?"
Alec shot her a look. “It was in the closet."
Jace, who had gone for a loose white shirt that left most of his runes visible, gave Alec a once-over and smirked. “Look at you. Almost fashionable."
Alec rolled his eyes but didn’t comment. As they drew closer, the thick glamour around the building rippled, strange distortions bending the air. The warehouse facade flickered, revealing for half a second the shape of something far glitzier beneath. They stepped through together—and the world snapped into neon. It was like walking into Vegas. A sprawling club unfolded around them, glossy black floors reflecting shifting purple and gold lights. The main floor boasted a gleaming bar of crystalline glass, intimate booths framed by golden curtains, and to one side, a sweeping staircase led down to what sounded like a pulsing dance floor. The crowd was almost entirely warlocks—glittering eyes, horns, scaled skin, glamour-woven gowns. Music throbbed through the air like a heartbeat.
Jace whistled low. "Alright. I'll give them this—better taste than I expected."
Isabelle was already scanning the room. “Split up. Ask around about Marcus Ellwood. Let’s avoid a scene, please?” She raised her eyebrows at Jace, who raised both hands in mock surrender.
Isabelle drifted toward the bar, trailing fingers along the polished surface, her expression pleasant but sharp. She approached a tall man with silver antlers who sipped something smoking in neon blue.
“Marcus Ellwood,” she said softly. “Ring any bells?”
The man shook his head without making eye contact. "Not in months."
She thanked him and moved on.
Jace, meanwhile, was less subtle. He prowled the upper floor, runes on display, ignoring the occasional wary glance. He asked directly, bluntly. Some warlocks tensed. A few refused to meet his eyes. But he kept at it, teeth gritted.
Alec kept to the edges at first, quiet but steady. A young woman with lavender hair confirmed she’d heard the name "Marcus Ellwood" but hadn't seen him recently. Another man shrugged apologetically, claiming ignorance.
The music pulsed. The drinks flowed. They were getting nowhere.
The raised voices started near the central bar.
Isabelle caught it first: Jace, his arms crossed, squaring off with a tall warlock whose face was flushed with drink. The man’s eyes gleamed gold, his voice rising.
“What the hell do you people want with Marcus Ellwood?" the man was slurring. "Always the Nephilim, always sticking your noses where they don’t belong! Accusing people! Harassing us!”
Jace’s jaw twitched. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to ask if any of you cared when your own kind are the ones dying."
The words snapped through the room like a whip. A few nearby warlocks went still. The tension was immediate.
Isabelle was already weaving through the crowd when she saw Alec moving toward the argument from the opposite side, expression tight with annoyance.
“Jace,” Alec said sharply as he stepped between them, a calming hand raised. “Don’t.”
The drunk warlock glared at him. “I’m not a snitch. I’m not telling anything to the likes of you."
Alec kept his voice measured. “We’re not here to accuse anyone. We’re trying to find out who’s behind the killings. Marcus Ellwood may be involved. We need to know if you’ve seen him. It’s in everyone’s best interest."
The man sneered. “All you Shadowhunters—thinking you can—”
Jace cut in, voice ice. "Your people are the ones dying. Last time I checked, the Clave isn’t the one leaving corpses in alleys."
A few more warlocks stirred at that. The mood darkened.
Alec pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. "No one is starting a fight in here," he muttered, shooting Jace a look.
A woman's voice broke in from a nearby booth. "Marcus hasn’t been here in months. Not since he got into that cult."
Isabelle turned to her immediately. "What cult?"
The woman shrugged, worry plain on her face. “I don’t know the name. Something about purification. He kept going on about the end of days. Demons returning to God. All this apocalyptic nonsense.”
Alec's brows furrowed. "Did he ever mention other members? Where they met?"
She shook her head. "No. Just... he wasn’t the same. Paranoid."
The drunk warlock huffed. “All those cultist types are worse than you Nephilim anyway. Crazy bastards.”
Alec gave a rare, faint smile. "We can at least agree on that."
The tension eased, the music taking over the space again as the moment dissolved.
Chapter 13: The rage within
Chapter Text
The next morning dawned gray and wind-chilled, but it didn’t slow the trio. Alec, Isabelle, and Jace gathered at the usual spot just before noon, all three wearing identical expressions of purposeful irritation.
“We give him two days,” Isabelle murmured, slipping on her gloves, “and he’ll start thinking we’re not watching."
Jace cracked his knuckles. “Better to keep the little rat paranoid.”
Alec simply nodded, jaw tight.
They crossed through the winding side streets until the crooked sign of Callas’ magic shop came into view, paint still peeling, the same dusty crystals in the window.
As they approached, they caught sight of Callas himself—a short, oily-looking man with a pointed nose—hastily ending a phone call. He shoved something into his pocket just as the door chimed.
“Good morning,” Jace drawled, not even attempting subtlety. “Hope we’re not interrupting anything important."
Callas pasted on a brittle smile. "Ah. The Nephilim. Again. To what do I owe this repeated pleasure?"
Alec stepped forward. “We’re looking into something. Thought you might help.”
Callas arched a brow, slinking behind his grimy glass counter. "Help? I do love that word."
“Cults,” Alec said without preamble. “The kind that ramble about demons, the end of days, God, purification. Sound familiar?”
Callas snorted. "You’ll have to be more specific. That covers every apocalyptic nutcase from here to the Spiral Labyrinth."
Jace leaned an elbow casually on the counter. "Maybe, but we’re interested in the ones who talk about demons ascending to heaven. That narrow it down?"
Callas’s eyes glittered. “Sending demons to God? Now there’s creative blasphemy. Even for this world.”
He tugged on his thin goatee thoughtfully. “Let’s see… we’ve got the Children of the Final Bell—charming cannibalistic types. The Seraphic Mirror—they think mundanes are divine reflections, total nonsense. And of course the Sorrow Choir—"
“Are you making these up?” Jace asked flatly.
Callas looked mildly offended. “I am not. The Sorrow Choir was a real thing. Disbanded. Ritualistic. Favorite phrase: ‘The flesh weeps, the stars ascend.’"
Jace pulled a face. “Charming.”
Isabelle prowled the shelves, fingers trailing over old spellbooks and jars filled with dubious contents. Alec, meanwhile, kept his focus on Callas’s eyes.
Something was off.
The man was too chatty. For someone who usually offered one-word answers wrapped in smirks, Callas was practically a fountain of trivia today. His tone was light, his hands oddly steady.
Jace’s brow furrowed too. He leaned toward Alec and muttered under his breath, “Is it me, or is he… weirdly happy we’re here?”
Alec’s eyes narrowed slightly. He nodded almost imperceptibly.
Callas droned on, gesturing animatedly. "The Sons of Ether, the Broken Heralds—oh, and the Infinite Spiral. Delightfully unhinged."
“Right,” Alec cut in, voice cool. “But you’ve never heard of one specifically about demons returning to heaven. And you don’t know anything about Marcus Ellwood.”
Callas spread his hands, all faux-innocence. "I could know something, theoretically. If I were inclined to share." His eyes flicked toward Alec, sharp as glass. "But I have to say, Shadowhunter, if I were you, I’d be less concerned about hypothetical cults and more about who’s lying in your bed."
The words landed like stones.
Alec’s breath caught, his face freezing mid-expression. “What?”
Callas’s smirk sharpened into something nastier. "I mean, with warlocks dropping like flies, and you so publicly slumming it with one… well. Seems risky."
Jace straightened, expression darkening. “Watch it.”
Callas barely glanced at him. "Oh, don’t get huffy. I’m just saying—while you’re playing detectives here, maybe you should be keeping an eye on your arrogant little boyfriend instead. Before someone drains him next."
The temperature in the room dropped.
Alec’s heart stuttered. His hands curled at his sides—but not into fists. Into panic.
He grabbed Jace’s sleeve without a word, dragging him bodily toward the door. Isabelle startled but followed quickly, heels clicking as they burst into the street.
“Hey—Alec!” Jace barked, stumbling as they ran.
Isabelle cast one last glance over her shoulder.
Callas stood framed in the dusty shop window, smiling faintly, his eyes dark with satisfaction.
The front doors of Magnus’ penthouse were wide open when they got there—and Alec didn’t even hesitate. He tore through them like a bullet, black coat flaring behind him. Jace was right on his heels, with Izzy close behind, stele already in hand. The place was a wreck. Chairs overturned. Glass shattered. A curtain half-torn from its rod flapped lazily in the breeze coming through the cracked balcony doors. And blood—there was blood. On the floor. Spattered across a silver-framed mirror. A smear across the edge of the table where Magnus usually kept his spell components. Alec froze in the middle of the room. His shoulders were heaving. He was barely breathing.
Jace scanned the room fast, pulse ticking. “Okay. There’s no body. That’s a good sign.” He approached slowly. “If they wanted Magnus dead, they’d have left him here. If it’s what I think it is… they need him alive. For the ritual.”
A beat.
Then Alec spun, eyes burning, Scent rolling off him in violent waves—rage, fear, desperation. It hit like a punch to the chest. The room felt heavier, oxygen thinner. Jace could feel Isabelle stiffen beside him. Alec didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stalked through the ruined room and out the back door.
Jace swore under his breath and followed. “Alec! Hey—what are we doing?”
“We’re going back to the informant,” Alec said without turning. His voice was flat. Deadly.
Jace exchanged a look with Izzy. “The guy won’t talk”
“Yes,” Alec growled. “Well I’m done playing polite. He’s going to talk.”
Jace almost joked—almost. But one look at Alec’s face and the words dried up. There was no room for banter. Not now. Not when Alec looked like a man with nothing left to lose.
They found the warlock in the same place as before—lounging near the boarded-up side of a once-glamorous occult shop that now looked like the epicenter of magical rot. The bastard had the nerve to smirk as they approached.
“Well,” he drawled, lifting a hand like they were old friends returning from a coffee run. “That was fast. You lot miss me already?”
Alec didn’t even slow down. He walked right up to the warlock with the kind of calm that screamed violence imminent.
“We’re not here to flirt,” Alec said, voice razor-sharp. “Where is Magnus?”
The warlock blinked once, feigning surprise. “Magnus? Can’t say I know any—”
The words died in his mouth when Alec stepped closer, close enough their noses almost touched.
“No games,” Alec said low. “You know him. You know what’s happening. And if you don’t start talking, I swear, you’ll be casting spells with your teeth.”
Damn, Jace thought. Alec wasn’t shouting, but he might as well have been. Every syllable landed like a knife laid carefully on the table. The warlock twitched at the edges, not quite brave enough to call the bluff—but not moving either.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the warlock said, slower this time. “I’m not involved in whatever drama your boyfriend’s caught up in.”
Alec’s hand moved. Fast. Too fast for any of them to stop it. Steel whispered from its sheath with a hiss—Alec’s seraph blade slicing the air like a promise. In one fluid motion, he moved. Swift, surgical. A pivot of the hips, a flick of the wrist. The blade arced in a brutal, practiced sweep. There was a sickening wet crunch—and then a scream. The warlock staggered back, eyes wide in disbelief, staring at the stump where his hand had been. Blood gushed in hot pulses, painting the cracked pavement in slick, crimson fans. The severed hand thudded to the ground, fingers still twitching. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Even the city seemed to hold its breath.
Alec stood over him, chest rising and falling with quiet restraint. His blade was still raised, its edge clean despite what it had done. His face gave nothing away—no satisfaction, no remorse. Just focus. Cold, unwavering.
“You’ve got one hand left,” Alec said calmly, voice low. “Will be hard but you still can summon. Now if you lose the other one…”
The warlock fell to his knees, moaning, blood soaking through his sleeves as he clutched his wrist. His composure was gone—eyes wild, shoulders shaking.
Jace blinked. Even he was taken aback. “Well,” he muttered, sotto voce, “that escalated quickly.”
Isabelle’s brows rose. “Alec,” she said, just above a whisper. “What the hell.”
But Alec didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on the warlock, blade still steady. He was done asking. Now he was collecting.
The warlock was wide-eyed now, real panic dawning behind his glittered lashes.
“You’re insane—”
“Funny thing,” Alec said, smiling thinly. “When the love of your life goes missing, you start reconsidering how important things like manners and laws are. So please. Give me a reason not to cut off the other hand.”
“You can’t do this,” the warlock hissed. “You have no proof— this goes against the accords…”
“And to whom will you complain?” Alec said. “To the Clave? Do you think they’ll go out of their way to ensure the safety and fair trial of someone like you?” He leaned forward. “You know what they do to warlocks suspected of treason? They don’t stop at your hand.”
Jace glanced sideways at Isabelle. Her face was pale, but she didn’t move. And Jace… Jace didn’t want to stop this. Not yet. Not when Alec was this close to cracking the bastard.
The warlock was trembling now, blood soaking through his sleeve.
“You’re bluffing.”
Alec raised his blade again, expression unreadable.
“Try me.”
Silence.
Then—cracked, breathless—the warlock whispered, “Fine.”
Alec lowered the blade just slightly.
“They took him to Brooklyn. Warehouse district. There’s a place near the river. Shielded. Old seelie wards, but warped. You’ll know it when you feel it.”
Alec didn’t blink. “What’s it for?”
The warlock swallowed. “The ritual. It’s old blood magic. They think draining the high warlock will open something. Tear a hole between worlds.”
“And who’s leading them?”
But the man just shook his head, gaze flickering with terror. “You don’t want to know.”
Alec stepped back and turned. “You’ve got five minutes to vanish. If I see you again, I won’t stop at your hand.”
He walked off.
Jace whistled low. “I miss when I was the unhinged one. Simpler times.”
Isabelle just stared after Alec. “He wasn’t acting like a Shadowhunter.”
“No,” Jace said, watching the hard set of Alec’s shoulders as he strode into the night. “He was acting like someone with something to lose.”
And that? That was much, much more dangerous.
**********
The building loomed like a carcass of forgotten industry—massive and dead, tucked between skeletal train lines and graffiti-tagged fences on the edge of Brooklyn’s decaying shipping district. It looked like it had been left to rot decades ago, the bricks soot-blackened by time and the jagged windows staring blankly out like gouged eyes. No sigils burned against the walls. No wards pulsed at the edges. That was the point. The best hiding places were the ones no magic could find. They crossed through the rusted gates silently, boots scuffing broken glass. The closer they got, the more Alec felt it—like a thread tugging at the core of his chest. Not just instinct. Not just fear. This was something older. Deeper. His bond with Magnus, no matter how new, had roots in magic too. The pull led him straight to the north wing, with the quiet certainty of a guided blade. The interior stank of rust and scorched ozone. Steel girders arched overhead, and concrete pillars cast long shadows from the flickering industrial lights strung in a web over the ceiling. Water pooled in dips on the ground, oil-slicked and gleaming faintly red. Somewhere in the distance, a pipe dripped in steady rhythm like a ticking clock.
Jace wrinkled his nose. “You know, for people trying to pull off a ritual, they could’ve chosen a place less… tetanus-adjacent.”
“Focus,” Alec murmured. His steps didn’t falter. His eyes were glassy, fixed ahead. He moved like a man possessed, pulled by something only he could feel.
The corridor led into a cavernous side room. It had once been a loading dock, long since gutted. Graffiti and scorch marks marred the walls, and in the center of the space stood a circular pattern of runes carved into the floor. Magnus was at its heart, his knees buckled beneath him but held upright by two warlocks—one gripping each arm. His coat hung from his shoulders in tatters, soaked in blood and ash. His eyes barely focused, lips moving in a whisper too faint to hear. Magic swirled faintly in the air, drawn in threads from his body and into the ground like roots seeking soil. Around them stood three other warlocks. One leaned against a support beam, twirling a copper ring. Another traced sigils into the air. The third watched with unreadable eyes—tall, pale, his hands clasped like a priest at vigil.
Jace touched Alec’s arm. “We each take one,” he whispered. “You focus on Magnus. Izz and I’ll clear the rest.”
Isabelle hesitated. “If they throw a spell—”
“Don’t let them.” Alec’s voice was low. Steel. “We don’t give them the time.”
Jace nodded and signaled silently. Then he moved.
Jace went for the one tracing sigils. The warlock’s fingers flicked faster when he noticed movement, but Jace was quicker. He was already mid-spin, his seraph blade glinting as he slid into a low kick that sent the warlock stumbling. The spell fizzled. Jace lunged, grabbing the warlock’s arm and twisting it behind his back.
“Too slow,” he hissed, slamming his opponent face-first into a rusted panel with a grunt.
A burst of wild magic exploded from the warlock’s palm, but Jace ducked and rammed his blade hilt into the man’s side, winding him. He dropped with a groan, clutching his ribs.
Isabelle was also moving. Her whip flicked forward with a snap, catching the arm of the lounging warlock and dragging him into motion. He snarled, fire flickering at his fingertips, but she was a blur. Spinning, ducking, striking. Her whip wrapped around his leg and yanked—he went down hard.
“You’re not casting anything, sweetheart,” she said, stepping on his chest.
He reached up, and she kicked him square in the jaw. “Told you.”
Magic sputtered and died around him.
As Jace and Isabelle went for their target so did Alec. He didn’t hesitate. There was no time.
The third warlock, the last of the guards, had already turned toward him—hands glowing, tendrils of crimson magic gathering at his fingertips like smoke being sucked into a vacuum. His eyes gleamed with the kind of madness only blind conviction brings. Alec sprinted forward, but the warlock was faster than expected. A blast of searing red light shot from his palms, catching Alec just below the knees. His legs crumpled out from under him and he hit the concrete hard, pain shooting up his spine like lightning. His stele skittered across the floor, lost in the gloom.
And then the warlock was on him.
Alec barely had time to register the weight pressing down on his chest before a hand closed around his throat—hot, tight, and pulsing with corrosive energy. He gasped, choked. The burn wasn’t just on his skin; it licked inside, sinking past flesh like acid threading through his veins. The warlock’s face hovered inches from his, twisted with fury and—something else. Confusion. His grip didn’t tighten. He just… stared. Conflicted. The glow in his hands flickered. His breath, rancid and hot, washed over Alec’s face. Alec’s pulse slammed in his ears, but something else stirred below the pain: a shift in the air. His Scent—unleashed by panic—thickened. Not in a controlled way. Not deliberate. But primal, desperate, slick with alarm and warning. A flare of pheromonal instinct that only someone sensitive to it would feel. The warlock inhaled sharply.
His eyes widened. His mouth parted, slack, breath catching as though he were being pulled under a wave. And then—he leaned in. Not with aggression, but with strange, reverent hunger. Like Alec was the answer to some question he hadn’t meant to ask. Alec's heart thundered. Was this it? Was he reacting to the Omega Scent? He could use it, whatever “it” was. Alec let his panic temper itself into something sharper, more dangerous. He tilted his chin just slightly. Opened his mouth a fraction. Let his body speak for him in a way he didn't quite understand but had begun to recognize. The warlock leaned in further. Closer. His lips ghosted Alec’s jaw. Breath hitched. Alec met him halfway.
The kiss was brutal—hot and messy and wrong—but it did the job. The warlock moaned low in his throat, distracted, caught off guard by Alec's sudden pliancy. That moment was all Alec needed. He slid his hand up—slowly, carefully—fingers skimming beneath the edge of his jacket. The leather felt impossibly hot against his skin, sweat dampening the inside from exertion and pain. Every movement had to be measured, deliberate, masked by the warlock’s growing daze. Alec's palm brushed over the slim sheath secured tightly to the inside of his forearm, just beneath the cuff. His pulse pounded in his wrist, echoing against the hidden steel. He had practiced this motion in silence, in shadows, in secrecy—countless times. The draw had to be fluid, invisible. One breath, one seamless gesture between survival and death.
His fingers found the hilt. It was a small blade—curved, obsidian-handled, made for swift execution, not prolonged dueling. The metal was cool against his palm, comfortingly familiar. Above him, the warlock was breathing harder now. Caught in Alec’s scent. In the false lull Alec had offered like bait. His lips moved hungrily, parting in anticipation. Alec kissed deeper, tilting his chin upward, guiding the warlock’s head slightly to the side. The positioning had to be exact. Too shallow, and the blade would glance off bone. Too fast, and the warlock would sense the intent.
Then—without warning—Alec struck. The blade arced upward with surgical precision, slipping past the underside of the jaw and driving cleanly into the vulnerable space beneath the warlock’s chin. The cartilage parted. The breath caught. The warlock jerked in his lap, a strangled gurgle rattling out between them as blood surged into his throat. Alec felt it immediately—warm and coppery, flooding over his knuckles and lips. It was like biting into a wire live with power and violence. He didn’t flinch. He just kept going.
There was no time for a scream. Just a wet, gurgling sound. Blood spilled between their mouths—metallic, hot. Alec gagged but didn’t stop until the warlock’s eyes rolled back and his body slumped. Alec shoved him aside, chest heaving, throat raw from both adrenaline and disgust. He spat blood onto the floor and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The warlock writhed once, then stilled. Crimson pooled under his cheek, and the coppery stink of blood hit the air. Alec stood slowly, wobbling for half a breath before grounding his feet. He wiped the blade clean on his trousers and resheathed it. His pulse was still pounding, but his expression had gone blank. Calm. Cold. No one would hurt Magnus. Not while Alec was breathing.
The ward shimmered like heat over pavement—visible only when you stared too long at the wrong angle, like a mirage clinging to the air. It pulsed faintly, a translucent dome crackling around Magnus and the two warlocks still draining him. Alec’s heart was thudding like a war drum in his chest. The moment he and his siblings approached, he could feel it—an invisible wall that hissed with warning and power. He took one step closer, and the fine hairs on his arms stood up.
“Wards,” Isabelle said grimly. “Heavy ones. Layered. Probably nested deep.”
“No shit,” Jace muttered, narrowing his eyes at the glowing perimeter. Magnus knelt at its center, slumped but upright, barely held up by the warlocks gripping his arms. Magic still rippled around them—thin tendrils of it like steam being siphoned from Magnus’ body. His head lolled forward, chin against his chest, motionless save for the faintest rise and fall of his breathing.
Alive. But not for long.
Alec didn’t move. His feet were stone. His pulse was thunder. Every instinct inside him screamed to charge, to rip the spell apart with his bare hands, but his training stilled him. There had to be a way in. Something clean. Something fast. Jace, predictably, had no such filter. Without so much as a warning, he reached out and touched the ward. The impact was instant.
“Shit—!” Jace hissed, stumbling back with a grunt, shaking out his hand like it had been jolted. His arm spasmed once, fingers twitching as though they’d been stabbed with ice-cold needles. He clutched his wrist, breath sharp. “Okay. That felt like being bitten by lightning.”
There was no smoke, no searing skin—just a deep, aching throb crawling up his arm and settling in the bone like a bad omen. Alec and Isabelle both turned to him, unimpressed.
“Well done,” Isabelle said dryly. “Would you like to stick your head in next?”
Jace, ever the charming idiot, winced and offered a sheepish grin. “I had to make sure it wasn’t the friendly kind of ward.”
“There is no friendly kind,” Alec muttered.
Still, the sight of Magnus crumpled at the center of that magic circle was rapidly draining Alec’s patience. He moved closer to the barrier, letting his hand hover just an inch above the crackling surface. The heat radiating off it was unnatural—not just temperature, but pressure. Like standing too close to the mouth of something ancient and hungry.
“He’s on his own in there,” Jace said. His voice was quiet but laced with anger, and something else—helplessness.
“Yeah, he’s on his own,” Alec said, eyes locked on Magnus. “And he’s powerful enough to end this. He just needs a reason to try.”
And before either of them could stop him, Alec stepped forward.
The moment Alec’s boot crossed the threshold of the ward, his body locked up like a snapped wire. It was like stepping into the path of a lightning strike—ice down his spine, fire threading through his veins. Pain knifed through every nerve ending, sharp and immediate, like being torn open from the inside. His breath caught. His knees buckled. He collapsed forward with a strangled gasp, landing hard on the cracked concrete. His palms scraped the ground, but he barely registered the sting. Every inch of his body trembled. His lungs stuttered like they’d forgotten how to breathe. His vision blurred. A wave of nausea surged in his gut, followed by something deeper—an unraveling. Like his strength was draining, drawn out of him by invisible hooks. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to scream.
“Alec!” Isabelle’s voice cracked. She lunged forward, but Alec flung a hand out behind him.
“Stay back!” he choked, his voice hoarse. “Don’t—don’t touch it—!”
The Scent poured off him now in waves of unfiltered agony and desperation. Sweat slicked his brow. His fingers clawed into the concrete. And through the haze, through the shrieking pain that pulsed in every nerve, Alec reached. Not with his hands. With his mind. With whatever tether connected him to Magnus.
Please.
It wasn’t a word. It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t anything he’d ever trained or been taught. It was instinct, primal and aching. He called to Magnus—not aloud, but with the deepest part of him, the part that had been bonded that night in his arms, in his bed, in that moment where breath and soul had touched.
And Magnus heard him.
Across the boundary, Magnus’ body twitched. His head lifted slowly, like the air itself weighed tons.
His eyes—unfocused and rimmed with shadow—met Alec’s through the shimmer of the ward. He saw him. He saw Alec writhing at the barrier. And something snapped. A low sound left Magnus’ throat. Not a word. Not an incantation. A growl. Then came the flood. The magic inside Magnus—exhausted, drained, almost dead—suddenly flared, not from strength but from rage. The kind of rage born from seeing the one thing he cared for in pain. From sensing Alec and the child he carried under threat. Magnus felt it before he saw it—an unbearable jolt in the fabric of him.
Alec.
Alec was in pain.
It surged through the space between them like a scream without sound, crashing into Magnus’ senses. He could feel the agony in Alec’s body like it was his own—familiar, beloved, fragile—and worse still, the flickering echo of another life nestled deep inside him, vulnerable and trembling. They were both in danger. And Magnus could feel it. Not through sight or sound. But through the bond and the aura Alec was thrusting at him. His magic responded. He had nothing left in his limbs. His head sagged forward, vision swimming in static. Blood trickled from his lip where he’d bitten it, and the warlocks holding him had already begun to chant again, tugging what little power he had left from the marrow of his bones.
But then—
He felt Alec cross the ward.
And that—that—was the match dropped into a powder keg.
Magnus’ entire body snapped upright in an unnatural arc, like a puppet yanked on invisible strings. His spine lit from within, blue fire igniting along every vertebra, flaring out through his chest in jagged forks of light. The air around him warped. The scent of ozone flooded the space. The warlocks holding him barely had time to scream. Blue-white lightning erupted from Magnus’ back, lancing through their arms like spears. Bones cracked. Magic howled. The warlocks convulsed and dropped, unconscious before they hit the ground, their mouths frozen mid-incantation.
Then the dome shattered. It didn’t just break. It detonated. A shockwave burst outward from Magnus like a bomb of pure arcane force. It expanded in a flash of searing sapphire light, blinding and feral, all edges and rage. The ward fractured with a sound like a cathedral window caving in—glass and stone and magic all breaking at once. Alec was the closest. The wave hit him like a tidal wall. He barely had time to lift a hand before he was flung backwards, the force yanking him from the ground like a ragdoll. He hit a wall with a solid thud and crumpled to the floor, groaning.
Jace and Isabelle, caught a second later, were blasted off their feet, skidding across the concrete with a chorus of grunts and shouted curses. Isabelle landed hard on her side, rolling with the momentum. Jace twisted mid-air and slammed into a stack of old crates, splinters flying. Then came silence. A stunned, electric hush. Blue sparks drifted through the air like embers, flickering and fading. The smell of burnt magic lingered like smoke after a fire. And in the center of it all, Magnus stood—barely. His knees buckled, his breath shallow, but he was upright. Arms trembling. Eyes blazing silver-blue. His skin glowed faintly, veins lit with the last embers of the storm he’d unleashed. The warlocks who had stood guard were scattered—thrown to the edges of the chamber like dolls, unmoving. But Magnus only looked at Alec. Collapsed. Pale. Breathing, thank Edom, but still. The echo of Alec’s pain hadn’t faded. Not from his magic. Not from his bones. Not from his heart.
The silence after the blast was deafening. Blue sparks still crackled faintly across the scorched ground where the magical ward had been moments ago. The air was scorched ozone and smoke. Jace groaned from where he lay sprawled beside a broken table, coughing as he rolled onto his hands and knees. Isabelle was already upright, though wobbling, bracing herself with a hand on the wall. Her hair hung in tangled strands, whip trailing behind her like a molted snake. But neither of them could speak.
Magnus was moving. The warlock’s steps were slow, dragging. His right leg faltered slightly with every other step—either from the binding spell or sheer exhaustion, it was hard to say. His coat was half-burned away at the hem, and there was blood, dark and wet, at the edge of his mouth. But his eyes were locked on the boy crumpled on the ground.
Alec.
The explosion had flung Alec away from the ward’s border, and now he lay on his side, motionless. His face was slack, lashes dark smudges against pale skin. His hand twitched once, then stilled. The sight hit Magnus like a blade to the ribs, but he didn’t cry out. He just kept walking. One dragging step. Then another. When he reached Alec, Magnus dropped at his side with a sound that wasn’t quite a groan—more a surrender of strength. The impact jarred through his bones, but he barely noticed. His hand trembled as he reached forward, brushing soot-dusted hair back from Alec’s brow. The skin beneath his fingers was clammy and too still.
“You reckless, maddening boy,” Magnus whispered hoarsely, voice shredded by pain and exhaustion “You ever think of what happens to me if you don’t walk away from one of these heroics?”
His fingers curled gently into Alec’s hair, just to feel him. Just to make sure he was there. Alec didn’t stir. Magnus bowed his head, resting his brow lightly against Alec’s temple. His other hand cupped Alec’s cheek, thumb feathering along the edge of his jaw. His lips moved in silent prayer. To whatever force might spare him this one loss. Then Magnus’ shoulders gave a little shake. His body, so taut a moment ago with fury and raw power, slumped beside Alec’s. His arm fell protectively over the boy’s chest even as unconsciousness took him. The last thing he registered was the flutter of Alec’s pulse beneath his palm.
Jace staggered to his feet just in time to hear a low snarl. He turned—too slowly. One of the remaining warlocks had recovered. Blood trailing from a split lip, robe torn and face twisted in fury. The other was already raising his hands, magic building like static in the air. Isabelle whipped her blade up, but her stance wavered.
Too much. Too fast. They weren’t ready.
“Shit,” Jace muttered, lunging toward the nearest warlock.
A streak of violet light shot toward him—too fast to dodge. But it never landed. The warlock let out a choked scream as a beam of searing white-blue slammed into him from the side, sending him tumbling across the concrete like a discarded doll. The second warlock barely had time to turn before another blast caught him square in the chest, flinging him into a rusted pillar with a bone-snapping crunch. Jace blinked.
“What the hell—?”
From the entrance, two figures emerged. One was Catarina Loss, her dark face furious, one hand still raised and crackling with residual magic. Her scrubs were half-covered by a long coat, hair tied back in a messy bun. She looked like she’d run here straight from a hospital shift—and she probably had. Beside her stood a warlock cloaked in deep green and adorned with regal poise despite the chaos around him. His skin was dark, tinted with a forest hue, and a pair of small, elegantly curved horns crowned his head like a living diadem. Ragnor Fell. He surveyed the wreckage with a grim frown and then adjusted his cuffs.
“Next time you try to dismantle a ritual cult, maybe invite someone who’s graduated puberty.” he said to Jace and Isabelle,
Jace stared. “Ragnor Fell?”
“Yes, yes, we’re all very surprised. Can someone check if Magnus and the boy are breathing?”
Catarina was already rushing forward, crouching beside the tangled forms of Magnus and Alec. Her lips pressed in a thin line as she checked for pulses.
“They’re alive,” she confirmed. “Barely.”
Isabelle exhaled shakily and sheathed her blade. “Just in time,” she said, voice cracking.
Jace just nodded, still staring at Ragnor.
Ragnor raised a brow. “What? Do I have something on my horns?”
Jace blinked and slowly shook his head. “No. I just didn’t expect you to be this… chlorophyll-forward.”
Ragnor sighed. “How original. Remind me why I’m helping again?”
“Because,” Catarina snapped, “you owe me three favors, and I’m cashing them in. Now help me with Magnus.”
Ragnor moved toward the fallen warlock without another word.
**********
It took Magnus a moment to realize he was awake. His eyes blinked open slowly, lashes sticking together. The room swam with unfamiliar stillness. No scent of coffee. No velvet-laced laughter. Just quiet. The kind that pressed in at the edges. The ceiling above was familiar—his own. That coffered arching, painted long ago with little bits of starlight. He was in his bed. Alive. His body ached as he stirred, stiff as stone, but that wasn’t what made his breath catch. It was the warmth beside him. That tug on his magic, unmistakable, like a thread tied around his heart. He turned his head. Slowly. Alec lay to his right, nestled in the covers but far from peaceful. His skin was pale—porcelain turned to ash. Shadows framed his eyes like bruises, and a line of dried blood still clung to the edge of his jaw. His chest rose and fell, too light, too slow. His body was curled slightly toward Magnus, even in sleep. Magnus’ hand reached on instinct, trembling. He brushed dark hair from Alec’s forehead, thumb gently following the arch of his brow.
“Alexander…” he whispered.
“You won’t wake him like that,” came a voice to his left.
Magnus turned sharply.
Catarina sat in a low chair beside the bed, legs crossed. Her eyes were tired.
“What happened?” Magnus rasped, throat dry as cracked earth.
She sighed and set a bottle down. “We tried everything. Iratzes. My own healing spells. Nothing sticks. Nothing works.”
Magnus’ heart beat louder in his ears. “Why?”
She leaned forward, elbows on knees. “The womb is damaged.”
His chest seized. “Is—?”
“The baby is fine,” she cut in firmly, eyes sharp. “But the magic responsible for creating the womb—his magic—is using every bit of energy and healing he has. Including what I give him. The damage wasn’t permanent, but it’s raw. And his body is prioritizing protecting the bearing.”
Magnus’ eyes dropped to Alec’s form. So still. So pale.
“I can’t touch anything deeper until the magic rebuilding the womb finishes its work. It’s absorbing everything else like a sponge. Anything I push in goes there first.”
Magnus reached for Alec’s hand and found it cold. Not lifeless. But cold.
“How bad is he?” he asked softly.
“He’ll hold on,” Catarina said. “He has enough strength left to wait. For now.”
Magnus nodded slowly. That wasn’t a comfort. That was a countdown.
His eyes scanned Alec’s face again, every inch. Bruised temple. Split lip. He should have been protected. Watched over. Not dropped to his knees behind a ward that could have killed him. Not cut up and collapsing, just to reach Magnus.
“Why does he always throw himself forward first?” Magnus whispered. “Why does he always…”
Catarina’s voice was gentler this time. “Because you matter to him.”
Magnus didn’t respond. He simply leaned over and pressed a kiss to Alec’s forehead. The skin was fever-warm. Damp with affliction still rippling in soft pulses beneath. He lingered there for a moment—his lips on Alec’s skin, his hand resting against his cheek, thumb brushing over a temple that would not stir. Mine, he thought. You’re mine. And I am yours. It had never felt so terrifying.
“I don’t want to leave him,” Magnus murmured.
“I know,” Catarina said gently. “But Ragnor’s waiting. He has information.”
He drew the covers a little higher over Alec’s chest, brushing down the edge like it might somehow keep him warmer. Then looked to Catarina.
“Will you—?”
“I’ll stay,” she said before he could finish. “He’s not waking without me knowing.”
Magnus gave her a tight nod. He rose from the bed slowly, everything in his body protesting. The moment he was standing, he turned one last time to look at Alec—his brave, stubborn, idiotic Shadowhunter with too much heart. And then he stepped out. The hall outside felt colder.
Magnus stepped into the living room, smoothing a hand through his spiked hair. His legs still felt unsteady, the last embers of magic sparking faintly along his spine, but he forced his gait steady as he crossed the floor. Jace’s voice was the first thing he registered—dry, indignant, and loud enough to grate on Magnus’ fragile nerves.
“I’m just saying,” Jace was just saying, lounging in one of the armchairs like he owned the place, “if you people actually explained things instead of making it all mystical and cryptic, maybe fewer people would almost die.”
Ragnor Fell didn’t bother to look up from the glass of something amber in his hand. His voice was flat as ever. “And if you used the brain you were born with, fewer people would suffer for your existence. Yet here we are.”
Isabelle snorted. Jace, for once, had no immediate comeback.
Magnus let out a breath that tasted of exhaustion and sharp-edged amusement. “Glad to see we’re keeping the tone light.”
Ragnor finally glanced up, and his sharp green eyes narrowed. “You look like hell.”
Magnor dropped into the seat across from him. “Coming from you, that almost stings.”
Ragnor gave a noncommittal shrug and took another sip. “You always were a terrible patient.”
“And you’re still an insufferable house guest,” Magnus murmured, but the familiar rhythm of their barbs steadied him more than he’d admit. He tilted his head, some of the humor slipping away. “Why are you here, Ragnor? Really.”
The older warlock set down his glass. His expression hardened.
“I knew they’d come for you eventually,” Ragnor said. “And when they did, there was no way you were getting out without help.”
“They?”
“The faction that’s been playing with ley lines for months,” Ragnor said grimly. “Testing dimensional weaknesses. Trying small portals first. Until tonight.”
Magnus rubbed a hand over his face. He could still feel the phantom echoes of the spellwork that had held him. “They were done with theory.”
“Exactly.” Ragnor nodded. “And you, my dear Magnus, were probably their best bet. One of the few warlocks strong enough to open what they need.”
Jace straightened slightly. “Open what? A portal to where? To do what exactly?”
Ragnor’s eyes flicked to him, then back to Magnus as if Jace wasn’t even worth the explanation. “What they’re attempting is not a portal in the traditional sense. It’s not just to one dimension. It’s many. Simultaneously.”
Jace made a face. “Okay, you’re going to have to translate that for those of us who aren’t born knowing this stuff.”
Magnus frowned, mind racing. “A nexus,” he murmured. “A liminal corridor. A path between worlds.”
Ragnor gave a thin smile. “Now you’re catching up.”
Isabelle sat forward, brows drawn. “But why? Why link multiple dimensions? What’s the point of that many doors?”
Magnus chest tightened. The thought chilled him. “To open pathways. To draw something through.”
“Something like…?” Jace prompted.
Ragnor exhaled slowly. “The Nine.”
The room went still.
“The Nine,” Isabelle echoed. Her voice was low. “All of them.”
Magnus’ throat felt dry. “That’s madness.”
“It’s ambition,” Ragnor corrected, “Madness would be summoning one of them. This—” he waved a hand vaguely, “—is annihilation on a scale that not even the Clave can imagine. If they succeed, they won’t just bring through one Prince of Hell. They’ll bring all of them.”
Jace let out a soft whistle, leaning back in his chair. “I’m guessing this is one of those ‘and then the world burns’ situations.”
Ragnor’s gaze sharpened. “It’s worse. Bringing them through together would tear apart not just this dimension but the seams between all dimensions. Earth wouldn’t survive it.”
“Apocalypse,” Magnus whispered.
Ragnor smiled grimly. “Apocalypse.”
Jace let out a low breath and muttered under his breath, “I really miss the days when our biggest problem was garden-variety demons.”
Isabelle’s fingers tightened on the armrest. “How far along do you think they are? Was tonight the beginning or—?”
Ragnor’s mouth twisted. “I think tonight was the last dry run. They would’ve drained Magnus, used him to create the dimensional tear, and brought through the first wave. They failed because you got to him first.”
“They could take others,” Magnus said quietly. He could still feel the precedent warlocks’ faces—drawn, grey, lifeless—in the back of his mind.
“Yes,” Ragnor agreed softly. “But they don’t have you. And that will set them back. Not forever, but enough for us to act.”
Silence stretched between them. Magnus leaned his elbows on his knees, hands folded loosely, eyes distant.
He thought of Alec lying bruised and still in the bedroom. Of the way his breath caught in his sleep. Of the fragility of it—this strange, tentative thing they had only begun to build. The thought of losing it, of losing him, sent something fierce and cold coiling through his ribs.
“I’ll stop them,” he said quietly.
Ragnor gave a sharp nod. “I know you will.”
Jace, still sprawled, gave a crooked grin. “Well. Looks like we’re going to need bigger swords.”
Isabelle’s expression softened. “And a better plan.”
Magnus leaned back at last, exhaustion tugging at his limbs, but some deep thread of determination anchoring him in place. He wasn’t ready to fall apart. Not yet. Not until this was over. Not until the boy sleeping in his bed was safe.
Catarina came into the living and sank onto the velvet couch with the grace of a woman who had spent the last fourteen hours fighting exhaustion, warlocks, and time itself. She dropped one hand toward Ragnor with a theatrical sigh.
“I have precisely enough strength left for one glass of wine. Or one murder. Dealer’s choice.”
Ragnor, with all the enthusiasm of a man being asked to part with one of his kidneys, flicked his fingers. A glass of something sanguine appeared in her palm. She took it without thanks and downed half of it in one go.
Magnus was already halfway to her side, eyes wide and tight with barely leashed panic. “Catarina?”
She gave him a tired but genuine smile. “Your boy is fine, Magnus. He’s resting. Healed, stable. You can go to him if you behave yourself.”
Magnus didn’t wait. He was gone before she finished the sentence, the door to the bedroom swinging shut behind him with a soft click.
Jace, sprawled on the arm of a chair, raised a brow. “I’m guessing I’m not getting that level of care if I collapse.”
Ragnor barely looked up. “Correct.”
The two elder warlocks began trading terms in fast, clipped phrases—ley lines, dimensional weaves, fracture points, names Jace didn’t know and frankly didn’t care to. His eyes glazed over within minutes. The adrenaline of the fight was wearing off, and with it came a sharp, restless boredom.
He stood. “I’m gonna check on Alec.”
He made his way to the hallway then came back a bit daunted.
“Word of advice,” he said, perching back on the armrest, “nobody else go back there unless you want to be emotionally scarred. Seems like Magnus and Alec forgot the ‘behave’ part.”
Isabelle groaned, covering her eyes. Ragnor didn’t even blink. “Humans,” he muttered.
Chapter 14: The buffoons brigade
Chapter Text
Magnus Bane was many things: a High Warlock, a style icon, a reluctant savior of half-witted Nephilim, and—on especially good days—a tolerably patient person. But this? This was neither tolerable nor patient.
“I am not a baby,” he informed Chairman Meow, who blinked at him with the bland disinterest of someone who had already accepted that all humans were fundamentally flawed.
“I am not fragile. I am not going to be kidnapped again, and I do not require a rotating crew of absurdly armed babysitters who smell like sarcasm and angel blood.”
Chairman Meow yawned, unimpressed.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Magnus muttered, tossing a silken scarf over his shoulder with more force than strictly necessary. “Just because I had one tiny, near-fatal run-in with soul-siphoning warlocks doesn’t mean I need to be followed like I’m a lost duckling with glittery eyeliner.”
His wards sparkled faintly on the windows. A new set—subtle, elegant, and most importantly, Jace-proof. It had started three days ago, in the aftermath of the near disaster. Magnus had just finished replacing the shattered glass in the sitting room—again—when Alec stood in the doorway, damp hair curling slightly from the shower, wearing one of Magnus’ softer sweaters that were actually Saint Laurent which didn’t keep the Nephilim from pulling at the cuffs to cover his hands whenever he could, but let’s forget about that, and a look that was equal parts stubborn and heartbreakingly sincere.
“I think,” Alec said carefully, “you shouldn’t go out alone for a while.”
Magnus tilted his head, voice a low purr. “Sweetheart, if you wanted to control my every move, you only had to ask. I prefer silk restraints, by the way—but surprise me.”
Alec didn't flinch. Instead, he stepped forward and did the worst possible thing: he looked at Magnus.
Not the clipped, military stare he used on patrol. Not the razor-edged look he gave when Jace improvised mid-battle and called it strategy. No—this was Alec in soft-mode, all big eyes and lowered lashes, vulnerability smuggled under his usual armor. His voice dropped just a little.
“You almost died,” he said.
Magnus scoffed. “Please. I’ve been ‘almost dead’ more times than I’ve had good champagne.”
“We still don’t know who’s behind it,” Alec murmured. “And until we do, I’d rather not take chances.”
Magnus opened his mouth. Then closed it.
Alec took another step closer, invading the last of Magnus’ personal space like a Shadowhunter-shaped guilt trap. “Just… humor me? Let us take turns escorting you. I’ll stay with you the rest of the time. You won’t even notice. I just— I need to know you’ll come home.”
He gave Magnus the look again. That cursed look. The one that said I would throw myself into hell for you but I’d rather not have to.
Magnus groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “You are terrifying when you’re emotionally manipulative.”
“Is that a yes?”
Before Magnus could answer, Jace appeared from the hallway, holding a sandwich and radiating golden menace. “You could also just do it for Alec,” he said bluntly. “He’s the one who got slammed into a brick wall and nearly bled out rescuing your sparkly ass.”
Magnus’ head whipped around. “Excuse me?”
Jace took a bite of his sandwich. “I’m just saying. You’re not the only one who almost didn’t make it. Alec’s been pushing through his injuries, his bearing, and the Clave’s bullshit—maybe take the babysitting shift so he doesn’t have to fight off any more warlocks to rescue your ass.”
There was a beat of silence.
Magnus glared at both of them. “Are you guilt-tripping me in my own penthouse?”
“Yes,” Jace said, unrepentant.
Magnus turned back to Alec, who had the decency to look slightly sheepish—but not sorry. His fingers grazed Magnus’ wrist, just lightly. Magnus exhaled like a man accepting his doom.
“Fine,” he said. “But I’m not calling it protection. I’m calling it—” he waved vaguely, “—a fashionable entourage of armed disasters.”
Alec smiled, and just like that, Magnus was lost again. And that was how the ridiculous surveillance rotation began: with a sulk, a soft touch, a very manipulative boyfriend, and an offhanded guilt trip from a blonde with too much nerve and no personal boundaries. Magnus told himself it was temporary. But deep down, he knew: he’d do anything to keep Alec from worrying. Even let himself be babysat like a sentient Fabergé egg. So far, the only thing endangered was his patience.
**********
Magnus should have known something was wrong the moment Jace arrived wearing mirrored sunglasses and a shirt with the sleeves aggressively rolled up. The kind of rolled that said: I could fight someone, but also I moisturize.
“I’ll be shadowing you today,” Jace announced, stepping into the penthouse like he expected a red carpet and a fanfare of herald trumpets. “Don’t worry. I’ve already optimized your perimeter security.”
“You mean you stepped in my ward and it zapped you,” Magnus said dryly, sipping his espresso.
Jace flexed his fingers. “Tingles. Nothing I can’t handle.”
“To be fair, I did warn you my wards bite.”
“They mauled me.”
“You’re alive and mildly humbled. I call that a win.”
They were headed to the “Lower Circle Conclave,” a monthly meeting of vaguely trustworthy warlocks who handled community disputes, monitored forbidden spell circulation, and occasionally voted on whether to ban glitter in summoning rituals. Magnus, naturally, voted no. Jace insisted on walking two steps ahead of Magnus into the atrium, exuding the self-importance of a runway model moonlighting as a bodyguard. His shoulders were squared like he expected an ambush, and his hand never strayed far from the hilt of his seraph blade—even when passing the refreshment table. The warlocks milling about tried to ignore him, but there was only so much golden hair and barely-contained aggression a room could overlook. Within moments, he’d zeroed in on a pink-haired alchemist near the northeast wall, narrowed his eyes, and muttered, “That one’s hiding something under their glamours.” Magnus had opened his mouth to intervene, but it was already too late—Jace marched over and confronted the poor warlock in full Nephilim intensity, only to discover the “suspicious energy” was a badly disguised love charm and an even worse haircut.
Then, as if the offense against personal space hadn’t been enough, Jace spotted a small group performing a tiered anchoring spell and took it upon himself to audit their circle. He interrupted mid-incantation, stepping across delicate chalk lines like a man born without fear or spatial awareness. “Your casting anchor’s crooked,” he declared, crouching beside a very startled conjurer. “Do you want a demonic implosion? Because this is how you get one.” The lead caster, a patient old warlock in sunset-colored robes, stared at him with the exhausted forbearance of someone who had raised six children and none of them were this rude. Magnus had to drag Jace away by the elbow, promising (with some effort) that if anything imploded, it would be strictly metaphorical.
The final disaster came in the form of a floating cleansing orb—a citrus-scented sphere of ambient purification magic designed to hum gently above the gathering and neutralize bad energy. Jace, naturally, mistook it for a surveillance spell. He prodded it once with the tip of his blade, muttered something about “passive enchantment reconnaissance,” and was immediately blasted in the face by a small but forceful explosion of lemon mist and ozone. The orb popped like an offended soap bubble, and Jace staggered back, hair damp and blinking. Magnus stared at him in stunned silence before deadpanning, “Well. At least you smell zesty.”
“I’m just saying,” Jace muttered as he shook bits of lemon mist off his jacket, “a room full of magic-users should really invest in safety protocols.”
“This is a conclave, not a kindergarten,” Magnus said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Also, you’ve permanently hexed that orb. It now screams when someone mentions protein powder.”
“Worth it,” Jace said smugly.
The last straw came when he attempted to “interrogate” Magnus’ rival warlock colleague—Delvaine, a neurotic glamor specialist—by leaning over his shoulder mid-incantation and whispering, “Do you always sweat that much when lying?”
The ritual imploded.
Magnus spent the next two hours repairing scorch marks in three different languages while Jace ate a demonic pastry that turned his tongue blue and said it was “delightfully spicy.”
A few minutes later, the irony reached its inevitable peak when Jace leaned a little too close to a bubbling sigil bowl that, unbeknownst to him, was primed for infernal smoke binding. He squinted at it like it had personally offended him, muttering something about faulty containment runes—completely missing the way the surface had begun to hiss and glow an ominous red. One of the sigils sparked, then arced toward his face. Without missing a beat, Magnus flicked his fingers and snapped a containment ward between Jace and the explosive charm, absorbing the flare with all the ease of someone swatting a fly. The smoke hissed and died out with a petulant puff. Jace blinked, still entirely unaware that he’d almost lost an eyebrow—or possibly a limb. Magnus rolled his eyes so hard it could’ve summoned wind. “Honestly,” he muttered, “I let you play bodyguard for five minutes and you nearly set yourself on fire. How do you survive patrols?”
Jace looked at him, confused, and then with absolute confidence said, “Good instincts.” Magnus nearly hexed him on principle.
By the time they portaled home, Magnus was limping slightly and missing one of his rings.
“You’re welcome,” Jace said, throwing himself onto the velvet couch like he’d just slain a dragon. “No one tried to kidnap you.”
“No,” Magnus said calmly. “But three tried to murder me instead.”
“You’re still standing.”
Magnus turned, eyes glowing faintly. “Only because your presence forced them to redirect their curses out of pity.”
“Exactly,” Jace grinned. “Strategy.”
Magnus decided to write “Never again” in glowing letters on his front door. In eight languages.
**********
Magnus thought he knew stress. And still, none of what he knew compared to shopping for magical reagents with Isabelle Lightwood.
“It’s not like I need supervision,” Magnus grumbled as they stepped into the shadow-thin entrance of the Chinatown Black Market, his coat fluttering with irritation.
“Of course you don’t,” Isabelle said sweetly, stilettos clicking like punctuation. “That’s why I’m not supervising. I’m accessorizing.”
“You brought a whip to buy powder.”
“It goes with the heels.”
Magnus opened his mouth. Closed it. Decided, wisely, that there were no correct answers to that. The market unspooled before them, hidden in a crumbling alley between a dumpling shop and a store that sold six kinds of cursed mirrors. Under the glamour, the street twisted on itself — a knot of impossible angles and stalls run by creatures who blinked sideways and spoke in scents. Magnus loved it. Isabelle? She stalked through it like she was evaluating whether each merchant was worthy of survival.
“This one?” she asked, pointing to a stall with crystal vials and a demon skull.
“Ah. Starflower pollen. Stimulates energy flow, heightens magical focus, and amplifies sensation.”
“You’ve been using that, haven’t you?”
“Sweetheart, I haven’t needed it since your brother discovered the benefits of slow build-up and flexible hips.”
They turned a corner and stepped into a booth draped in translucent silks, where a gelatinous vendor with six eyes was stirring a bowl of glowing dust.
“Starroot,” Magnus said with appreciation. “Fresh, too.”
The vendor grunted. “Eight hundred.”
Isabelle arched a brow. “That’s robbery.”
The vendor shrugged its shoulder—if it had one. “Market price.”
Isabelle smiled.
Magnus, who’d seen warlocks flayed by fae for less, took a discreet step back.
“I could buy it,” Isabelle said, voice still syrup-sweet, “or I could report you for selling necro-sensitive herbs next to volatile incense. Not exactly regulation compliant, is it?”
The vendor hissed.
“Seven hundred,” it snapped.
Isabelle flicked her hair. “Three fifty.”
Magnus blinked. “We’re negotiating now?”
“I’m not paying retail,” she said flatly.
“I’m not paying at all!” Magnus said. “I have a running tab.”
“Oh,” Isabelle said cheerfully, “then I’m buying you two.”
They ended up walking away with three satchels of rare ingredients, a discounted moon gem, and a bag of spicy sesame snacks that Isabelle insisted were “part of her bounty.”
Magnus was deeply, profoundly disturbed by how competent she was at Downworlder haggling. They were halfway through a stall selling fae perfume—most of which were illegal, flammable, or both—when a shadow passed too close. Isabelle spun, whip snapping out in one blur of movement.
“Back up,” she said sharply. “Or I test this on your face.”
The cloaked figure skidded to a stop, muttered something in ancient Polish, and vanished.
Magnus blinked. “He was trying to offer you a sample.”
“His aura was thirsty. I don’t trust that.”
Magnus tilted his head. “You are absolutely terrifying.”
“Thanks,” she said brightly. “Where to next?”
They’d barely stepped out of the market when they were followed. Magnus noticed first—a ripple in the street glamour, a misstep in the echo of footsteps. Isabelle noticed next, though she pretended not to.
“We’re being tailed,” she murmured. “Two o’clock.”
“Subtle?”
“About as subtle as Jace in leather.”
They turned the corner and Magnus whispered an incantation under his breath. For a moment, the air shimmered—and the pavement vanished beneath their feet. Isabelle didn’t scream, didn’t flinch, just cursed once as they landed in an alley three blocks over, surrounded by crates of rotting mangoes.
“Effective,” she said, brushing herself off.
“It was either this or polymorphing the stalker into a pigeon.”
A beat.
“I sort of wish you’d picked the pigeon.”
By the time they reached the penthouse, Magnus was limping and Isabelle’s boots had sustained some kind of fish-gut curse that smelled like vengeance.
“I had fun,” she declared brightly.
“I’ve lost half my stock, my dignity, and two hours of my life I will never get back.”
Isabelle smirked. “But no one kidnapped you.”
“No,” Magnus muttered, “but someone tried to sell me illegal unicorn tears and then insulted my eyeliner.”
She paused, then said, sincerely, “Do you want me to kill them?”
He blinked. “Maybe.”
She tossed her jacket over the couch and smoothed her hair in the mirror.
“Next time it’s Alec,” Isabelle said, pausing by the door. “You might want to prep both tea and a fireproof patience spell. You never really know which version of him you’re getting these days.”
Magnus groaned and collapsed into the couch, one arm flung over his face. “Marvelous. The boyfriend roulette continues.”
She smiled, amused but fond. “Try not to get too comfortable.”
Magnus peeked at her from under his sleeve. “Darling, I’m not comfortable. I’m bracing for impact.”
By the time Alec arrived, Magnus was considering a fake kidnapping just to end the charade.
He’d spent the last 48 hours babysat by:
- A golden-haired menace who thought subtlety was for cowards,
- A lipstick-wearing enforcer who haggled like a war general and left blood on his best rug.
Surely Alec would be better.
Magnus had chosen the restaurant carefully. Elegant, but not showy. A rooftop terrace in Midtown with hanging lanterns, soft music, and a wine list that could pacify even the most uncooperative client. The kind of place that whispered I’m wealthy, I’m tasteful, and I won’t hex you unless you really deserve it.
Alec arrived in black, of course. Tailored shirt, jacket open, a belt that clearly held a hidden blade or three. Hair freshly combed, eyes sharp. He looked like someone who’d reluctantly agreed to leave a military operation early for a date. Which, Magnus supposed, wasn’t far from the truth.
“I still don’t see why I can’t just watch from a distance,” Alec muttered as they stepped onto the terrace, scanning the exits like they were entering enemy territory.
Magnus rolled his eyes. “Darling, if you insist on shadowing me like a brooding guardian angel, you might as well sit down and enjoy the bread basket.”
“You know this isn’t a date.”
“I’m aware. But I reserve the right to enjoy your face while being professionally surveilled.”
Alec sighed—deeply, like someone accepting that his personal hell involved cloth napkins and magical diplomacy—and said nothing else as the maître d’hotel approached to lead them to the table. Their guest—Julian Savell, a summoner Magnus had collaborated with on two portal convergence projects—was already seated, swirling a glass of something golden and expensive. He stood when they approached, all charm and sharp features, his suit deep navy and lined with embroidered constellations. Very on-brand. Very trying too hard.
“Magnus,” he said smoothly. “You look radiant as ever.” He held out both hands.
Magnus accepted the gesture with a smile, but before their fingers could fully touch, Alec had subtly moved between them to pull out Magnus’ chair.
Julian blinked. “Ah. And this must be—?”
“Alec,” Magnus said quickly, settling into his seat. “My partner.”
Julian offered a cordial nod. “Ah, yes. A pleasure.” He extended a hand across the table.
Alec hesitated a moment too long before shaking it. His grip was firm. His expression neutral, but in that way people used when they were holding back something sharp.
Julian retracted his hand slowly and reclaimed his seat. “I’ve heard a lot about the Nephilim. Fascinating people. So rigid. So… dedicated.”
“We get the job done,” Alec replied.
“Of course,” Julian said, smiling. “I just meant—it must be quite a contrast, being with Magnus.”
“Contrast can be good,” Alec said, taking a sip of water like it was laced with truth serum.
Magnus raised one eyebrow and smiled into his wine. The first course arrived. Conversation drifted to shop talk—Julian had theories about ley line flux that Magnus wanted to hear, and for a while, they actually managed a civil discussion. Alec mostly stayed quiet, watching both of them with the kind of intensity usually reserved for crime scenes. Then Julian reached across the table to lightly touch Magnus’ wrist. It was the kind of casual, intimate gesture that warlocks used to share energy during rituals—or seduction. Just a light graze. Harmless. Technically. Alec’s fork paused mid-air.
Magnus said nothing, but gently pulled his hand back to reach for his napkin. “So sorry—bit of a chill,” he said breezily. “Residual backlash from a hex on a cursed topiary. Terribly unpredictable.”
Julian chuckled. “You’re always in the most interesting kinds of danger.”
“I manage,” Magnus said smoothly.
Alec set his fork down. “Is there a reason you needed physical contact to say that?”
Julian blinked. “I was just—being warm.”
“That’s not usually how Shadowhunters define it,” Alec said evenly.
Julian smiled tightly. “Good thing I’m not a Shadowhunter, then.”
“No,” Alec said. “You’re not.”
Magnus cleared his throat. “Perhaps we could focus on the flux instability, hmm?”
Julian nodded, though his eyes flicked back to Alec once, calculating. “Of course. As I was saying, the convergence points are behaving erratically—almost like they’re responding to ambient emotional charge. Fascinating, really.”
“Unstable magic tends to mirror unstable intentions,” Alec muttered, swirling his wine without looking up.
Julian quirked a brow. “And yet Magnus’ magic is famously stable. Intriguing, no?”
“A benefit of good influence,” Alec said flatly.
There was a pause.
Magnus took a long sip of wine. “I think we should skip to dessert.”
The waiter arrived then, saving everyone from further passive-aggression. Alec ordered black coffee and declined sweets. Julian ordered something with berries and crème anglaise and made a comment about how beautiful things deserve to be savored properly. Alec’s jaw tightened visibly. Magnus, who was not oblivious—just patient—sat very still and observed Alec with open amusement. By the time Julian took his last bite, Alec was vibrating with barely-contained tension. Not angry—no, Magnus knew Alec well enough to spot the difference. This was something older. More primal. Not violent, but possessive. And deeply out of his comfort zone.
“I should be going,” Julian said after the check arrived. “So much to summon, so little time.”
He stood and nodded at Alec with careful courtesy. “It’s been… illuminating.”
“Likewise,” Alec replied. Not cold. Just absolute.
Julian turned to Magnus, reached out as if to kiss his hand. Alec didn’t touch him. He didn’t need to. He simply turned his body—casual, just enough to slide between them as he adjusted his jacket. The gesture was subtle. But it worked.
Julian hesitated, then let his hand drop. “Well. Until next time.”
“Farewell, Julian,” Magnus said, tone pleasant and unreadable.
Once they were alone, Alec pulled on his jacket with sharp, efficient movements.
Magnus leaned on one elbow, studying him. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” he said lightly. “You get all tense and moral.”
“I wasn’t jealous,” Alec muttered.
“You glared at a dessert.”
“I don’t like when people touch you like you’re—available.”
Magnus tilted his head. “Is that how it felt?”
Alec’s ears went pink. “I know you can handle yourself. I just—didn’t like the way he looked at you. Like you were something to win.”
Magnus rose from his chair slowly, eyes softening. “I’m not something to win, Alexander. I already chose.”
Alec glanced down, then back up, the sharp edge in his posture loosening.
“I know,” he said. “I just… hate pretending I’m not allowed to be territorial.”
Magnus stepped close, adjusting Alec’s collar gently. “Then don’t pretend,” he murmured. “Just maybe don’t growl at dessert.”
The portal deposited them back in the penthouse with a quiet shimmer of gold, and Magnus stepped through first, coat fluttering, his heels clicking against the hardwood with dramatic finality. Behind him, Alec followed like a storm cloud in slow motion—jacket off, shoulders tense, jaw tight. He didn't speak. Not at first. He dropped his gear near the doorway and headed straight for the couch, sitting down with the put-upon air of someone who had been personally offended by the very concept of dinner. Magnus let the silence stretch. He poured himself a neat inch of something amber and expensive, sipped, and waited.
Three seconds.
Five.
Ten.
And then:
“I should file a report,” Alec muttered, glaring at the far wall like it had flirted with Magnus too.
Magnus turned slightly. “Mm?”
Alec picked at the stitching on a cushion. “Julian. That warlock’s licensing is probably out of date. His portal access badge didn’t look official.”
Magnus raised a brow. “You memorized his badge?”
“I’m trained to notice details,” Alec said, too quickly. Then, more under his breath, “And I didn’t like how close he leaned.”
Magnus said nothing.
Alec shifted. “Or how he smiled at you like he knew something. Like you were—” He cut himself off.
A breath passed.
Then, quieter still: “He thinks you’re touchable.”
That was the moment Magnus crossed the room.
Not rushed. Not slow, either. Just… deliberate. Like a tide coming in, in heels and velvet and every ounce of ancient patience sharpened into purpose.
Alec barely looked up before Magnus was on him—one leg straddling his thighs, silk brushing leather, hands finding the curve of Alec’s shoulders and sliding down his arms with unapologetic possession.
“You don’t have to say it,” Magnus murmured.
“I’m not saying anything.”
“I know.”
And then he kissed him. It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t even meant to seduce. It was meant to quiet.
To remind. Magnus’ mouth pressed firm and slow to Alec’s—hands threading through his hair, lips coaxing him open, until Alec exhaled into it, the tension melting out of his frame like steam. Alec didn’t respond right away. He just let himself be kissed, breathing Magnus in like something he hadn’t realized he’d missed all evening. When he finally kissed back, it was with hands on Magnus’ waist, steadying, grounding. Less about fire. More about claim. When they parted, Alec rested his forehead against Magnus’ chest, silent.
Magnus ran one hand gently along the back of his neck. “You do realize,” he murmured, “he wasn’t a threat.”
“I know.”
“And you’re the only one who ever gets to see me lose control.”
Alec’s arms tightened around him. “Still didn’t like him.”
Magnus smiled, tucked his chin over Alec’s head, and whispered into his hair, “That part I did like.”
They stayed there, tangled on the couch—Alec half-curled beneath Magnus, Magnus draped like velvet armor, protective and smug. The city buzzed beyond the windows, but in the penthouse, there was only the sound of soft breathing and the occasional, muttered grumble about portal ID regulations.
Another time Alec’s turn was up to shadow Magnus in his outside activities, the job was supposed to be quick: a ward reinforcement and glamour sweep for a low-profile warlock operating out of an abandoned garment factory in Gowanus. Magnus had done work for her before—discreetly. The kind of work that didn’t raise flags if you didn’t look too closely.
Unfortunately, Alec looked closely.
The moment they stepped through the enchantment-shrouded entrance, Alec’s posture changed. From relaxed-guarded to actively suspicious.
“Why is there an active silencing field over the entire building?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
“To keep the neighbors from complaining about chanting,” Magnus replied. “She’s a very loud ritualist.”
“She’s also using Class-C containment runes,” Alec said. “Unlicensed. And that one—” he gestured at the glowing sigil above the door, “—that’s Bloodline-locked. The Clave hasn’t sanctioned those in years.”
“That’s because the Clave has the imagination of a brick,” Magnus muttered. “Come along, darling. Be charming.”
Inside, the factory had been converted into a ritual space. Velvet-draped workstations, chalk-drawn circles on the floor, dozens of hanging crystal lamps giving the place a strange, pulsing glow. The warlock, Dorya, was waiting by a shelf of bone-white jars.
“Magnus,” she greeted, her voice thick with smoke and accent. “And this must be your pretty little soldier.”
Alec’s jaw tightened. “I’m here to ensure everything remains above board.”
Dorya blinked slowly. “Ah. A law man.”
“Oh, good,” Magnus muttered. “That tone never precedes problems.”
They began the consultation, Magnus walking through her perimeter wards while Alec hovered nearby like a sanctified sword with legs. It went well—until Alec, voice sharp, said:
“Is that a demon-forged sigil embedded into this circle?”
Dorya looked up. “Yes.”
“That’s banned.”
“Banned by your people,” she said. “Not mine.”
“It’s still illegal under Downworlder treaty law,” Alec pressed.
“Only if it’s active.”
“It glows.”
“It hums,” Magnus cut in, stepping between them. “Not the same.”
“I need to report this,” Alec said, reaching for his stele.
And that’s when everything went straight to hell.
Dorya’s smile vanished. The silencing field flickered. Sigils on the far wall pulsed ominously.
“I invited you here on trust,” she said, suddenly very cold. “I let him in because he was with you.”
Magnus raised both hands. “Let’s not escalate. No one’s reporting anything tonight.”
Alec hesitated. “She’s breaking the law.”
“She’s also surrounded by a half-dozen armed familiars and two bound spirits. Let’s pick our battles, darling.”
Dorya’s eyes narrowed. “If you let the Clave into my wards, I’ll take it as a declaration.”
Magnus turned slowly to Alec, his tone deceptively light. “Alexander. Dearest. Love of my complicated life. Please put the stele away.”
Alec looked from Magnus to Dorya to the faint flicker of something alive pulsing under the floorboards—and, blessedly, obeyed.
Magnus exhaled. “Wonderful. Now. Let’s pretend this little outburst was a brief lovers’ quarrel over municipal magical codes and move on with the work.”
They did, barely. Dorya insisted Alec stand at the doorway for the rest of the visit, eyes visible at all times. Magnus finished the job with impeccable precision and two spells held back, just in case.
When they finally exited back into the night air, Alec broke the silence first.
“She’s dangerous.”
“She’s effective,” Magnus replied, brushing ash off his coat. “And I don’t have the luxury of working only with the Clave’s golden children. Some clients need help, even if they live in the gray.”
“She was using blood-forged runes.”
“And you nearly turned us into scorch marks trying to quote regulations in her living room.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
Magnus stopped walking.
“I know,” he said, softer now. “But next time? Ask me if I need protecting first.”
Alec looked away.
Magnus reached out and laced their fingers together anyway.
**********
That evening, back in the penthouse, Magnus finally snapped.
After Alec had:
- Rearranged his potion shelf “for safety,”
- Spilled moonstone dust into his rose tea,
- And fallen asleep mid-conversation while clutching Magnus’ arm like a possessive kitten—
Magnus stood, looked at the ceiling, and declared:
“Chairman Meow. Take note. I am officially revoking the Shadowhunter babysitting program.”
The cat blinked, curled in a sunbeam, and offered no opinion. Magnus turned to Alec, who had fallen asleep again, one hand resting on his stomach protectively.
“Not you,” he murmured. “You can stay. But only if you keep looking at me like that—it’s deeply unfair.”
Alec didn’t respond. But he shifted in his sleep, murmured something unintelligible, and curled closer. Magnus sighed. Then conjured a blanket.
“And this,” he muttered, draping it over both Alec and the cat, “is why I don’t date Nephilim. Except apparently I do.”
He plopped onto the couch, exhausted.
“I’ve decided,” Magnus said aloud, draping himself on the chaise. “Next time someone tries to drain my magic, I’ll simply let them. It’s still less stressful than being shadowed by the Lightwood siblings.”
**********
It had been weeks—two months, to be precise—since Magnus had declared the Great Shadowhunter Surveillance Initiative officially dead. He didn’t even look up from petting Chairman Meow when he said it: “Your services are no longer required. Kindly take your over-concerned Nephilim instincts and go hover elsewhere. This glittering warlock has suffered enough.”
Jace had shrugged. Isabelle had smiled. Alec—calm as a mountain—had simply said, “Fine. But we’re not leaving you alone in the penthouse.”
It was reasonable. Magnus hated that it was reasonable. After all, it hadn’t been in some back alley or cursed alleyway that he was captured. It had been in his home. And while his wards were stronger now—rebuilt, rewritten, layered—Magnus understood the logic. So, a compromise was reached: he could roam the city unaccompanied if he chose, especially in public spaces, but he wouldn’t be left alone alone. Which was how he found himself from time to time, when Alec would join them on missions, accompanying them. Mostly tranquil surveillance or calm little law reminding a few delinquents since Alec was no longer allowed on anything that involved fighting. Alec had accepted with much pliancy which indicated clearly to everyone that he was really at the end of his rope both physically and emotionally.
It had started with demons. As it often did. A brief disturbance during a patrol, a tear in the fabric of reality, and suddenly three oily-skinned, insect-legged things scuttling across the Lower East Side. The trio sprang into action on instinct—Jace and Isabelle took off down the alley like hounds on a trail, blades already out, chasing the demons as they darted and scattered. The demons didn’t fight. They ran. And so, naturally, the Lightwoods gave chase without hesitation. They cornered two of them a few blocks over, dispatched them in a blur of steel and ichor—and then turned around to find that Alec was… not there. Panic flickered briefly. It took them ten whole minutes of backtracking, checking street corners and jumping rooftop to rooftop, before they finally found Alec three streets back, storming out of a dead-end alley with murder in his eyes, muttering about loyalty and abandonment. He didn’t say a word—just stalked off in the direction of Magnus’ penthouse like a man on a mission. When he burst through the door, Magnus, who had been peacefully curled on the couch with a book of lunar-bound ritual enhancements, merely arched one brow. Moments later, Jace and Isabelle came rushing in behind him, flushed and sheepish.
“What happened?” Magnus asked mildly.
Alec spun around dramatically, and pointed a hand toward Jace like he was naming a criminal. “My team abandoned me,” he snapped. “Dashed off without a word. Didn’t even bother to check if I was following!”
Jace raised both hands, wincing. “I thought you were following!”
“I can’t exactly dash these days, in case you forgot I have an enormous hell baby scratched onto me!” Alec snapped, sweeping a hand over his midsection.
Magnus flinched slightly at the term but wisely said nothing.
Jace scratched his head and muttered, “Okay, yeah, but it’s just—no offense—you don’t look that different. It’s hard to adjust.”
Magnus slowly closed his book with a sigh. Ah. Jace. No.
Alec narrowed his eyes. “Oh, I’m so sorry that my carrying a ticking bomb 24/7 is hard on you, Jace. Truly. I will do my very best to consider your comfort the next time I can’t sleep because some eldritch melon is kicking my lungs.”
“Great,” Jace said under his breath. “I’ve awakened the monster.”
Alec glared. And that night, over takeout and silence and one long rub of his lower back, it was—without being said—somewhat agreed upon that maybe Alec just shouldn’t run after demons anymore.
But Alec hadn’t given up all shadow hunter business, which was how Magnus found himself on a rooftop in Tribeca at eleven o’clock at night, wrapped in a cashmere-lined coat, trying not to look bored while watching two empty intersections through enchanted binoculars. Two blocks away, Jace and Isabelle were crouched behind a glamoured newsstand, waiting for a signal. The mission, Magnus had to admit, wasn’t entirely ridiculous. A small ring of warlocks—unaffiliated, unlicensed, and deeply unpleasant—had been spotted in the area in the past week, suspected of illegally binding downworld familiars and selling stolen spellwork. They operated under cloaking veils, moving through human streets undetected, and occasionally opening brief pop-up portals. Two narrow side streets had been flagged for repeated magical disturbances—too small for patrol vans, too busy for foot chases. Which meant surveillance. Hence: two teams. Two pairs. Two radios. And Magnus, roped in like a particularly fashionable service warlock, sitting on a rooftop next to a six-foot Shadowhunter radiating both divine fire and third-trimester heat.
Magnus Bane was not designed for patience. Especially not on rooftops. Especially not at night. Especially not while being utterly ignored by his brooding, tactical-gear-clad, overly dedicated boyfriend who was currently acting like the fate of the world hinged on the flicker of movement in two empty side streets. Alec knelt by the edge of the rooftop, binoculars glued to his face, elbows resting firmly on the concrete ledge as if bracing for combat. His jaw was tight, his brows drawn, his entire focus honed in like a laser. He looked, Magnus had to admit, painfully good like that—black gear hugging his body, rune-lit skin glowing faintly beneath the collar. Magnus sighed, loud and theatrical. Alec didn’t move. Another sigh, with added suffering. Still nothing.
Magnus crossed the rooftop and lowered himself beside Alec, their shoulders brushing. Alec’s stance didn’t change, though Magnus could practically hear the suspicion radiating off him.
“Do you want to watch?” Alec asked, still looking through the binoculars.
“No,” Magnus said simply.
A pause.
“I was just thinking,” he added lightly, “we’ve never done it while you were in full tactical gear.”
That got Alec to blink.
He turned his head, one brow raised. “What?”
Magnus shrugged, utterly casual. “I don’t know. It just occurred to me. Isn’t it odd? You wear this outfit and suddenly I’m reconsidering all my plans for the night.”
Alec blinked again. “You’re bored.”
“Desperately,” Magnus said, leaning in slightly, his voice warm. “And distracted. Because you, my darling, look criminally sexy dressed like that.”
There was a beat of silence. Alec turned back to the binoculars, but Magnus didn’t miss the faint pink blooming in his ears. Another moment passed before Magnus started stroking his fingers lightly down Alec’s arm. Just barely a touch.
Alec shifted. “You’re making it hard to see.”
“Mission accomplished,” Magnus murmured, letting the motion linger. “You’ve been kneeling there for forty minutes. My knees would have disintegrated.”
“That’s why you’re not a Shadowhunter.”
“And thank all the angels for that,” Magnus said. “Though I do enjoy the uniform.”
Alec exhaled like he was already regretting bringing Magnus along.
“I’m bored,” Magnus said, almost petulantly.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Alec replied, adjusting his grip on the binoculars.
“We could kiss,” Magnus suggested innocently. “To pass the time.”
Alec turned to him fully this time, skeptical. “That’s a bad idea.”
“It’s just kissing.”
“We don’t ‘just kiss,’” Alec said. “We get distracted. Fast.”
Magnus tilted his head, smiling. “Maybe just a little distraction. Just a taste. No one’s down there. The streets are dead.”
Alec hesitated. Magnus could smell it again—that quiet, instinctual shift in Alec’s Scent. That low burn of want that had clung to him since the mission began. The mixture of night air, enclosed tension, the low pulse of being watched while watching. It was waking something in his Omega—some need to reach out, to connect, to touch.
When Alec kissed him, it was immediate and full of heat. It started with lips brushing lips, but it deepened almost instantly. Alec cupped Magnus’ face with one hand, fingers warm and trembling. Magnus melted into it, mouth opening beneath his, inviting him closer. Clothes rustled. Buttons slipped free. Alec’s hand slid into Magnus’ coat, then under his shirt, finding bare skin and tracing it with reverent fingertips. When Alec fumbled at his own gear, Magnus caught his wrist.
“Leave it on,” he said, voice husky, lips curling. “It’s working for me.”
Alec exhaled roughly but nodded. They tugged at each other’s clothing just enough—pants loosened, shirts half-opened, skin revealed in shivering contact. Magnus climbed into Alec’s lap, straddling him, mouths never parting for long, their bodies pressed together under the stars. The slow rock of hips. The warmth of hands on flesh. Breath shared between gasps and kisses. And Magnus slowly riding while fondling the soldier in gear.
It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t frantic. It was slow and aching and perfect.
From the opposite end of the block, two robed figures materialized from a shimmer in the air, their silhouettes pulsing with raw magic. They stepped out confidently—straight onto the street Magnus and Alec were supposed to be watching. The warlocks moved down the street and found themselves right in front of Isabelle and Jace both looking at them with baffled surprise.
And that night, over one long lecture done to a sheepish Alec and a smug Magnus by a fuming Jace, it was—without being said—somewhat agreed upon that maybe Magnus just shouldn’t accompany them on surveillance anymore.
Chapter 15: Quenched thirsts
Chapter Text
The Goldharts’ salon smelled like old money and worse intentions.
Magnus stood in the center of the marble-floored monstrosity, arms raised, sleeves of his midnight coat sliding down as he whispered ancient words. His blue magic crackled in his veins, spiraling out in delicate waves and glowing threads. The cursed relic—a grotesque onyx idol resembling a melted goat—shivered on its pedestal, dark energy seeping from its edges like rot. The family, three generations of frigid blue-eyed aristocrats, watched from behind a velvet rope. The matriarch’s expression was somewhere between awe and impatience.
Magnus sighed through his nose, half-lidded eyes fixed on the idol. His hands ached from the precise positioning. The spell was old, difficult, but not impossible—
Bzzzt.
His phone.
He blinked. Ignored it. His fingers twisted, summoning more pressure into the arcane circle beneath his feet.
Bzzzt.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. He risked a sidelong glance at the Goldharts. They hadn't moved. Good. He refocused, lips moving in low cadence—
Bzzzt.
That one broke his concentration. The spell faltered; the threads shimmered unstable.
"I'm terribly sorry," Magnus muttered. One hand still raised, he fumbled his phone from his coat pocket with the other. He cursed as his cufflink snagged. The light from the magic dimmed.
Finally, he unlocked the phone with trembling fingers.
Alec: Something’s wrong.
His heart dropped into his stomach.
Alec: You have to come.
No. No, no, no—
Alec: Now.
Cold. All cold.
Magnus dropped the magic like a broken toy. "I’m sorry," he choked, to the air, to the idol, to the horrified Goldharts. "Emergency."
Alec had come into his third and last trimester, Magnus had lost Adrienne then and had lived in nothing but dreadful alert since Alec had reached that stage. Expecting his lover to drop dead whenever he took too long to answer or when he hadn’t made a noise for too long.
He barely remembered sprinting through the hedges, slashing the air open with raw, panicked magic. His portal sparked, clumsy, nearly collapsing as he hurled himself through dimensions—
—And landed on the slick pavement outside his building, magic singing off his skin. His lungs burned. His legs moved before his brain caught up. Stairs. Two at a time. Heart hammering.
He burst into the penthouse, breathless and wild-eyed.
"Alec!"
No answer. He staggered forward—Then the Scent hit him.
It was thick. Saturating almost solid like cotton candy. The air tasted golden and cloying, sticky and sweet like honey set aflame and it went right down to his groin. Magnus’ knees buckled. He choked on it, sharp arousal punching through his terror like a wrecking ball. He nearly fell.
"Magnus—" came a voice, soft, from the hall.
Alec.
Alec in sweatpants, hair rumpled, flushed, his pupils blown wide, breath coming fast. His bare feet padded soundlessly as he crossed the floor toward Magnus, who stood frozen in the doorway.
"Thank the Angel," Alec murmured, relief raw in his voice. "Thank the Angel you’re here."
He touched Magnus’ chest, warm fingers sliding over Magnus’ coat lapel and starting to smooth it down his shoulders. His mouth brushed Magnus’ jaw, soft lips leaving heated trails. With Alec in his face, the Scent—oh hells, the Scent—coiled around Magnus’ brain until thought disintegrated. He swayed, pulse thudding.
"Wait," Magnus rasped, hands rising instinctively. He caught Alec by the shoulders, holding him back with arms longer than the younger man stopping any more attempts at peeling him out of his clothes. Alec blinked up at him, cheeks flushed deep pink, eyes glazed and a tad disappointed by the sudden distance. His hands fumbled at Magnus’ cufflinks then having a life of their own and a mission to fulfill.
"Wait," Magnus repeated, panicked. "I—I thought—something happened. What’s wrong?”
"I’m just—" Alec sighed, brows pinching with dramatic affliction. "—terribly horny." Alec tried to press close again "I’m sorry," he whispered, "I didn’t mean to scare you."
Magnus was torn between the relief of not finding Alec dead, the intensity with which Alec’s Scent was fondling every inch of his skin and the sheer irritating confusion he felt through this bizarre turn of event.
Magnus made a strangled sound. He held Alec away a little bit stronger, the desire to shake the boy blending with the desire to push him down on his back "What?" he ended up saying “I was on a job, Alec. I left that family with a cursed object half open Hell knows what will burst outta there! And I will have to clean this mess for free!”
"I’m sorry," Alec repeated, sounding anything but. He wriggled his shoulders, working Magnus’ hands free with infuriating ease. He pressed fully into Magnus’ chest, warm and lean, grazing both their chest with rutting will, and murmured against his throat, "I didn’t mean to worry you. I just… I need you."
His fingers undid the buttons of Magnus’ silk shirt with fast and precise technicity and cupped every little bumps, then slipped lower, tracing Magnus’ abdomen, the silk parting under deft hands. Magnus’ panic warred with heat, with the dizzying Scent that made his thoughts smear at the edges. Catarina had never spoken about such incidents.
Alec licked the curve of Magnus’ neck hiding with each brush of his tongue a new piece of clothing hitting the floor, breath hot. "Please," he whispered. "I’m—" he shivered, "—on fire."
Magnus’ mind blazed with a hundred questions. His breath hitched as Alec bit gently under his jaw with a plea in his eyes.
"I—this isn’t—" Magnus’ voice cracked. "You don’t seem to be in your right mind. It’s not a good idea."
Alec pulled back just far enough to glare, the gentle plea in his eyes replaced by the storm Magnus had grown accustomed to when the bearing became too heavy. "You know what wasn’t a good idea?" The younger man snapped, eyes glinting. "Knocking me up with some half hell baby. Now I’m—" he groaned, rolling his hips just slightly, "—burning. So unless you want me to just burst aflame, you better man the fuck up and fuck me."
Magnus made a strangled noise almost in fear. The next few minutes blurred. Alec pulled him toward the living room by his pants. Magnus tried, feebly, to back up, but Alec had already undone his buckle and loosen his pants and was already stripping himself, flinging his shirt aside repositioning his hand on Magnus’ pants when the older man froze, keeping pulling him and keeping him from bolting back with astonishing dexterity. Magnus suspected Alec to use his enhanced speed rune which was cheating.
Alec had managed to strip himself naked while pulling a dazed Magnus into the living room and laid himself back onto the couch. Upon the sight of Magnus not moving to follow he leaned forward and grabbed the older man by his pants yet again and pulled one fast and strong last tug. The Scent roared, stealing Magnus’ breath as he crashed between Alec’s legs and upon his naked frame. The boy was warm, and his cock was pouring pre-cum like he needed to slick the entire Grand Canyon. Alec grabbed Magnus’ dick and pressed it onto his opening.
"Alec—" Magnus managed, not quite sure about the lack of foreplay “Will you slow down, I’m not a piece of meat” he managed to say with the virtue of someone so enlarged by lust it held poor conviction.
Alec threw him a look of pure smugness and said in a dried tone “Quit being a princess and get on with it”
Magnus had barely the time to mutter If this baby is half Hell, that’s definitely your half…
Magnus gasped, head dropping back as Alec forced his dick inside himself and pulled him deeper with his heels. Magnus felt Alec open and ready for him, his insides only heat, and slick like a water slide. Alec breathed a moan that vibrated inside his throat like a men gulping down water after a long trail in the desert.
"Slow," Alec whispered, breath hitching. "Slow."
Magnus obeyed without thought, hips rolling in shallow, languid thrusts. Every pull drew low moans from Alec, every push met with sweet, open need. Alec’s whole body was a mixture of complete relaxation and sweet pressure. When Magnus pulled back, in his ample thrusts, Alec’s insides would squeeze to keep him and every time he pushed back in his lover would gratify him with a welcomed moan.
Hours. It could’ve been hours. Magnus’ whole body ached to speed up, but whenever he tried either Alec’s thighs locked him in place or Alec’s strong hands steadied on his chest and slowed his strokes .
"Alec," Magnus panted, flushed, hair sticking to his temple. "I can’t—"
Alec only hummed "More,".
Magnus was dying cursing Shadowhunter’s strength and stamina that got them going on forever.
Finally, in desperation, Magnus reached between them and wrapped his hand around Alec’s cock and started to stroke. That’ll unlock that endless hell cycle he figured.
Alec’s breath shattered. He gasped, head falling backward.
"Fuck—"
The rhythm broke. Magnus finally able to thrust harder, faster, Alec's moans breaking free—sharp, high, desperate. The sound of wet, the slap of skin on skin, the raw need in every movement—Alec came first, spilling over Magnus’ fist, breathing moans in and out.
Magnus didn’t last seconds longer the need for the release he held in in torture for awhile now. He groaned, whole body tensing as he spilled deep, trembling apart. Silence after. Only breath, fast and ragged. Magnus sagged over Alec’s sprawled form.
A moment passed before Alec stirred, still panting, and lifted Magnus higher onto himself to press hundreds of kisses to Magnus’ entire face, cheeks, jaws, temples, eyes shining soft and content demonstrating how much of a good boy Magnus had been.
Magnus groaned. I think I’ve been hustled.
Alec only snuggled into him, arms winding tighter around him like he was a giant teddy bear, and Magnus—weak, dazed, and utterly wrecked—let him.
**********
Rain laced the windows in silver threads, smearing Manhattan’s lights into a molten blur. The fire had burned low, and the shadows in the loft leaned long and restless.
Magnus was standing over the table, shoulders curved over a sprawl of parchment. The inked glyphs were viciously elegant—runes carved like scars across centuries, their edges biting into memory. Pages Alec had brought back from that abandoned address. The moment Magnus saw the script, his stomach turned. There was intent in these symbols. Old intent. Dark and patient. The door opened without warning.
“Do you mind?” Magnus said without looking up. “This is private communing-with-ancient-evil time.”
“Then you’re in luck,” came the dry reply. “I brought refreshments. Of the intellectual kind.”
Ragnor Fell swept in, rain dissolving from his coat in faint sparks as he crossed the loft. His green skin gleamed like burnished jade under the lamplight, eyes sharp as flint. He laid a thick leather tome on the desk with a sound like judgment.
“Translation,” he said. “Or close enough. Whoever wrote this wasn’t thinking of your future convenience.”
Magnus raised a brow. “You’re all heart, as usual.”
“Read,” Ragnor ordered.
The book opened to a page etched with spirals of black script, the translation scrawled beneath in Ragnor’s terse, elegant hand:
“Through nine gates the chain shall bind. Through nine keys the circle widens. Carve the breath of life into the ley-lines. Call the names that bled the stars. Let the void become flesh. Let the realms unmake their walls.”
Magnus read it again. Slower this time. And felt the floor of his chest tilt.
“Well,” he said lightly, though the taste of ash lingered in his mouth, “that’s appropriately apocalyptic.”
“This isn’t theatrics,” Ragnor replied, folding his arms. “It’s an aperture incantation. Old. Predating Spiral codex by millennia. It doesn’t just open a door, Magnus. It opens a doorway to multiple, like I told you. This is the incantation”
Magnus lifted his gaze. “Ok, well that doesn’t help does it”
Ragnor’s mouth twisted. “It requires a warlock with raw capacity to drag planetary currents. Not many contenders. I’m betting your hat’s still in the ring”
The door of Magnus’ room opened. Magnus didn’t need to look up to feel the tug in his chest as Alec crossed the room like gravity given shape. He came up behind Magnus without a word, arms sliding around his waist, the heat of his body chasing the chill of Ragnor’s news. His lips brushed Magnus’ neck—soft, reverent. Magnus almost forgot the room wasn’t empty. Alec froze first. His head lifted slightly, blue eyes flicking toward the table—and the green warlock standing there, eyebrow arched with the kind of judgment only Ragnor Fell could weaponize.
“Oh,” Alec said flatly. “Didn’t see you.”
“Clearly,” Ragnor murmured.
Alec’s jaw tightened. He ducked to whisper near Magnus’ ear, voice like velvet strained over steel: “Get him to leave.”
“I can hear you,” Ragnor said dryly.
Alec’s ears went pink. He flushed, then rested his chin on Magnus’ shoulder like a barricade. His gaze drifted to the table, scanning the sprawl of runes and diagrams.
“What’s this?” he asked, voice clipped.
Magnus tried for lightness. “Oh, just a cheerful little apocalypse.”
“Don’t sugarcoat,” Ragnor snapped. “It’s an invocation to fracture the planar walls across nine dimensions.”
Alec leaned forward, eyes narrowing on the ink. Then he stilled. His hand lifted slightly, finger hovering over the page. “I’ve seen that.”
Magnus blinked. “What?”
“This symbol,” Alec said, tapping near the edge. “And this one here.” His finger traced another curling glyph. “I’ve seen them before.”
Ragnor’s head snapped up. “Where?”
Alec frowned, searching memory like it was written on smoke. Then slowly, certainty began to settle in the cut of his jaw.
“Alaric’s scarf,” he said at last. “At the summit meeting.”
Ragnor cut in, cool and measured, “it could mean he knows this dialect. And that narrows the pool to a handful of warlocks worldwide.”
“Exactly,” Alec said, voice firm now. “Which means he could help us identify whoever’s behind this. He likes me— maybe. If I go to him, casually, he might share something. A lead. Anything.”
Ragnor inclined his head. “If Alaric knows this language, even partially, he’s a resource we can’t ignore.”
“Fine,” Magnus said softly, silk over steel.
**********
The morning air in the city was crisp. Alec walked fast anyway, coat drawn tight, scarf wound at his throat like armor. He told himself the quick pace wasn’t nerves, just practicality. It wasn’t entirely true. He’d hardly slept. Magnus hadn’t either, though he’d pretended better—lounging on the bed in silk and light sarcasm, scrolling through spell indices like he wasn’t vibrating with worry beneath his skin. Alec had felt it in the weight of his touch, the stillness in his kiss goodnight, Now he was here. The townhouse loomed quiet against a narrow street, its facade draped in ivy. No wards flared as Alec approached—at least none meant to bar him. The door opened before he knocked.
“Alexander.”
Alaric’s voice was warm velvet, smooth and deep, carrying the faintest thread of surprise. Or amusement. Hard to tell. The warlock stood framed in the doorway, his silhouette cut sharp against the dim interior light. Robes in shades of storm-silver flowed over his lean frame, and at his throat—coiled like an idle serpent—was the scarf.
The scarf with the symbols.
Alec’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He let his breath frost the air once before stepping inside.
“Thank you for seeing me,” he said simply.
“For you?” Alaric smiled faintly, the kind that never touched the eyes. “Always. Tea?”
The parlor was a hush of soft carpets and shadowed corners, heavy curtains spilling dusk-light through slats. Books lined every wall—some cracked and spined with age, others glimmering faintly with charms. Alaric moved like water, his hands precise as he poured steaming amber liquid into porcelain cups etched with constellations.
He gestured gracefully. “Sit.”
Alec obeyed, sinking into the plush curve of a velvet chair. It tried to swallow him whole, its comfort almost cloying. He rested his forearms on the carved arms, posture straight out of habit. Alaric settled opposite, one leg folded elegantly, his scarf catching the dim light—a shimmer of silver threads curling into patterns like whispers.
“How are you?” Alaric asked, voice low and coaxing. “You’ve… changed, since I last saw you.” His eyes lingered a fraction too long on Alec’s frame, but his smile was soft, almost fond.
“I’m fine,” Alec said evenly, lifting the cup. The steam curled sharp and spiced, laced with something floral he didn’t recognize.
“Good,” Alaric murmured. He sipped, eyes half-lidded, then tilted his head. “You didn’t come for pleasantries. What weighs on you?”
Alec’s fingers tightened fractionally on the delicate porcelain. He set the cup back on its saucer with a muted click and let his gaze flick—not casually, but measured—to the scarf.
“That,” he said.
Alaric followed his eyes. His brows arched faintly, then smoothed, a slow smile curving his lips. “Ah.” He touched the fabric lightly, almost fondly. “You have an eye for detail. These sigils interest you?”
“They’re unusual,” Alec said, his tone flat, though his pulse beat steady under his collar. “Where are they from?”
A pause. A soft hum in Alaric’s throat. Then he spoke, voice like a blade hidden in silk.
“From a time no one remembers,” he said, smoothing the scarf between long fingers. “Because no one alive is old enough to.”
Alec said nothing, his body still as glass.
Alaric leaned back, cradling his cup like an oracle might cradle flame. His eyes shimmered in the low light, gold threaded with iron.
“There was an age,” he continued softly, “when whispers curled through every prayer, every invocation—a belief that all suffering, all sorrow that plagued the mortal coil, would end only when the Battle of Heaven ceased. When Heaven itself was whole again.”
Alec felt the room press closer, shadows thickening like breath.
“These symbols,” Alaric murmured, “were tokens of that longing. They were inked into skin, carved into altars, sewn into cloth. Not spells—not quite. Prayers masquerading as power. A thousand tiny hands reaching for the same impossible thread.”
Alec’s voice was even when he spoke. “And the meaning?”
Alaric’s smile sharpened. “Life. Celestial. Pillars of the old dream.”
He rose slowly, pouring more tea, though Alec had barely touched his. The scent curled thicker, sweet and spiced, clinging in his lungs.
“There was… a group,” Alaric said lightly, almost idly, as though sharing a bedtime tale. “A circle of believers who decided prayer was too quiet a weapon. They wanted to act. To provoke.” His eyes gleamed faintly, the light from the hearth catching fire in their depths. “They believed the Downworld—we—were born as pawns in that celestial war. And they wanted to cut the strings. They wanted to end the war so humanity could crawl free of its shadow.”
His laugh was soft, curling smoke. “Foolish. Brave.”
Alec reached for his cup more to ground his hands than from thirst. He drank because it filled the silence, the heat biting down his throat, spreading like a low ember through his veins.
Alaric’s voice wove on, smooth as honeyed poison. “They never succeeded, of course. How could they? They were warlocks, bound to earth, chained to mortality and all its brittle laws. And though they carved circles and spoke words in tongues older than death, they lacked the one ingredient their incantations truly required.”
Alec’s fingers tightened faintly on porcelain. “Which was?”
Alaric’s gaze caught his, and something ancient flickered there—cold and bright as the marrow of stars.
“An element of the divine,” he whispered.
The words shivered through Alec’s bones like a blade drawn on ice. He opened his mouth, but his tongue felt heavy, sluggish.
Alaric laughed then—soft, almost musical, and wrong in a way Alec’s instincts howled against. “They didn’t even know,” he crooned, setting his cup aside as he rose in one slow, fluid motion. “They spun their little wheels in the dark, and it never occurred to them what piece was missing.”
His steps were soundless over the carpet as he crossed to Alec, the silver of his scarf glinting like a serpent’s coil. Alec tried to rise—muscles locking, blood singing with lead. His pulse thundered, his vision blurring at the edges, and still the taste of spice clung like smoke to his tongue.
Alaric knelt beside him with a grace that felt obscene, his hand cool against Alec’s cheek as he tilted his face up.
“They didn’t know,” he murmured, voice a hymn now, low and reverent and bright with hunger. “But I do.”
The room swam. Alec’s breath hitched, body slumping forward as the velvet dark swept up to claim him. His last flicker of thought was Magnus—Magnus’ name burning like a ward in his skull—and then the world went black.
As if from a great distance, through the ringing hush of blood, came Alaric’s voice—soft, terrible, triumphant:
“But now,” he whispered, lowering Alec gently to the floor as if cradling something sacred, “we do.”
**********
The loft was too quiet.
Magnus hated that kind of silence—the kind that crawled along your skin like cold water and whispered things you didn’t want to hear. The fire in the grate had burned low, amber tongues licking lazily at charred logs. The tea he’d brewed an hour ago sat untouched on the tray, steam long since bled into the air. Alec should have been back by now. Magnus told himself that twice—soft, reasonable. Once to the room, once to his own restless pulse. Alaric’s building was only a few streets over. A courtesy visit, Alec had said. Casual. Nothing that warranted a warlock’s dramatics. Magnus had smiled then, lips curved in that familiar lacquered grace, because what else was there to do? Lock Alec in the loft like some storybook prince? Alec would never stand for that—not for Magnus, not for anyone. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Fifteen minutes past when Alec said he’d return. Not long enough to worry. Not for anyone else. But Magnus wasn’t anyone else. He drifted to the windows, silk robe whispering around his ankles, and looked out at the city’s blurred constellations. Rain drizzled down the glass in silver threads, fracturing the neon glow of passing cabs. Somewhere below, tires hissed on wet asphalt. Manhattan carried on, oblivious.
He’s fine. Magnus repeated it like an incantation, fingers tapping against the sill. Alec was trained for danger—born to hunt it. And this wasn’t even danger. Just tea and conversation with an eccentric relic in layered fabrics, like a baba-cool mystic who might offer you enlightenment—or a bad sitar playlist. Magnus turned away, stalking back to the couch, only to pause by the desk instead. Pages sprawled across its surface like a crime scene, each rune a splinter under his skin. The translation Ragnor left sat open, stark against the shadows.
Nine gates. Nine keys. Nine fires.
Magnus’ jaw tightened. He’d meant to work—meant to scour those spirals until they coughed up secrets—but his mind kept circling back to blue eyes and steady hands and the soft weight of Alec’s voice saying, “Don’t wait up.”
As if that were even possible.
Magnus reached for his phone, thumb sweeping the screen awake. No messages. He typed one out anyway, short and bladed in its simplicity:
Still alive, darling? Or do I need to storm the Upper East with fire and silk?
He hit send. Watched the little bar crawl. Waited.
Nothing.
Magnus’ heart gave one slow, deliberate thud. Then another. He set the phone down carefully, like it might bruise under his fingers.
“Chairman,” he called softly.
From the arm of the couch, the cat blinked up at him with eyes like polished gold, tail flicking once. Judgment, feline and absolute.
Magnus managed a thin smile. “Yes, I know. Overreacting. It’s my second-best talent.”
The first, of course, was making people bleed with style. He crossed to his workbench, robes whispering like secrets behind him, and began pulling open drawers with quick, precise motions. Sigil chalk. Quartz slivers. A copper bowl etched with runes old as war. He told himself this was precaution, nothing more. A locator—simple, elegant, barely a ripple of magic. He’d done it a thousand times. It wasn’t panic. It was practicality. The circle bloomed across the floor in lines of starlight, pulsing faintly as he whispered the words. His hands didn’t shake—but they wanted to. Magnus reached for the worn leather strap resting on his desk—Alec’s weapons belt, still carrying the imprint of his touch. He laid it in the copper bowl with a precision borderind on OCD. Power surged the moment the rune-scarred leather kissed the circle, threads of magic curling like smoke around it.
“Alec Lightwood,” Magnus murmured, voice drawn taut as wire. “Show me where you are.”
The water shimmered, colors ghosting across its surface in restless ripples. For one breath, hope clawed up his throat—
Then it stilled.
Blank.
Magnus stared. Whispered the incantation again, sharper this time, magic lashing through the air like a whip. The sigils flared—white, then blue—before guttering out. Nothing. It wasn’t possible. Not unless someone had cloaked him. Not unless— Magnus’ breath stuttered, a harsh slice of sound in the too-quiet room. The clock ticked on. Rain fell. And the silence—the silence roared. The circle’s glow guttered out like a dying star, leaving nothing but cold chalk lines and the echo of his own voice hanging in the air. Blank.
Magnus stared at the bowl, at the stillness of the water that should have rippled with an image, a thread, anything. His mind rejected it even as his magic screamed the truth:
Alec wasn’t just absent. He was cloaked. And cloaking a Shadowhunter—his Shadowhunter—wasn’t child’s play. It wasn’t a parlor trick. It was warlock work of a caliber most couldn’t even spell. Magnus’ breath left him in a sharp exhale. His hands hovered above the circle, fingers twitching with the instinct to burn the runes into ash and start again, louder, stronger, with every ounce of magic in his veins— He stopped. Forced himself to stand, silk robes dragging like shadows across the floor as he crossed to the console table where his phone lay. The screen glared blank at him. Still no message. Call Isabelle. Call Jace. The thought flickered and died. He couldn’t—not yet. Not with this heat clawing under his skin, this storm coiling like a serpent in his chest. If he called them now, his voice would crack into something ugly, and Alec would hate that. Alec would hate knowing what it did to him. No. He needed someone who wouldn’t break under the blast. Someone who knew what kind of teeth old magic could have.
He hit the contact with a flick of his thumb.
The line rang once. Twice. A click, and then: “If this can wait, I’m off to keep up my masterful pretense of chasing a destiny worth caring about.”
Magnus’ voice came out silk—and cracked glass beneath. “He’s gone, Ragnor.”
A beat of silence. Then, dry as bone: “Define ‘gone.’”
“He left to meet Alaric. He was supposed to be back an hour ago.” Magnus paced as he spoke, the hem of his robe whispering across the hardwood. “I tried a locator. It didn’t work.”
“You botched it?”
Magnus’ laugh was sharp enough to draw blood. “Do I ever botch a locator spell?”
Another pause. Longer this time. Then Ragnor said, quieter: “If it didn’t work—”
“Someone’s hiding him,” Magnus cut in, voice dropping to a dangerous purr. “Someone wrapped him in wards strong enough to choke a summoning circle.”
“Magnus—”
“I need your eyes.” He was already sweeping the remnants of the ritual into a bronze bowl, movements clipped, merciless. “Bring everything you have on veil magic. Layered, mobile, tied to a living core. And bring your fastest hands because if you drag your green ass, I’ll open a hole in space and pull you through myself.”
A sigh like grinding stone. “On my way. Don’t do anything stupid.”
Magnus smiled without humor, teeth flashing in the dim. “Define stupid.”
The line went dead.
He stood there a moment, phone hanging from his fingers, heart pounding a violent drumbeat against his ribs. The loft felt too small, too sharp, full of corners that pressed and eyes that weren’t there. A tremor rolled under his skin, and the magic in his blood answered—hungry, furious, clawing to be let out. It bled from his fingertips in tendrils of blue fire, curling up his arms, licking the edges of the bookshelves until the leather bindings smoked. Chairman Meow gave a low, unimpressed yowl from the couch. Magnus sucked in a breath, teeth clenched. He closed his eyes and shoved it down, pressed the power back into its cage until his bones rang with the strain. Losing control now wouldn’t bring Alec home. But oh, he wanted to burn. Wanted to split the night open and drag the world to its knees until it spat Alec back into his arms. Instead, he turned—slow, deliberate—and crossed to the sideboard where crystal decanters gleamed like captive fire. He poured two fingers of whiskey, neat, and stared at the amber liquid until his reflection warped in its curve. The storm inside him didn’t quiet. It only waited.
**********
The first thing Alec registered was the smell. Not blood, not iron, not the ozone sting of wards tearing—but something sweeter, cloying, almost warm: crushed herbs, resin smoke, and beneath it, the faint salt bite of rain-soaked wood.
His eyes opened slowly. The world swam, tilted, then steadied into a dim-lit cabin lined in pine. A fire cracked in the hearth, throwing long shadows over shelves crammed with jars and scrolls. And him—tied to a chair that was far too comfortable for what it was meant to do. Thick silk cords bound his wrists and chest, snug but not cutting. A cushion pressed into his back like this was all some grotesque parody of hospitality.
A voice, low and soft, floated from his right.
“I hoped,” it said, “that moving you didn’t hurt.”
Alec turned his head. Alaric stood by a narrow table, sleeves rolled to the elbow, his scarf discarded on a hook near the door. Before him lay neat rows of crystal vials and powders glimmering like ground bone. His long fingers sifted through a heap of dried petals, stirring them into a shallow bronze dish etched with spirals Alec didn’t recognize.
Alaric didn’t look up when he added, “I tried to be careful.”
A bitter laugh scraped Alec’s throat. “If you didn’t want to hurt me,” he said, voice sharp even through the hoarseness, “maybe don’t start with kidnapping.”
That made Alaric pause. Slowly, the warlock turned, his face carved in lamplight—serene, almost sorrowful, like a priest bending over a prayer that tasted of ash.
“Sadly,” Alaric murmured, “it’s a necessity.”
“For what?” Alec’s eyes narrowed. “Draining me?”
Alaric tilted his head, and for the briefest flicker, something like amusement brushed his lips. “No,” he said gently. “You’re not here to bleed, Alexander. You’re here to sit.”
“Sit,” Alec repeated flatly. His pulse hammered, but his voice stayed cool. “That’s supposed to sound reassuring?”
Alaric moved closer, slow and deliberate, until the fire painted molten edges along his silver-threaded hair. When he spoke, his tone was almost tender.
“I hope,” he said, “that you won’t be hurt.” His gaze lingered, something like genuine weight pressing behind it. Then he turned back to the table, and the illusion of warmth shattered under the soft clatter of glass. “But,” he added, almost to himself, “it’s never been done before. So I can only hope.”
“That,” Alec said, the cords biting faintly as he shifted, “does not reassure me.”
Alaric hummed low, distracted, his hands moving with ritual precision. Alec let his lashes lower, body loose with feigned calm as his fingers began a slow, silent test of the knots at his back. The silk held fast. Too well.
He drew in a breath, forcing his voice steady. “You think this is going to save humanity? Opening a doorway for the Nine? You know what they’ll do. They won’t stop. They’ll burn through everything that breathes.”
Alaric stilled, then straightened, his silhouette a dark stroke against the hearthlight. When he spoke, his tone was measured—almost weary, but edged with something sharper, older than grief.
“Yes,” he said. “There will be casualties. Countless, perhaps.” His hands folded behind him as he turned, meeting Alec’s gaze head-on. “But tell me, Alexander—how many have already died in this war you were born to fight? How many more will fall before the last blade dulls? Take the count since the first angel carved the first rune into mortal skin. It is more than the number of living souls now. Multiply that by the centuries to come—the thousands of years this war will drag its carcass across the bones of humanity. That toll dwarfs what my plan demands.”
Alec’s jaw clenched, fury curling hot beneath his ribs. “You sound like a general excusing a massacre.”
“I sound,” Alaric said softly, “like someone who’s lived long enough to know what endless truly means.”
His eyes gleamed with something Alec couldn’t read—something that chilled more than fire could warm.
Alec swallowed the spike of fear and bared his teeth in a humorless smile. “How does any of this solve anything? Even if you rip the world open, how does that end the war?”
Alaric’s lips curved, slow and eerie, like the ghost of joy that had rotted on the vine. “Because the higher demons,” he said, voice dropping to a near-whisper, “are nothing more than petulant children longing for home.”
The words slithered into Alec’s blood like ice.
“They want to return,” Alaric continued, eyes gleaming like coals as he prowled back toward the circle etched faintly into the cabin floor. Its lines shimmered in lamplight, carved deep into the wood and inlaid with silver dust that pulsed like veins. “But their Father—your God—is an unforgiving beast. He locked them out, cast them down, and in His righteousness, He will not yield. Only a defeat will open the gates. Force His hand, and the war ends. No more pawns. No more shackles on the world.”
Alaric’s voice coiled, almost gentle, almost kind. “God has used you all as buffers, Alexander. Angels, Shadowhunters, Downworlders—all meat for His grinder. To keep His prodigal children from storming the halls of Heaven. But now…” His fingers brushed the spiral of a rune like a lover’s cheek. “Now it will cease. He will act, or all will burn. Either way, suffering ends.”
Alec let out a short, sharp laugh, though his hands burned from the strain of twisting against the silk. “That’s a lot of blood and fire based on a guess. And on God being… what? A dad who actually picks up the phone when His kids set the house on fire?” His mouth curled, bitter and bright. “You’re building your apocalypse on faith, Alaric. And you said it yourself—He hasn’t exactly been squeamish about collateral damage. You really think this will make Him blink?”
For the first time, something flickered in Alaric’s face—a shadow of thought, a ripple in the glass of his composure. But it was gone before Alec could grasp it.
“Yes,” Alaric said simply. “Because He has allowed slaughter, yes. But never so much that the weave unravels. Never so much that humanity breaks beyond repair. What happens,” he murmured, stepping closer, his voice a thread of silk pulled taut, “if that restraint ends?”
The fire spat in the silence, throwing shards of light across the walls. Alec stared up at him, his breath steady, his pulse hammering like war-drums in his throat. He flexed his wrists again—slow, careful. The knots didn’t budge. And in the quiet, under the crackle of flame and the whisper of Alaric’s robes, a single thought seared through Alec’s mind like a brand:
Magnus. Find me.
**********
The loft didn’t answer. The world didn’t answer. But something inside Magnus cracked open, wide and bleeding, and all the centuries of composure he’d stitched into himself tore like paper. He spun, sweeping the chaos aside with a single gesture, and strode to his workbench. The drawers screamed as they flew open, disgorging artifacts that clanged and shattered on the floor. His rings hit the table one by one, each a miniature detonation as he stripped them off and flung them down. No amplification. No ornament. Just raw, uncut power. He reached for the blade first—serpent-handled, its edge forged in the breath of a djinn. One quick slice across his palm, blood welling in a line of rubies. He slammed his hand down on the copper bowl, hissed the words that scorched his tongue, and watched the blood boil black. The spell that rose wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t meant to be. It was brutal, clawed, a thing that would rip through every ward in Manhattan if it had to. The floor lit up under his feet, sigils spiraling like galaxies in collapse.
“Magnus!”
The voice snapped through the roar of magic just as the door blew open on a gale of wind and emerald sparks. Ragnor barreled in, his coat whipping like a banner, eyes widening at the inferno blooming across the loft.
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Find him,” Magnus snarled without looking up. His hair was a wild corona, his irises blown black with power. “If this tears half the ley network to shreds, so be it.”
Ragnor strode forward, boots crunching on shattered glass, and slammed his hands down on the edge of the circle. Wards flared, clawing at his skin, but he held. “You’ll burn yourself out before you breach those veils!”
“Then I’ll burn,” Magnus spat, magic surging in a violent pulse that rattled the bones of the loft. “But he is not staying in the dark another second.”
The copper bowl screamed as the spell locked, the surface of the water writhing with violent color. Magnus drove the last syllable like a blade through its heart—and the vision hit. A flash. A heartbeat. The world splintered into a thousand shards of sense—smoke and pine, silver dust burning in lamplight, and Alec—tied, slumped, his lashes trembling like broken wings. Alive. Alive. But veiled under layers of wards Magnus could taste like rust and venom. Then the thread recoiled, snapping back so hard the backlash flung Magnus across the room. He slammed into the wall, breath tearing from his lungs, blood spilling from his nose in a hot rush. The loft was silent except for his ragged breathing and the low hum of magic still coiling like smoke from the floor.
Ragnor was there in an instant, hauling him upright with hands strong and rough. “Well?”
Magnus spat blood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were fever-bright, pupils blown wide, power still crackling like static under his skin.
“He’s alive.” The words broke like glass in his throat. “And when I get to him—” His voice dipped, low and lethal, the promise humming like a curse. “I will unmake whoever touched him.”
Ragnor’s mouth thinned. “Then let’s start tearing down the world.”
Magnus laughed—a raw, broken sound—and whispered Alec’s name into the smoldering circle, voice ringing with a vow old as starlight:
“I am coming for you. And when I do…” His gaze lifted, eyes burning like a god’s wrath unleashed. “Pray your false gods can save you.”
**********
The cold air hit him like a blade. Sharp and wet, heavy with the scent of brine and iron earth. Alec stumbled as the shimmer peeled off his skin and the world snapped back into shape: a clearing ringed in skeletal pines, the Hudson a black ribbon coiling in the distance under a bruised sky. The air hummed with power—thick, thrumming, coiled in invisible spirals that dragged against his senses like a storm caught underground.
Ley lines.
He felt them before he saw the faint gleam of sigils scored into the dirt like scars, circling the stone platform at the clearing’s heart. Silver dust glimmered along its grooves, cold fire bleeding through the soil like veins. Alaric materialized beside him, robes whispering against frost-bitten leaves. His scarf was gone now; his throat bare save for the necklace of bone beads that brushed his collarbone when he moved. His hands were full—vials of molten color, herbs bound in twine, shards of obsidian glistening like frozen night.
“Walk,” Alaric said softly, almost kindly, and pressed a hand between Alec’s shoulder blades.
Alec didn’t move. The ropes that had held him in the cabin were gone, but the ache in his wrists throbbed like phantom heat, and something in his veins still burned—remnants of whatever draught had dragged him under hours ago. His knees wobbled when he forced them to lock.
Alaric’s sigh curled white in the cold. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
“Harder for who?” Alec rasped, voice raw from silence and bitter with the taste of copper. “You’re the one dragging me into this lunacy.”
Alaric’s eyes flicked down—pale and glinting under the dark arch of his brows. “You still think this is madness,” he murmured.
“I know it is.” Alec’s hand twitched toward the empty air where his stele should have been. His jaw locked. “Open that gate, and the Nine will carve this world hollow. They won’t stop—they can’t.”
“They’ll stop,” Alaric said calmly, setting the obsidian shards at precise angles along the sigils. His hands didn’t falter; his voice was silk drawn taut. “Once the walls fall, the war ends.”
Alec laughed—harsh and hollow. “With what left standing? A field of bones? You’re so blinded by your own years you can’t see what this costs.”
That earned him a glance, sharp and quick, like a blade’s flash in the dark. Then Alaric turned away and began to pour the silver dust from a horned vial, tracing its glimmer into widening circles. The earth drank it greedily, veins sparking in a pattern that writhed when Alec stared too long. The hum of the ley lines deepened, vibrating in his ribs like a second heartbeat. His gut twisted. Every instinct screamed to run, to fight, to move. When Alaric returned to him, hands empty but for intent, Alec stepped back. His boots scraped frost.
“No.” His voice cracked like a shot. “I’m not setting foot in that circle.”
Alaric’s expression didn’t change. “You are the last element,” he said softly, as though explaining to a child. “Without you, the pattern collapses. You’re the fulcrum that tips the scale.”
“Then let it collapse.” Alec’s chest heaved as he shifted his weight, ready to strike even without blades. “I’m not your pawn.”
Something flickered in Alaric’s eyes then—frustration, cold and clean as a needle. His voice, when it came, lost its velvet edge.
“You think I want this?” He moved faster than Alec expected, fingers fisting in the collar of his jacket, yanking him forward hard enough to wrench a gasp from his throat. “You think I enjoy forcing your hand?”
Alec slammed his shoulder into Alaric’s ribs. Pain screamed down his muscles, but the warlock staggered, grip loosening just enough for Alec to rip free and swing a fist. It connected with Alaric’s jaw. The crack rang sharp in the clearing, satisfaction flaring in Alec’s blood for half a heartbeat— Before Alaric’s backhand split his world open. The blow landed across Alec’s temple with brutal precision. Light burst behind his eyes; his knees buckled. He hit the ground hard, cold earth tearing a hiss from his lungs. Blood slicked warm down his face, dripping into his lashes.
“Damn it—” Alaric’s voice trembled—not with fear, but fury leashed too long. His shadow slashed over Alec as he loomed, teeth bared in something raw. “Why do you make me do this?”
Alec dragged in a ragged breath, vision blurring crimson at the edges. “Because—” His voice shredded as he pushed to one elbow. “I don’t roll over for—tyrants—dressed like prophets.”
The kick came low and vicious, slamming into his gut. Fire ripped through him; bile surged hot against his throat. The scream clawed out before he could strangle it down, ripped from somewhere deep and primal. Alaric froze at the sound. His chest heaved once—twice—before he crouched low, voice a frayed whisper.
“I told you,” he said, almost tender, “I didn’t want to hurt you.” His hand brushed Alec’s blood-matted hair back with obscene gentleness, then curled hard around his jaw, forcing their eyes to lock. “But you won’t stop fighting.”
Alec’s breath sawed harsh in his lungs. He spat red into the frost. “You’re—damn right—I won’t.”
Alaric stared at him for a long, taut second. Then he exhaled through his teeth and stood, his hand flicking in a gesture that cracked like a whip. Chains of raw light lashed up from the circle’s spine, coiling his wrists and ankles, yanking him flat against the etched sigils that pulsed now with molten silver fire. The ground burned cold under his spine; the air sang with power so sharp it sliced the inside of his skull. The chains cinched tighter, the weight of them dragging his breath into shallow gasps. He wrenched against them once—twice—but they only sank deeper, biting like fangs. Alaric knelt at the edge of the circle, his face carved in shadow and flame. For a flicker, something almost human crossed it—a ghost of regret.
“I hope,” he said softly, like a prayer cracked in half, “you survive this.”
The wind keened through the pines, cold and hollow as a grave. Alec lay bound in its dirge, blood burning down his temple, pain flaring in his ribs—and hatred like fire in his veins, hotter than fear, brighter than despair. Because Magnus would come. Magnus would burn the world clean before he let Alec’s name be carved into its ashes.
**********
The streets blurred past in streaks of neon and wet glass, the world folding and refolding with every snap of Magnus’ portals. One block, another—uptown to downtown, sparks of blue fire clawing at the edges of reality as he ripped through intersections like pages in a book he was too furious to read slowly. The locator spell burned in his veins like molten iron, its tether a vicious, throbbing cord dragging at his core. He’d cast it twice more since leaving the loft, ignoring the way the sigils seared themselves into the bones of his hands, ignoring Ragnor’s snapping warnings. It still wasn’t enough. It only hummed and pulled and snapped loose again, like something laughing in the dark. Somewhere ahead. Always ahead.
“Magnus!” Ragnor’s voice cracked like a whip behind him as they stepped through the shimmer of another rift, boots slamming down on wet cobblestone. The alley spat them out into the ghost-lit hush of Riverside Drive, mist rising off the water like a sheet of veils. “You keep throwing this much power around and you’ll rip a vein in the ley network big enough to swallow Brooklyn.”
Magnus didn’t slow. His coat lashed behind him, soaked through with rain and threaded in the static crackle of his fury. “Then let it swallow,” he said, voice low and edged like broken glass. “As long as it gives me him back.”
Ragnor swore under his breath, green skin slick with rain, his eyes glinting hard as cut emerald in the dark. He strode after Magnus, boots grinding frost and grit. “You’re half a thought from snapping the tether completely—”
“I felt him.” Magnus spun so fast the world tilted, his aura slamming outward in a gale that flattened the mist in a ten-foot radius. His eyes burned like twin furnaces, the pupils drowned in molten gold. “I felt him for a breath, Ragnor. Cold floor under his spine. Chains.” His voice dropped to a rasp, shredding on the edges of the word. “Blood.”
Ragnor’s jaw tightened. For once, no sarcasm bled from his tone. “Then use that. Use the memory, not the rage. Rage blinds.”
Magnus bared his teeth in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Good. Let it blind me. Maybe then I won’t see what they’ve done to him.”
And before Ragnor could answer, Magnus dropped to his knees on the slick pavement, fingers carving sigils into the stone with a snap of thought. The air above the circle warped, trembling as raw ley fire bled into the cracks of the city like veins of cobalt light. It climbed his arms, hissed up his spine, spilled from his hair in blue-white arcs that split the rain midair. The spell screamed. It wanted blood this time—not symbolic, but living. He gave it without hesitation, slashing his palm and pressing it flat to the runes until the heat scorched bone. The pavement steamed where his magic kissed it, the scent of ozone and iron tearing through the night.
“Alec Lightwood,” Magnus snarled, the syllables jagged with power. “Show me where you are.”
The circle flared—white, blue, then a violent violet, the color of something burning in a vacuum. Light whipped skyward like a spine, splitting the night in a jagged pillar. Magnus’ head snapped back, his eyes rolling white as the tether latched— And hit.
Not a vision. Not a glimpse. A pulse. Cold earth. Silver dust carved into rings. Chains biting into flesh that wasn’t meant to bear them. Alec’s breath hitching shallow through clenched teeth. And above it all—a voice like honey poured over blades, murmuring words that made the air bleed. Magnus’ roar cracked the spell open. The surge kicked him backward, boots skidding across the wet stone, his spine slamming into the alley wall hard enough to make stars burst behind his eyes. The circle disintegrated in a spray of molten sparks, smoking runes hissing as the rain doused them. He was on his feet before the pain had a name. Magic still snarled under his skin, a feral thing begging to be loosed.
“Magnus.” Ragnor’s voice was low now, all its acid burned away by the look in his eyes. “What did you see?”
Magnus’ chest heaved. Rain streaked down his cheeks like tears he refused to shed. “A circle,” he said hoarsely. “Sigils cut into the earth. Chains.” His hands curled into fists, blood slicking his knuckles. “He’s bound. There’s silver dust in the grooves—amplifiers. And… Alaric’s voice.”
The name was a shard of glass between his teeth. He spat it like venom, the syllables sparking against the dark. “He’s started something. Something big.”
Ragnor’s expression hardened into something carved from ironwood. For a long beat, the rain was the only sound, hammering on stone, whispering through the bare trees along the river. Then, very softly, Ragnor said:
“You can stop tearing holes in the city.”
Magnus’ head whipped up, eyes burning. “Don’t you dare tell me—”
“I’m not telling you to stop,” Ragnor cut in, his voice cold and clipped as a blade. “I’m telling you there’s no need for that anymore.” He took one step closer, and the look in his eyes made Magnus’ breath stall. “I know where they are.”
The night seemed to contract around those words, pulling taut as wire.
Magnus’ pulse slammed against his throat. “You—what?”
Ragnor tilted his head, and for the first time in centuries of knowing him, Magnus saw something like fear ghost across his face. Not fear for himself. For what they were already too late to stop.
“I can feel it,” Ragnor said. His voice was quiet, but it hit like a hammer. “The ley lines—they’re screaming. Alaric’s broken the seals. He’s started the invocation.”
Magnus’ stomach turned to ice.
“Where?” The word ripped from him like a detonation.
“The West End converge,” Ragnor said grimly. “Old bones of the grid. Where the Hudson kisses the lines under Riverside. It’s a wound in the earth—and if he opens it, it won’t close.”
Magnus’ laugh cracked the dark, wild and razored. “Then let’s go seal it with his blood.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. His hands were already moving, tearing a hole through the rain, blue fire blazing up the seams of reality as the portal bloomed wide enough to swallow the night. The air smelled of storms and something older, something breaking. Magnus stepped through without looking back, voice a promise flayed raw as the lightning curling in his wake:
“Hold on, Alexander.”
And the world split open behind him.
**********
The ground hummed like a living thing.
Alec could feel it in his bones, in the ache of his teeth, in the knots of muscle straining against chains that burned cold into his wrists. The circle wasn’t just glowing now—it was alive, a lattice of molten silver fire pulsing under his spine. Every sigil throbbed with light, spiraling toward the center where his body was pinned like an offering. And through it all—through him—came the magic. It surged in waves, rising from the circle’s grooves, crawling up his limbs in glittering streams that hissed against his skin before plunging inward. It didn’t slice. It didn’t scorch. It slid into him like smoke and molten honey, clinging to the hollow behind his ribs, licking deeper—down, where his womb coiled like a secret. Alec gritted his teeth, breath tearing ragged between clenched jaws. He refused to make a sound. Not for Alaric. Not for whatever lay waiting beyond that spiral of dust and blood. But he felt it. That subtle, obscene caress of power threading through places it didn’t belong, stroking the edges of something vulnerable and new. And above it all, Alaric’s voice wove on. The warlock stood at the circle’s edge, his robes trailing like black water, his arms raised high to the gash of sky overhead. Words poured from his mouth in a tongue that tasted like rust and lightning, each syllable cracking the air, ripping it wider until the clearing thrummed like the throat of a struck bell. The ley lines answered. Alec saw them flare—veins of blue fire snapping awake under the frozen ground, streaking outward in an endless web that made his vision reel. Power rose through them in violent tremors, flooding into the circle, clawing through Alaric’s body like a tidal wave. For a heartbeat, Alec thought the warlock looked infinite—hair lashing like whips of starlight, eyes blown white, light sheathing him in liquid plates. Then the shimmer broke—and he saw the cost. Alaric was burning out. The first signs crept soft as ash: hollows gouging under his cheekbones, veins spidering black along his throat. His hands shook, knuckles splitting like bark under frost. Magic poured out of him faster than it rushed in, a torrent eating its own vessel alive. And Alec understood. He wasn’t the only sacrifice. Alaric was giving himself to the spell—body, blood, breath—feeding the invocation with every thread of power until nothing remained but smoke and bone.
“You’re going to die,” Alec rasped, his voice shredded raw against the circle’s roar.
Alaric didn’t falter. His head tilted back, his mouth curving in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “We all die, Alexander. I just choose to die for something worth the bones.”
Alec twisted against the chains, every muscle screaming, but the light only cinched tighter, slicing into his wrists with silver fangs. Pain flared bright—and was drowned by another surge of magic flooding his veins, writhing like smelted glass where life already stirred. Then the air split. It started as a shimmer—a quivering line above the circle, vibrating like a string drawn too tight. Then it yawned wide, edges tearing in a silent scream as blackness bled through. The sky warped. Stars blistered and burst. And the portal opened. It wasn’t a door. It wasn’t even a wound. It was an absence—a vast, gaping pane of glass through which unlight pooled like oil. Beyond it lay a hollow expanse, jagged and endless, a world stripped to bone and shadow where something vast moved in the dark. Alec’s breath hitched, frost razoring his lungs. This was it. This was the Nine’s threshold. And he was the hinge. Light ripped through the circle—a spear of brilliance lancing from his sternum straight into the portal’s heart. The world convulsed. The ground split, sigils detonating into showers of silver shards as the chain sigils seared red-hot. Alec’s scream tore free, ripped from the pit of his spine as the last of his strength bled into the circle. When the light faded, the portal stood like a shattered mirror—open, humming, its depths breathing cold into the clearing. And at its edge lay Alaric. Or what was left of him. A husk of coal and bone, cinder smoke curling from fingers that had once carved galaxies in sigils. His scarf lay smoldering in the frost. His face—what remained—still wore the shadow of a smile. Then the silence shattered.
“ALEXANDER!”
The roar cracked like a thunderclap, laced with a fury that shook the marrow of the world. Alec dragged his head up—and the breath punched out of his lungs.
Magnus.
He stood at the tree line, a god loosed from his cage, his silhouette haloed in a corona of blue fire that scorched the mist to steam. Magic writhed off him in lashes, rattling the bones of the earth, his coat a storm snapping at his heels. His eyes—oh, angels—his eyes were twin furnaces, molten gold drowned in midnight. Behind him, Ragnor loomed like carved obsidian, sigils crawling up his arms in emerald fire. His jaw was a locked vise, his mouth shaping words Alec couldn’t hear over the blood roaring in his ears. Magnus moved first—like a blade ripped from a sheath—lunging for the circle with a snarl that tasted of blood and centuries of wrath. Power spiked, an arc of cobalt lightning shattering a ring of stones as he flung a lash at the sigils— And slammed against a wall of emerald light.
“Don’t!” Ragnor’s roar cracked through the clearing, rattling Magnus back two steps as the wards spat and hissed between them. His face was granite, his voice a blade honed to a whisper. “You cross that seal, you die where you stand.”
Magnus’ chest heaved, breath ragged, his hands clawed in fists spitting sparks. “He’s in there—”
“And the circle will drink you dry before your shadow hits the ground,” Ragnor snapped, flinging a sigil into the dirt that detonated in a flare of green fire. “We need a breach point—wait!”
Magnus froze, every muscle screaming against the leash, his magic howling like a hurricane behind his teeth. His gaze locked on Alec—bleeding, panting, chains carving wounds into his skin—and something inside him broke.
“Alec,” he whispered, so soft the word burned worse than a scream.
Alec dragged a breath, lips cracking in something that might have been a smile. “You… took your time.”
Magnus choked on a laugh that tasted of iron. He pressed one trembling hand to the barrier, the light searing his palm, and held Alec’s gaze like a man drowning with only one star left to steer by. Then the world convulsed again. The portal flared—vomiting light in a torrent that clawed at the sky, sucking heat from the air until frost feathered every branch. The pull hit Alec first, a vicious hook sinking into his spine, yanking like the fist of a dying god. He arched, a raw cry ripping loose as power gushed from his core into the rift, shredding what strength he had left. And then—silence. The chains fell like ash. Alec slumped forward, barely catching himself on his hands before the ground surged up to meet him. His breath came in broken knives, lungs dragging at air that tasted of blood and smoke. He felt more than saw the ripple of heat as Magnus detonated the barrier in a single incandescent blast and dropped to his knees beside him. Hands—warm, frantic, trembling—cupped his face, thumbs skimming the slick mess of blood matting his hair. Gold eyes scoured him, wild and wet and burning like the sun torn loose.
“Alec,” Magnus breathed, voice breaking on the edges of the name. “Tell me you’re with me—look at me, Alexander.”
“I’m…” Alec rasped, swallowing glass. “Fine.”
Magnus gave a ragged laugh, tears cutting damp paths through the soot on his cheeks. “That word means nothing from a Shadowhunter. You damned angels think you’re ‘fine’ if your heads are still attached.”
His palms pressed over Alec’s temple, warmth flooding in a rush as the pain dulled, the blood knitting under threads of blue fire. Magnus’ magic swept down his body in waves, searing out sickness, stitching torn sinew and bruised bone, his jaw clenching with every fracture he mended. Then—lower. A pause. Magnus’ breath hitched, magic dipping deep, brushing against the fragile hum coiled in Alec’s belly.
He exhaled hard, relief cutting his knees out from under him. “He’s fine,” Magnus whispered. “You’re both fine.” His head dropped to Alec’s shoulder, breath burning hot against his skin. “And you are never leaving that damned penthouse again.”
Alec managed a hoarse chuckle—and lifted one trembling hand to point past Magnus’ shoulder. “Before you lock me in a gilded cage…” His mouth curled in something that tasted like gallows humor. “…you might want to deal with that.”
Magnus turned—and froze. The portal still gaped above the circle, a wound of glass and shadow spilling its poison light across the clearing. Its surface rippled like black water, reflecting no stars, no sky—only the hollow gleam of a world unmade. Something vast shifted beyond it, its outline brushing the edges like a serpent’s coil. Ragnor was already at the edge, sigils dripping from his claws in green fire as he tore binding glyphs into the frost. His voice was a drumbeat of curses, sharp and cold, until he spun with a face like carved stone.
“This isn’t a door,” he snarled. “It’s an open throat—and it can only be closed from inside.”
Magnus’ heart stuttered. “Inside—?”
“It won’t let us cross,” Ragnor bit out. “It’s one-way. Outbound only. Which means we need more power—or Catarina.” His jaw set, teeth bared. “And if she doesn’t have an answer, then pray those Nephilim friends of yours like cutting it close.”
Alec dragged in a breath, pain flickering under his wry smile. “Then you’d better call Izzy and Jace.”
The wind howled through the clearing, cold and hollow as a grave, and above them, the portal pulsed—patient, hungry, waiting for what would crawl through.
**********
The loft was a storm pretending to be a room. Magnus paced between the wide bay windows and the couch where Alec—stubborn, infuriating, heartbreakingly fragile—lay under a cashmere throw like some wounded angel hellbent on making its handler gray-haired before dawn.
“Stay,” Magnus ordered, pressing one palm gently but firmly to Alec’s chest when he shifted again.
“I’m not a cat,” Alec muttered, trying to lever himself up on an elbow.
“An astute observation, considering cats listen better,” Magnus shot back, pushing him down with the kind of elegant precision usually reserved for folding silk. “Lie. Down.”
From across the room, Ragnor didn’t even glance up from the tower of books colonizing Magnus’ antique credenza. “Let him sit. He’s not going to snap in half.”
Magnus whirled, one hand slicing through the air like a guillotine. “You—read. You fix this. Or I swear, Ragnor Fell, you’ll discover creative new applications for mortality.”
Ragnor hummed without looking up. “Someone’s cranky when they haven’t burned the world down in time for dinner.”
Magnus turned back, smoothing a hand through Alec’s damp hair with a tenderness that belied the sparks still licking his fingertips. “Ignore him, Alexander. He’s bitter because no one invites him to galas anymore.”
“I heard that,” Ragnor said mildly.
“You were meant to,” Magnus purred, lips curving in a venomous smile before softening again as Alec tried—again—to sit. Magnus caught his shoulders, guiding him back against the cushions with infuriating gentleness.
“I need to—” Alec began.
“You need,” Magnus interrupted, voice silk layered over steel, “to stay precisely where you are, preferably breathing in a calm and visually appealing manner. Let me enjoy one victory tonight.”
Alec huffed and sank back, long legs tangled in the throw, his jaw tight with the familiar Lightwood cocktail of irritation and reluctant compliance. Magnus pretended not to notice the flicker of exhaustion shadowing his eyes. He pretended not to feel the tremor still crawling under Alec’s skin when his fingers brushed his wrist. Because the alternative was setting the loft on fire, and honestly, the drapes were too expensive. The wards shimmered as Catarina walked through them like water, her coat flaring damp with mist. Her heels clicked once against the polished wood before she dropped her bag on a side table and went straight for the couch, eyes like polished steel.
“Alec,” she said, kneeling without preamble as her hands swept above his sternum in a ripple of violet light.
Alec exhaled through his nose. “If one more warlock scans me,” he muttered, “I’m going to start charging.”
Magnus’ lips twitched despite the knot in his chest. “Darling, you’d make a fortune. I’d pay extra.”
Catarina didn’t even blink. “You’re stable. Minor trauma. Deep magical saturation, but no lasting burns.” Her fingers hovered over Alec’s abdomen, her tone sharpening. “And—”
“Yes,” Magnus said tightly. “It’s fine. They’re fine. I checked. Twice.”
“Only twice?” Ragnor deadpanned from the credenza. “You’re losing your edge.”
Magnus sent a ribbon of blue fire hissing past his head without turning. The resulting thunk as it scorched the doorframe was deeply satisfying.
“Children,” Catarina snapped without looking up. Then, to Alec: “What’s the plan? Because if you dragged me out in this weather for a social call, I’m hexing your curtains.”
“That would be a mercy,” Ragnor muttered.
“The plan,” Magnus said before Alec could push upright again, his palm settling on the hunter’s chest in warning, “is in progress. Isn’t it, Ragnor?”
Ragnor finally turned, an open grimoire balanced on one green palm, his other hand scrawling sigils in the air that burned like tempered jade. “Almost,” he said. “Alaric’s notes weren’t completely worthless. The original invocation was locked to a one-way tether, but I can splice a transit loop—if no one distracts me with amateur dramatics.” His eyes flicked to Magnus like a blade.
“Don’t bleed on my rug,” Magnus said sweetly.
Before Ragnor could retort, the wards flared again, spilling Jace and Isabelle into the loft in a wash of rain-chilled air and the faint metallic tang of seraph steel. Isabelle’s hair gleamed like ink under the chandelier, her coat snapping around her boots as she strode straight for the couch.
“Alec.” Her voice broke on the name, but her spine didn’t bend until she was on her knees beside him, arms wrapping hard around his shoulders. Alec let out a low grunt as Magnus was bodily displaced by six inches of determined Lightwood affection. Isabelle clung like a starved thing, her fingers digging into the back of his shirt, her breath hot against his throat.
“You’re okay,” she whispered fiercely. “You’re okay.”
Alec’s arms folded around her, iron bands shaking just a little. And if Magnus’ heart didn’t twist sideways watching his Alexander sag into that hug for half a second—well, no one had to know. Behind them, Jace leaned against the doorframe like a smirk carved in ivory, arms folded, golden hair dripping lazy sparks of rain.
“So,” he drawled, “first you get yourself kidnapped, then you give Magnus an excuse to almost level Manhattan. Are you two trying to outdo Romeo and Juliet for bad ideas?”
Magnus’ head turned very slowly. “And you,” he purred, voice dripping venom and velvet, “were made for decorative purposes. Preferably silent ones.”
Jace grinned wider. “See? Soulmates.”
“Jace,” Isabelle snapped without looking back, her voice sharp as a blade. “Not now.”
“Fine,” Jace said, drifting toward the bar like gravity had good taste. “But when this ends, I’m drinking Magnus’ good stuff.”
Magnus didn’t glance up. “Touch the 30-year reserve and you’ll wish the portal got you first.” Magnus muttered, turning back to Alec just as Isabelle pulled away enough to cup his face, her fingers brushing the bruised swell of his temple.
“You scared the hell out of me,” she said softly, steel threading the silk of her tone.
Alec’s mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Join the club.”
Magnus touched his shoulder, a grounding weight, even as Isabelle shot a glare sharp enough to peel paint when Magnus reached for a compress. Alec rolled his eyes and leaned back, surrendering with theatrical martyrdom.
From the credenza, Ragnor cleared his throat like an executioner calling the hour. “If the sentimental interlude is over, I have a portal trying to chew through its own leash and a ritual to reengineer before Manhattan becomes demon pâté.”
Catarina rose, smoothing her hands on her trousers. “You found a way in?”
“I found a way to make a way in,” Ragnor corrected, stalking toward the table where his notes lay in a sprawl of ink and sigils. He stabbed a claw at the page. “Alaric’s original framework was airtight—a single aperture, unidirectional, keyed to his life-force. When he burned out, the failsafe died with him.”
“Meaning?” Jace said, swirling Magnus’ twenty-year scotch like a man begging for hex marks.
“Meaning,” Ragnor snapped, “the gate is open with no kill switch. It’s outbound only. No anchor to pull it closed from this side.”
“Fantastic,” Magnus said lightly, though his nails were cutting crescents into his palms. “So we improvise.”
Ragnor’s grin was a knife. “We use his design against him. A second aperture—linked, but on our terms. I splice his loop, weave a reversal thread, and voilà: two-way crossing.”
“And once we’re inside?” Catarina asked, her voice all cool stone.
Ragnor’s eyes gleamed, green fire catching on the curve of his teeth. “We find the original seal. Shut it from within. Then hop back through our door before the void chews us into stardust.”
“Sounds simple,” Jace said cheerfully, tossing back Magnus’ scotch in one swallow.
Magnus flicked his fingers. The glass exploded.
Jace blinked at the shards in his hand. “Rude.”
“Breathing,” Magnus said softly, “is a privilege. Don’t tempt me.”
“Children,” Catarina hissed again, massaging her temple. Then, to Ragnor: “How long to rig your portal?”
“Hours if I work alone,” he said. His claws curled, scoring sparks across the table. “Half that if Magnus stops mother-henning his boyfriend and brings me the amplification rings he pretends he doesn’t hoard.”
Magnus’ smile was sugar and cyanide. “Touch my rings, Ragnor, and I’ll hang your skull as a conversation piece.”
“Lovely,” Ragnor said. “Now fetch them.”
Alec groaned and dragged an arm over his eyes. “If they keep scanning me and arguing over jewelry,” he muttered, “I’m filing for emancipation.”
Magnus bent, brushed a kiss against his temple that tasted like lightning and vows. “Hush, Alexander. You’ll ruin my dramatic pacing.”
He straightened, his coat swirling like stormclouds, and stalked for the workroom with Ragnor at his heels, both of them already spitting sigils and curses into the charged air.
“Hodge,” Jace said, his tone wry as he leaned against the doorframe. “He’s looping in the Clave. Every senior operative they’ve got is about to get an urgent invite to Manhattan.” His mouth curved in a grin that was all teeth. “Orders are simple: anything that crawls through that gate doesn’t get a welcome mat—it gets a blade.”
Jace rolled his shoulders, golden eyes glinting like a predator scenting blood. “Now that,” he added, smirk curling, “is a party I can get behind.”
Ragnor snapped a book shut with a sound like a guillotine and looked up, green eyes glittering with the kind of satisfaction that usually meant someone else was about to suffer.
“One more thing,” he said, cutting across Magnus’ muttered string of sigils. “We won’t be the only line between Manhattan and the screaming abyss. I convinced Raphael to bring his clan in when the sun drops low enough.”
Magnus’ head jerked up, brows arching high. “Raphael Santiago? Volunteering for civic duty? Darling, did you bribe him with holy relics or your charming disposition?”
Ragnor’s mouth curved, slow and smug. “Neither. He’s coming because I asked.”
Magnus blinked. Once. Twice. “You asked.”
“Yes,” Ragnor said simply, turning back to his spread of glyphs like the matter was closed. “And unlike some people in this room, I get results.”
Magnus made a low, incredulous noise. “Well. I suppose miracles do happen before Armageddon.”
**********
The plan—if it could be called that—was set. Catarina would hold the line here, a sentinel anchored in Alaric’s ruin, watching the throat of the world in case anything decided to crawl through before its jaws could be sealed. Her grim eyes had given nothing away as she agreed, but Magnus caught the flicker of steel behind them—the same silent oath echoing in all of them: no more losses. Ragnor was already halfway through the door by the time Magnus turned from the circle, his coat snapping behind him like a banner in the wind. His hands dripped green fire that coiled and hissed in his wake, his voice a razor dragging over old words as he muttered calculations under his breath. He didn’t look back when he said, “The ley lines under Riverside are humming like an open vein. If we’re going to anchor a secondary aperture, we do it fast—and somewhere the bones of the city are hollow.”
They found it in under an hour: a skeleton of steel and shattered glass, an abandoned construction site yawning open against a bruised horizon. The wind clawed through the rusted beams like a wolf through bone, scattering grit across concrete veined with cracks deep enough to swallow secrets. It stank of dust and disuse, of rust and old rain—the kind of place no human eyes would linger long enough to ask questions.
Perfect.
Magnus stood at the heart of the ruin, his boots grinding shards of glass into glittering dust as he surveyed the sprawl of sigils already blooming under Ragnor’s claws. Green light seeped into concrete like roots burrowing for blood. Runes spiraled outward in perfect geometry, each line throbbing with the pulse of the ley lines braided beneath the city’s skin. It was elegant, in a brutal sort of way. A skeleton of power waiting to be skinned with magic and bone. He hated it.
Not the craft—never the craft. Magic was his marrow, his first and fiercest love. But this… this was a wound carved open wide enough to swallow his world whole, and every breath of it reeked of what they stood to lose.
Behind him, footsteps crunched. He didn’t turn when Isabelle came up at his shoulder, her silhouette a slash of black steel against the flare of green light. Her whip gleamed at her wrist like a live thing, its runes pulsing faint fire in the dusk.
“Is this going to hold?” she asked, her voice low but steady.
“It will,” Magnus said. His mouth curved in something that might have been a smile, sharp and brittle as glass. “Or we’ll all die spectacularly, which, frankly, sounds on brand at this point.”
Isabelle didn’t laugh. She never did when his voice cracked like that.
Jace appeared a moment later, lazy grace folded over lethal precision, seraph blades strapped like silver teeth across his back. His hair caught the shreds of daylight like wire, his smirk curving in that way Magnus had always found one shade short of homicide-inducing.
“Look at us,” Jace drawled, spinning a blade between elegant fingers before letting it settle in his palm with a click. “One last hurrah before bedtime stories.”
Magnus rolled his eyes skyward, summoning a coil of blue fire to burn brighter in his hands. “Do keep narrating, dear boy. It would be a shame to let all that self-regard go to waste.”
“Magnus.”
The voice cleaved through the banter like a blade, quiet but taut as wire. Magnus turned—and the breath stalled in his throat. Alec stood just beyond the edge of the circle, shadow-etched and unyielding, his hands clenched at his sides like fists could hold back fate. The wind tore at his jacket, sent ink-dark strands of hair whipping across his temple, but nothing touched the fire in his eyes.
Alec was already on his feet when Magnus turned, blue eyes cutting like shards of sky through the glow of the sigils.
“I’m coming with you,” Alec said, steady despite the exhaustion ghosting his face. “You’re not going in there without me.”
Magnus’ breath caught, though his smile curved sharp as glass. He closed the distance in three strides, his coat whispering around him like smoke. “Darling,” he murmured, hands finding Alec’s jaw, tilting his face into the fire spilling from the circle, “you’re in no shape to fight.”
“I don’t care.” Alec’s voice didn’t rise, but the weight in it struck like steel. “If something happens—if you need—”
Magnus kissed him. Quick, fierce, a brand pressed to the mouth of someone he couldn’t afford to lose. He lingered just long enough to taste the breath Alec dragged in, then broke away, his forehead resting against Alec’s as his words came low and breaking.
“I need you here,” Magnus whispered. “Safe. Both of you.” His palm slid briefly, deliberately over Alec’s abdomen, heat pooling there before his hand fell away. “If I know you’re here, waiting, I can do what I have to do without tearing the realms apart.”
Alec flinched, his fingers twitching toward that same place like instinct before curling into a fist at his side. His throat worked around a dozen words he didn’t say.
Magnus kissed him again—softer this time, like a promise instead of a plea—and when he pulled back, his smile burned like starlight bent into a blade. “Let me end this, Alexander. Then I’ll come home to you.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. Then Alec exhaled, the sound fraying at the edges, and dropped his gaze—not in defeat, but in something heavier, older, that tasted of trust and wretchedness.
“Fine,” he said quietly. “But if that portal twitches wrong—”
Magnus’ laugh was soft, cracked, and laced with fire. “I’d expect nothing less.”
Behind them, Ragnor was already unfurling coils of wards like ribbons of violet flame, anchoring them in rings that hissed when they kissed the air. He didn’t look up when he said, “I’ll hold here. If that thing twitches, I burn it until the city does.”
“And us,” Isabelle said, her tone like tempered steel as she checked the coil of her whip. Its runes flared in the dim light, a serpent hissing for blood. “We’re locked in on this, Magnus. You know that.”
Magnus didn’t look up from the sigils he was igniting, but the faint arch of his brow spoke volumes. “Darling, I’m perfectly capable of handling this on my own.”
“Not the point,” Jace cut in, casually spinning a seraph blade between his fingers like a toy before letting it rest against his shoulder. “You’ve got enough firepower to light up Manhattan. We’re just the decorative insurance policy.” He smirked. “Call us your emotional support Nephilim.”
Magnus finally turned, his gaze slicing over them like moonlight on glass—slow, deliberate, lethal. Then, like a storm breaking on a whisper, his mouth curved in a smile that burned cold.
“Very well,” he said, his voice velvet stretched thin over razors. “But if either of you dies, I’ll raise you just to kill you myself.”
Jace’s grin sharpened. “Touching. Really.”
Magnus turned away before the tremor in his hands betrayed him. Blue fire bled from his fingertips as he touched the spiral of sigils, coaxing them awake in a flare of light so violent it tore the shadows into ribbons. The circle roared, a hollow throat opening to the void, and the air warped, shivering under the weight of magic braided through stone and bone. Behind him, Alec stood rigid at the circle’s edge, his silhouette carved against the blaze like a statue bound in chains. His hands were fists at his sides, his jaw a locked vise, his eyes two shards of midnight glass burning holes through the dark. Magnus didn’t look back. Couldn’t.
Because if he did, he might never walk into that fire.
Chapter 16: The wring of duty
Chapter Text
The clearing was quiet now.
Or as quiet as a skeleton of sigils humming with power could be. The second portal circle glowed faintly at the heart of the abandoned construction site, its lines carved into raw concrete and inlaid with shimmering powder that caught the dusk light like frost on steel. Beyond it, the girders rose in jagged silhouettes against a bruised sky, the wind threading through them in a low, mournful whistle. Alec stood just outside the circle, arms crossed, boots anchored on the cracked ground. He hated waiting. He hated it more now, when every breath he drew felt like a countdown he couldn’t see the end of. Across the space, Ragnor crouched over a sprawl of notes, his green skin sickly in the pallid light. A grimoire lay open on a slab of stone beside him, pages crawling with runes that pulsed like veins under glass. His clawed fingers skimmed down a column of glyphs, pausing, retreating, striking again with an irritable scrape of ink on parchment. Then he groaned. A deep, guttural sound, like tectonic plates grinding under the weight of the world.
Alec’s head came up fast. “What?”
“This,” Ragnor muttered, stabbing a claw at the looping script like it had personally offended him. “This is what happens when you cannibalize someone else’s invocation. No matter how much you alter the weave, the original intent leaves scars.”
“Meaning?” Alec’s tone was clipped, his spine drawing taut like a bowstring.
“Meaning—” Ragnor sat back on his heels, rubbing a hand over his jaw, his expression as grim as granite. “This circle is volatile. The ley threads are too tight. If anything tainted—anything carrying demonic resonance—crosses the threshold before they return…” He shook his head. “It’ll choke the anchor. Collapse the aperture. And if that happens mid-cross…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
Alec’s stomach clenched, cold and sharp. His fingers twitched toward the hilt of the blade at his thigh. “So keep the circle clear.”
“Yes.” Ragnor’s gaze flicked up, shards of green fire catching in the dim. “Of everything. No interference. No contamination. You understand me?”
Before Alec could answer, the air shivered. A crackle spat through the wards at the site’s edge, sharp enough to sting the skin. Ragnor stiffened, his hand diving into the folds of his coat just as the sigil band strapped to his wrist flared to life in a spurt of green sparks.
He tapped it, muttered a word—and Catarina’s voice hissed through, thin and jagged with static:
“Ragnor—get here now. The ley grid’s buckling—west lines are folding like paper. I can’t hold them alone.”
Ragnor swore—a sound so venomous Alec thought the earth might curdle. “What happened?”
“Alaric’s gate is still drawing even with the tether cut. It’s eating into the lateral veins—I’m losing the stabilizers. If they shear, your portal implodes before you even light it.”
Alec’s grip tightened on his blade. “How long do we have?”
“Minutes,” Catarina snapped, her voice fraying with the strain of channeling. “Move.”
The sigil winked out in a fizz of green flame.
For a heartbeat, the silence roared. Then Ragnor exhaled, long and slow, like a man laying his last card on the table.
“Of course,” he muttered, hauling himself to his feet in a ripple of black coat and emerald sparks. “Because tonight wasn’t apocalyptic enough without adding a ley-line collapse.”
He gathered his satchel in one sweep, stuffing his notes inside with brutal efficiency. Then he turned to Alec, his expression carved in iron.
“I have to go,” he said.
Alec’s brows drew tight. “Go where?”
“Catarina needs hands before the grid fractures completely. If those lines break, your boyfriend and his merry pair get stranded on the wrong side of eternity—and this city becomes a buffet for whatever crawls through that throat.”
Alec’s jaw locked. “Then go.”
Ragnor paused, just long enough for the weight of his gaze to land like stone. “Listen to me, Shadowhunter.” He strode forward until the sigils haloed his boots in green fire, his voice dropping to a blade’s edge. “You keep this circle clear. Of everyone. Of everything. If something carrying demon stink crosses that line before they return…”
His eyes burned cold. “They don’t come back. Ever.”
Alec swallowed, his pulse hammering like a war drum in his ears. “Understood.”
Ragnor held his stare one beat longer—then spun on his heel, the wards at the perimeter screaming as he ripped through them in a cyclone of green sparks.
And then Alec was alone.
Alone with the circle humming like a heart ripped from the chest of the world, its light pulsing in slow, low beats that climbed his spine like a warning.
He shifted his grip on the blade, the steel cold against his palm, and turned his eyes to the shadows bleeding in from the edge of the ruin.
Nothing was getting through.
Alec had always been good at finding the high ground. It was instinct—second nature hammered into him since childhood drills at the Institute. When you wanted control, you climbed. Distance was safety. Height meant you saw the storm before it saw you.
He spotted the perfect vantage point after circling the abandoned construction skeleton twice: what remained of an emergency stairwell bolted to the husk of a welfare unit. Most of the structure had collapsed into a twisted heap of steel and rebar years ago, leaving only a jutting half-frame, skeletal and stubborn, clinging to the north wall like a rusted scar.
It wasn’t perfect—then again, nothing about this night was—but at twenty feet above ground, it gave him a commanding view of the open yard below, the access road snaking in from the east, and the torn geometry of the circle still faintly pulsing in the dirt behind him.
Magnus would’ve hated this place. The air reeked of rust and stagnant water, of concrete dust that coated your teeth like chalk. Shadows clung in every broken angle, turning heaps of scrap into crouched beasts when the wind shifted. Alec almost smirked, imagining Magnus wrinkling his nose, muttering something about urban decay as an aesthetic being vastly overrated.
The smirk didn’t last. He wasn’t in the mood for levity. His muscles ached like lead under his gear, fatigue rolling through his veins in slow, relentless tides. It had been a long day—too long—and the weight in his body was more than exhaustion now. It was different. He hated thinking it, hated naming it, but ignoring it didn’t make it any less true: every passing month dragged a little more steel out of his bones and replaced it with glass. Fragile in ways a Shadowhunter wasn’t built to tolerate. He reached the landing and tested the railing before trusting it. The metal groaned but held, its bolts biting deep into rusted concrete. Good enough. Alec lowered himself into a crouch, rolling his shoulders to ease the tight pull in his back. The vantage was solid, the overhang above breaking his outline. From here, he could string a shot clean across the eastern approach.
Ideal. If his body played along.
The thought tightened his jaw. He hated this—this constant, gnawing edge of weakness that shadowed every motion. His figure hadn’t changed much even if he could feel the weight, he couldn’t see the weight and it did something weird on his brain, a contradiction that fucked his senses. The runes masked fatigue like armor, blurred the truth so even he could pretend… most of the time. But when the weight inside shifted, alien and wrong, pressing against his core like a fist—pretending became impossible.
He’d burned two stamina runes before noon. Both were fading now, the ache flooding back into his thighs, his arms, his ribs. He traced the Parabatai rune at his side for half a heartbeat, grounding himself in the silent bond threading back to Jace like a distant heartbeat. Jace, alive and fighting God-knows-what beyond the gate, probably grinning through the blood. Alec exhaled hard through his nose.
Stay sharp. Stay still. Just watch.
Two hours crawled by in brittle silence.
The wind knifed through the empty girders above, whispering in a language of moans and groans as rust flaked like dead skin. Alec scanned the dark beyond the skeletal fence lines, bow resting across his knees, every nerve coiled tight. The pulse of the ley lines drummed under his boots, a heartbeat too big for the earth to hold. It made his teeth hum, set his bones on edge.
When movement finally came, it was wrong. They broke from the haze at a sprint—two shapes loping across the dirt in low, bounding arcs, wings pumping like bellows. Not flying, but boosting their strides in jerks that ate the ground with horrifying speed. Alec’s eyes narrowed. His fingers twitched toward the quiver strapped at his back as he rose into a crouch. These weren’t any species he knew—and Alec knew his demons.
As they closed the distance, the details curdled. Birdlike, at first glance—if birds were nightmares peeled inside-out. Hulking frames feathered in patches of something that looked like mange-ridden skin, bloated and pustular where flesh bulged under gray hide. Their “faces” were nothing but sword-slash maws carved ear to ear, tongues lashing wet and obscene from toothless holes. Every bounce sent those tongues snapping like ropes, spraying strings of spit that gleamed under the fractured moonlight.
Beautiful, Alec thought grimly, nocking an arrow. Why is it never the pretty ones?
He scanned for threat markers—spines, glands, venoms. Nothing obvious, but that meant nothing. Demons didn’t come stamped with warning labels. Still, they had eyes: bulging, slick, and shining faintly red in the gloom. Good. Eyes meant a brain. A brain meant an off switch.
Two shots. Clean. Don’t waste it.
He drew, breath locking steady as the first beast crossed the two-hundred-foot mark. The bowstring sang against his glove as the arrow kissed daylight—and flew. For a split second, triumph sparked—until the demon leaped. Ten feet into the air in a single convulsive snap, wings flaring like rotten sails as it surged toward him with an ear-splitting screech. The arrow missed by a mile.
“Shit,” Alec hissed, hooking another shaft in a motion too fast for thought. He loosed before the string fully settled, and this time the shot bit—but off-center. The arrow buried itself where a collarbone might have been, punching through the joint at its wing.
It didn’t slow the thing an inch. The bird-demon was a hundred feet now. Eighty. Alec grabbed for a third arrow, muscles screaming as he pivoted over the railing, hunting for a clean line— The world detonated. The creature vaulted again, slamming into the railing with bone-cracking force. Rust sheared, bolts screamed, and Alec had one dizzying instant to register falling.
The sky spun. Concrete lunged up to meet him like a fist.
Some part of him—reflex older than language—fired the arrow still nocked on his string. The shot ripped free point-blank as the demon’s gaping maw rushed down, a cavern of red-flecked darkness laced in blistered nodes that glistened with poison. The arrow drove through its eye and punched out the back of its skull, skewering into a wall six feet beyond. The thing died in midair. Alec didn’t. But the landing made him wish otherwise. He hit hard, shoulders slamming first, momentum flipping him in a tumble that knocked every gasp from his lungs. Pain flared, white and searing, across his ribs as the earth bucked under his spine. A shadow fell. The carcass crashed beside him with a wet, bone-snapping thud that sent ichor geysering across the dust in stinking arcs. No time. No air. The other demon’s screech split the night as it barreled into view, claws gouging furrows in the grit. Alec ripped himself onto an elbow, muscles shrieking mutiny, bow clattering from his grip. His hand closed on cold hilt instead, and the Seraph blade sang into existence under his breathless snarl.
“Zerachiel!”
The name ripped from his chest like thunder. Fire bloomed in his fist, the blade flaring white as the demon lunged—a blur of wings and teethless jaws and a tongue that lashed down, slapping his cheek with a smear of froth so vile Alec gagged. It hit him full-force. The weight crashed his spine into the earth, legs buckling as claws like hooked sickles drove into his chest rig. Fabric shredded. Pain lanced sharp where one talon punched through, hot bloom spreading under his ribs. Alec’s scream tore raw as the thing reared, dripping spittle into his face. He drove Zerachiel upward in blind fury, punching the blade into its flank again and again, ichor slicking his fingers in molten gushes. The demon shrieked, thrashing—but Alec didn’t stop. He rammed steel home with every ounce of Shadowhunter spite left in his bones until the beast convulsed and collapsed sideways in a quaking heap.
Silence.
Alec lay pinned under its stink, chest heaving like a war drum, vision swimming in red static. He rolled his head aside, dragging gulps of air past the ragged hitch of his breath. His ribs felt caved, his lungs like shards—but the monsters were dead. Both. For five seconds, that counted as victory.
Then the pain hit.
Not from the gash in his chest—that was noise, background static—but from deep inside, coiling low and brutal through his gut. A pain like a blade twisting, ripping breath into shards. Alec’s lips peeled in a soundless snarl as the truth slammed in: Not now. Not here. He bit down on a groan that still ripped free, curling him in half. Instinct clawed up his spine, primal and inescapable: that foreign weight inside, months heavy and secret, had chosen this gods-damned moment to break the world open.
“No—” His whisper scraped raw as his nails dug into dirt. Sweat sliced down his temple, stinging his eyes as another spasm tore through his abdomen. His pulse stuttered, breath fracturing in shallow gasps. He wasn’t getting up that staircase. He wasn’t getting anywhere. And out there—through the black haze curling over the horizon—five more demons crawled closer, their shapes limned in the late afternoon light as they loped from the east. Alec clenched his teeth so hard his jaw screamed. Move. Find cover. Anything. Because Magnus wasn’t here. No one was. And if he died now—if they both died now—it wouldn’t be in some noble blaze of glory. It would be in the dirt, under the shadow of a gate he’d sworn to keep open.
**********
There were many things Magnus Bane had done in his long and illustrious life that could qualify as bad ideas: kissing an Archduke’s fiancé, gambling with a djinn, hosting that one masquerade in Prague that ended with three minor uprisings and a goat. This, however, might finally take the crown. Because stepping through a portal into a dimension designed by something that probably considered nightmares a light appetizer? Oh yes, darling. Brilliant plan.
The magic hit him first—a violent, thrumming pressure that scraped like razors under his skin. It tasted wrong, metallic and cold, like licking the edge of a blade dipped in rot. His boots struck ground that wasn’t ground so much as fractured glass fused with black stone, and the air—what passed for air—dragged through his lungs like smoke mixed with sand.
“Well,” Magnus said, straightening his coat with a snap and surveying the wasteland ahead, “this is festive.”
And what a scene it was: a horizon fractured like a shattered mirror, sky bleeding colors that should never share space, rivers of molten something carving scars through plains of ash. The air shimmered with heat and yet clung damp, heavy with the stench of old blood and broken storms. Far in the distance, mountains coiled like the spines of buried leviathans, their peaks glowing faintly with a sick, internal light. Behind him, boots crunched on the brittle surface, followed by the familiar cadence of Isabelle’s unimpressed tone.
“Ten out of ten,” she said dryly, her whip slithering to life in her hand with a hiss. “Ideal honeymoon spot.”
“Please,” Magnus replied, sweeping a glittered look over one shoulder. “If this were my honeymoon, there would be better lighting.”
A third voice chimed in, all lazy swagger and imminent regret.
“I don’t know,” Jace said, striding up beside him like a man who thought peril was a polite suggestion. He spun a seraph blade in his hand, its glow painting his grin like something out of a very cocky cathedral mural. “I’m kind of into the apocalyptic aesthetic. Very… moody chic.”
“Darling,” Magnus said without looking at him, “your concept of chic begins and ends with how well your shirt clings in combat.”
“Not untrue,” Jace admitted cheerfully, adjusting the strap across his chest like a man prepping for a photo shoot, not an eldritch death trap.
Magnus dragged a hand down his face, smearing a streak of void-touched grit across his palm. Why, Alexander, he thought bitterly, do you leave me with these two glittering imbeciles and call it backup? He forced his spine straight, coat flaring as he stepped forward. Every nerve screamed under the pressure of the realm—the ley threads thrummed like barbed wire against his magic, biting when he reached out. He reeled them in carefully, letting the pull guide him. There—a current streaking northwest, pulsing toward the wound where the original portal bled into reality.
“This way,” Magnus said, voice crisp. “Do try to keep your heroics to a minimum, won’t you?”
“Define minimum,” Jace murmured, following with the easy grace of a man who had definitely ignored that request before Magnus finished speaking.
Isabelle fell into step on Magnus’ other side, whip coiling at her hip, eyes sweeping the horizon with predatory calm. “Any idea what we’ll hit on the way?”
Magnus adjusted his cuffs, magic sparking faint at his fingertips like fireflies dipped in venom. “Possibly nothing. Possibly everything that ever wanted to wear your skin like a party frock. The usual.”
“Charming,” Isabelle muttered.
“Always,” Magnus said, flashing a smile sharp enough to draw blood.
They walked. Or rather, they picked their way across a terrain that seemed designed to resent feet. The ground fractured under Magnus’ boots like frozen lakes cracking, and the shadows had a habit of twitching when you looked at them too long.
“Feels… welcoming,” Jace said after a beat, tone bright as a blade. “Like a spa. For homicidal maniacs.”
Magnus didn’t break stride. “Do they serve you tea in hell dimensions, or just your own severed head on a tray?”
“Depends on the spa,” Jace said.
Isabelle’s sigh was eloquent enough to qualify as a new language.
By the time they hit the first ridge, Magnus could feel the burn in his bones—his magic straining against the pull of the realm, like swimming in a sea made of knives. He paused under the jagged arch of black stone, pressing two fingers to his temple as the ley current writhed under his skin.
“You good?” Isabelle asked, her voice low. Not worried—Lightwoods didn’t do worried out loud—but weighted.
“Good?,” Magnus said through a tight smile, forcing his spine to straighten. “Still devastatingly handsome? Yes. Currently being nibbled on by eldritch landscape? Also yes.”
“Sounds like a Tuesday for you,” Jace offered from ahead, scaling the ridge with infuriating ease.
Magnus glared at his boots. “Someone remind me why I didn’t hex him into a cactus before we left.”
“You like him,” Isabelle said absently, adjusting her grip on the whip.
“An accusation I categorically reject,” Magnus muttered, though even his sarcasm sounded thin.
They crested the ridge—and stopped.
The land fell away into a valley that wasn’t a valley so much as a scar carved through the skin of the realm. The ground churned in slow convulsions, spewing rivers of obsidian glass. Above it, the sky knotted in colors Magnus’ mind flinched from naming—violet curdled with green, black veined with molten white, bleeding inward toward a single point on the horizon.
The portal.
He felt it before he saw it—the wound yawning in the distance, a slick pulse of magic gnawing at the fabric of reality. Its song clawed through his bones, sweet and sick, whispering in a dozen dead tongues.
“Well,” Jace said cheerfully, leaning on his blade like they weren’t staring at the metaphysical equivalent of an aneurysm. “That looks bad.”
Magnus turned his head very slowly. “Thank you, darling, for your unparalleled diagnostic skills. What would we do without you?”
“Die tragically and underdressed,” Jace said, flashing teeth.
Isabelle rolled her eyes so hard Magnus swore he heard the sockets creak.
Magnus inhaled. The ley current tugged harder now, threading through his veins like barbed silk. Every instinct screamed that the closer they got, the worse it would tear. And still, he walked, blue fire dripping from his hands like liquid stars, his coat trailing sparks that hissed when they kissed the ash.
Because Alec was waiting.
And Magnus Bane did not fail the people he loved.
**********
Magnus felt it first—a tremor underfoot, faint as a sigh, coiling through the cracked earth like something waking from a very bad dream.
He froze mid-step, one hand lifting. Blue sparks hissed at his fingertips, staining the fractured ground in ghost-light. “Stop,” he said, voice a thread pulled taut.
Isabelle stilled without question, whip dangling loose and hungry in her grip. Jace… didn’t.
“What now?” Jace muttered, sauntering two paces ahead before pausing to throw Magnus a glance over his shoulder. The wind whipped pale hair into his eyes; his grin was sharp enough to make Magnus want to hex it off his face. “You see something?”
Magnus’ lashes lowered in a slow, withering sweep. “No, darling. I just thought we’d admire the charming local architecture. Of course I see something.”
Jace tipped his head, blade spinning idly in his hand. “Friendly something or—”
The ground split.
With a sound like stone screaming, a fissure ripped across the path, vomiting shards of glassy rock as the earth convulsed under their boots. From its throat came movement—slick, sinuous, and wrong.
Then they crawled out.
Six of them. Limbs too many and too long, jointed backward like broken marionettes. Their bodies were carved from obsidian plates fused with sinew, and where faces should be—white masks, cracked and eyeless, grinning with mouths full of teeth like splintered glass.
“Well,” Magnus said lightly, summoning a bloom of cobalt fire in his palm. “Points for dramatic entrance.”
The lead creature tilted its head with a sound like bone grinding, then shrieked—a pitch that made Magnus’ wards snarl and his bones hum like tuning forks.
Jace grinned wider. “So… not friendly.”
“Ten points for observation,” Magnus murmured—and flung his hand.
Blue fire detonated from his palm, a storm of sparks whipping into a spear that slammed into the ground between the creatures, exploding in a geyser of molten light. Shards of silver flame streaked outward, scorching the cracked terrain.
Three of them staggered, limbs jerking in a frenzy of twitching mandibles. The others hissed—a sound that crawled under Magnus’ skin and tried to settle there like rot.
Behind him, Isabelle’s whip sang to life, a ribbon of white fire curling in a lethal arc. “Magnus,” she said, voice like steel dragged over frost. “How dead are these things?”
“Oh, very,” Magnus purred, his next volley of blue fire searing the air in ribbons that burned the creatures’ limbs into black sludge. “Assuming no one does anything idiotic in the next ninety seconds.”
“Define idiotic,” Jace said—and vaulted straight into the fissure.
Magnus choked on his own breath. “JACE—”
Too late. He was already in the pit, blades flashing like lightning as he met the first creature mid-leap. The impact cracked the air, sending splinters of glass skittering across the ground. A second horror lunged at his back; Jace spun, whip-fast, steel singing as he buried his blade in its mask and wrenched.
Magnus pinched the bridge of his nose as he summoned a ward wide enough to blanket the pit. “Of course,” he muttered. “Why wouldn’t he use my cardiac health as a chew toy?”
“Do you want him alive or chargrilled?” Isabelle snapped, already moving, her whip lashing into the fray in a hiss of fire. One creature shrieked as it split in two, its body collapsing in a slurry of black smoke and shattered bone.
“Alive!” Magnus snarled—and hurled a bolt into the fissure, scorching three more into cinders. Magic roared through his veins, bright and savage, but the void clawed at it with every pulse, gnawing the edges until his bones rang hollow.
By the time the last creature dropped in a smoking heap, the pit was a cauldron of molten glass, steam writhing in coils that stank of acid and death.
Jace vaulted out with all the grace of a cat who thought gravity was optional. His seraph blades dripped ichor like oil. His grin was feral.
“Well,” he said, wiping gore on his thigh strap like a man discussing the weather. “That was fun.”
Magnus stared. Isabelle stared harder. Finally, Magnus found words—laced in silk, dipped in venom.
“Darling,” he said sweetly, “next time you feel the urge to perform acrobatics over a pit full of screaming death puppets, kindly remember I like this coat—and I’ll be wearing your ashes if I die of heart failure.”
“Noted,” Jace said. “But did you see that flip?”
“Did I see—” Magnus broke off, threw his hands skyward, and considered spontaneous combustion.
Isabelle just closed her eyes. “If either of you bleeds on my boots,” she muttered, coiling her whip, “I’m leaving you here.”
They walked on.
The air thickened as they pushed deeper, a soup of smoke and heat clinging to their lungs. The ley threads thrummed louder now—burning wires drawn through Magnus’ blood. Every step closer to the portal felt like swallowing glass.
Behind him, Jace hummed under his breath, some jaunty tune utterly unsuited for a hellscape that smelled like sulfur and regret. Magnus snapped a glance over his shoulder.
“Darling, must you?”
“Combat playlist,” Jace said cheerfully, spinning a blade. “Keeps the nerves loose.”
“Yes,” Magnus murmured, lashes lowering like knives. “Let’s all limber up for dismemberment.”
“Not my plan,” Jace said. “That would ruin the hair.”
“Sweet hell,” Isabelle muttered. “Both of you, shut up.”
They were halfway across a bridge of black stone when it happened.
A sound like a thousand mirrors shattering cracked the air—and the world bucked under their boots. The arch split, vomiting geysers of molten light. From below surged a tide of shadows stitched in bone—a swarm boiling upward, limbs tangling, jaws gnashing.
Magnus cursed in a tongue dead before God was born. “Run!”
But Jace—of course, Jace—didn’t run.
He grinned, twirled a blade, and said, “Cover me.”
“Cover you?” Magnus’ voice spiked three octaves. “Darling, you’re sprinting toward suicide—”
Too late. Jace was already a blur, vaulting over the bridge’s edge to land on the rising horde like a golden-haired apocalypse. His blades spun, a storm of steel flashing white in the void’s breath. He danced across skulls, slicing, flipping, stabbing like a man auditioning for Death’s cabaret.
Magnus dragged his palms down his face. “I’m going to kill him,” he hissed—and hurled a lattice of wards to cage the swarm in a column of blue fire. Shadows shrieked, melting into ash as Isabelle’s whip carved the stragglers into ribbons.
By the time the last echo died, Jace stood in the wreckage, grinning like a man who’d just won a bar fight. He blew a kiss toward Magnus.
“You’re welcome.”
Magnus stalked forward, sparks dripping off his fingertips like venom. “When this is over,” he said, voice velvet stretched razor-thin, “I am glamouring you into a decorative lamp.”
“Make it gold,” Jace said, slinging his blades. “Matches my aesthetic.”
Isabelle groaned. “I swear, if the portal doesn’t kill us, I will.”
**********
Alec slid behind the battered wall of crates like a shadow dissolving into another. Every movement felt heavier than it should have—like his body had been cast in lead—but training had taught him silence, even when pain howled down his spine like a curse. His boots kissed the dirt without a sound as he pressed his back against the jagged wood, his head tilting slightly, breath locked in a tight cage between his teeth.
Don’t lose focus. Not now. Not here.
The crates stank faintly of mildew and machine oil. Sharp splinters bit through the worn fabric of his gear where the wood frayed. Above, a shard of sunlight spilled through the lattice of a rusted steel frame, smearing pale gold over grit-stained concrete. Alec lowered himself slowly, spine scraping rough wood, until he sat half-hidden, knees bent, body hunched like a drawn bow. The position wasn’t comfortable, but it gave him what mattered—cover, and a fraction of calm. He angled his body, letting his upper half sprawl sideways so he could steal a glimpse beyond the crate’s corner. His gaze swept the ruins in a practiced arc: skeletal scaffolds, twisted rebar like ribs clawing at the sky, gravel strewn like bones over a barren yard. Empty. The portal lay within his field of vision, a faint shimmer hovering at the far edge of the clearing like an open wound in the world. Beyond it, the horizon bled into ash and nothingness.
Too still. His jaw flexed. This kind of silence isn’t luck—it’s teeth waiting in the dark.
Alec slid his bow down until it rested beside his thigh, his fingers grazing the sleek curve before letting go reluctantly. Ready, always ready—but his arms needed the reprieve. His shoulder blades ached like someone had driven iron nails through them. Sweat dampened the collar of his gear, trickling down the tense column of his spine.
With one hand, he raked hair off his forehead, pushing the dark strands back as he scrubbed the sting of sweat from his eyes. His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled away. He stared at them for a beat before curling them into a fist, hard enough that the nails bit. Focus, Lightwood. It’s just fatigue. Nothing more.
He angled his head toward the portal again, breath whispering out between gritted teeth. By the Angel, where are they? Magnus, Isabelle, Jace—they should have been back by now. Closing the portal shouldn’t take this long.
A shadow of doubt scraped cold claws down his gut. Was something wrong? Had something—
Alec shoved the thought away like poison. Thinking like that led nowhere but panic, and panic was death. He needed control. Discipline. He needed to be the soldier, even when his body screamed otherwise. Time fractured. An hour bled past like a wound that wouldn’t clot. No demons. No allies. Just the sound of his pulse pounding like a drum in his ears, the rasp of his breath sawing against his ribs, and the sick, low hum of the ley lines clawing under the earth.
The weight in his abdomen never lifted. It sat there—thick and alien—as if something had coiled in his core and was waiting for its moment to strike. Alec braced for it, every nerve strung taut, teeth clenched as another pang surged up without warning. White heat ripped across his gut in jagged lines, a butcher’s blade carving through muscle and bone. His hands shot out, clutching at the grit-strewn ground, grinding knuckles into stone just to keep from crying out.
It felt endless, like some invisible hand was trying to gut him with a serrated knife from the inside. His breath stuttered into gasps, sharp and broken, before he forced them steady—slow, silent, a soldier’s control clamped over a body betraying him.
When the agony ebbed to a vicious throb, he sagged back against the crate, sweat slicking his temples, plastering damp strands to his forehead. His vision pulsed at the edges, darkness crowding in like ink. He didn’t know how long he sat there. Minutes. Maybe more. Time had stopped meaning anything.
When his head finally cleared enough to think, Alec shifted, dragging himself upright. He risked a glance toward the portal—and froze.
It was gone.
The shimmering throat of blue had snapped shut, its ghost lingering only in the faint scorch-marks of glyphs etched into the dirt. Surprise flared for half a heartbeat before it curdled into dread at what had replaced it.
Three demons crouched inside the remnants of the pentagram.
Bug demons. He knew them. Too well.
The memory hit like a fist: an alley slick with ichor, Isabelle’s whip cleaving through shadows like lightning, and those same glistening shells bursting in sprays of acid that burned through gear like paper. He’d seen what that ichor had done to Jace’s arm—charred skin, smoke curling from the wound as if someone had poured heated metal through his veins. Alec’s throat tightened. No touching the bugs. Not their backs. Not their spines. One mistake, and you’d be bleeding poison before you had time to scream. He studied them, every nerve keyed to the smallest twitch. They were hunched low, six spindly legs ticking against the ground in a pattern that set his teeth on edge. Their shells gleamed oily black, glistening with a sick luster that seemed to drink the light instead of reflecting it. Each chitinous plate curved like armor forged in hell, seamless and cold. Their faces were worse—if you could call them that. Mandibles clicked and writhed in an obscene rhythm, framing rows of catlike teeth that gleamed ivory against the slick dark of their hides. Above, glassy eyes bulged, blind-white yet darting in tiny, frantic jerks as if tasting the vibrations of the air. And the tails. Alec’s gaze caught on the cruel arc of the spines curling up from their backs—scorpion tails tipped with serrated hooks, twitching with a staccato precision that made bile rise in his throat. Every time he shifted the weight of his boots, those tails flicked, stabbing at the ground in short bursts like warning strikes.
They hunt by sound, Alec realized. He moved slower, pulling in breath through clenched teeth. One slip, and they’ll triangulate me before I notch a shot.
He slid his hand into his jacket pocket, fingers closing around the familiar chill of his stele. With a flick of his wrist, it hummed to life, tracing a ghost-light line as he pushed the fabric aside to bare the left half of his chest. His gear clung, stiff with blood. The jacket peeled back reluctantly, dragging against puncture wounds that oozed red-black and stank of infection.
The sight turned his stomach. Three ragged holes punched through flesh and rune-scarred skin, edges puffed and angry. Blood streaked his ribs in thick rivulets, mixing with ichor in a grotesque watercolor. Alec hissed through his teeth as he pressed the stele to his chest, sketching an iratze near the wounds with trembling precision. The mark burned white-hot, searing through muscle and nerve before dimming into a faint glow. He drew again—stamina rune over his sternum, close enough to pulse against his heart. Energy shuddered through him like a blade drawn from ice water. His lungs flared wide. The ache in his limbs dulled to a muted throb. Not gone—but masked. It wouldn’t last long. But long enough to kill three overgrown beetles. Hopefully. He set the stele aside, curling his fingers around the bow like an old prayer. Smooth grip. Familiar weight. He nocked an arrow and rose in a slow, controlled arc until his eyes cleared the crate’s jagged lip.
Steady, Alec. Breathe.
The shot flew like silver lightning, cutting the dim in a clean, whistling arc. It punched through the first demon’s eye with a wet crack, snapping its skull back in a geyser of ichor. The body twitched, legs curling inward like a dead spider before collapsing in a quivering heap. Two left. Both screaming now—thin, metallic shrieks that knifed into his skull until his molars rang. They skittered, tails gouging the dirt in spasmodic jerks. Alec gritted his teeth against the screech, muscles jerking as he hooked another shaft, drew, loosed—
Second down. Its death was louder, the shriek hacking through the ruin like a drill. The last one froze.
And Alec—gods, fool that he was—moved. Just an inch, weight shifting as another lance of pain ripped through his gut. A sound tore from his throat before he could stop it—a raw, broken yelp that scraped the silence like shattered glass. The bug moved so fast it blurred. Alec barely got the bow up before it slammed into him. He hit the crates hard, spine arching against splintered wood as claws scored his gear. The stench of rot and venom slammed into his nose like a fist. Mandibles clacked inches from his cheek, spraying spit that hissed where it hit his sleeve.
“Zerachiel!” The blade burst to life in his fist with a flare of white fire as Alec jammed his forearm against the demon’s throat, teeth bared in a snarl. The thing clicked, over and over, a dry, mechanical chatter that drilled through his skull like a clock counting down to death.
He rolled, every nerve screaming, and pinned the bastard under his weight. His blade plunged into the slick seam under its chin, carving upward with a crunch that reverberated through his bones. Black ichor sprayed his face in a hot arc. The demon shrieked once, then stilled—legs curling tight as the light guttered in its glassy eyes.
For three seconds, Alec just knelt there, braced over its corpse, lungs dragging air that scraped like sandpaper. His arms shook as he ripped the blade free, letting it clatter to the dirt. His head dropped forward, sweat and blood dripping from his chin onto the black sheen of dead shell.
One breath. Two. Get up, Lightwood. Now.
He pushed off with a grunt, staggering back toward the crates—but the movement ripped something deep inside, and the world went white-hot. The pain wasn’t pain anymore. It was obliteration, splitting him from sternum to spine in a single, scalding wave. His knees buckled. A sound clawed out of his throat—a strangled gasp, sharp and hoarse—and then his body folded, crashing to the ground with all the grace of a felled tower. Heat flared through his gut like watery brazier. He curled instinctively, fists fisting in the grit, breath sawing as pain tore him open from the inside out. His mind blanked, his vision bleeding into black. For a wild, fractured instant, Alec thought—
This is it. This is how it ends.
And then nothing but darkness.
When Alec came back to himself, it was like surfacing from the bottom of a frozen lake. His breath returned first—a sharp, burning pull through clenched teeth that made his lungs spasm. Then the aches. Bruised ribs. Torn muscles. A deep, wet throb in his side. And finally—finally—the weight. Not metaphorical. Not the gnawing fatigue that had wrapped itself around him for weeks like a chain, but something physical, warm and fragile, pressing gently against his lower abdomen. He didn’t open his eyes right away. His lashes twitched. His fingers moved first, testing the ground beneath him—dirt, dust, and broken gravel. His limbs were trembling, but he was alive. And so was… something else. When his eyes finally opened, the light stabbed him like a blade, and he blinked hard, trying to orient himself. He was still behind the crates. The construction yard stretched out before him, all jagged shadows and broken concrete. The haze of battle lingered—burned ichor clinging to the air like smoke, the acrid scent of spent runes and blood.
His blood.
His gaze dropped slowly, and there—curled in the cradle of his lap, glazed and pink and impossibly small—was a baby.
His baby.
The child lay propped up against the angle of his thighs, barely bigger than his forearms, its body tucked in on itself like something just unfurled from another world. Its skin was pale and flushed in patches, glistening faintly in the light. Damp wisps of dark hair clung to its head, curling slightly at the edges. Its breathing came in uneven little gasps—fragile, almost stuttering—but it was there.
Alive.
Its eyes were open.
Alec froze.
Big, startlingly round, impossibly blue. The kind of eyes that looked like they hadn’t decided yet what emotion to assign to the world—only that they would take in everything, wide and raw and unblinking.
He stared.
The baby blinked once. Then again. Slowly. Its gaze kept wandering.
Alec didn’t breathe.
His mouth parted in shock, and it took him a full ten seconds before he realized his hand had moved on its own. His left palm rested gently against the baby’s tiny leg, cradling it without pressure, like he was afraid it might dissolve. He didn’t remember how to breathe like this. Like his chest had forgotten the rhythm and his ribs were caught in a vise.
The baby wiggled.
Not much. A soft, jerking motion. One tiny hand lifted and waved aimlessly, fingers twitching. Alec moved on instinct, his right hand sliding into view, palm up, slow and cautious. He presented one finger like an offering. The baby’s hand—ridiculously small—curled around it, gripping with surprising strength. And then the baby made a sound. It wasn’t a cry. It was a soft, half-coo, half-hiccup, like a puff of air trying to be a thought. His tiny arm jerked again, this time with a little more purpose.
Alec blinked.
That hand—so small, so sure—tugged gently at his finger. The baby’s eyes stayed fixed on his face with unnerving focus. Like he knew him. Like he recognized him. Alec’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Not at first.
So this is it, he thought faintly. This is the little parasite who’s been treating my bladder like a trampoline.
He stared another beat, then his lips curled, just barely, into something crooked. Uneven. Maybe even amused.
“So,” he said quietly, “you’re the little bundle of misery.”
The baby kicked one leg. A tiny, wobbling thump that barely reached his hip.
Alec shook his head slowly, disbelieving. “You’re too small to be this loud inside me,” he murmured. “That was cheating.”
Another half-coo escaped the infant’s mouth, and this time it was paired with a little happy flail of his right arm. The movement was uncoordinated, untrained, but it radiated something Alec couldn’t ignore.
There you are.
Alec’s throat worked around a breath. He couldn’t deny the feeling creeping over him, foreign and warm and so very terrifying. He was still bloodied. Still bruised. Still unsure how he’d even survived the last hour. But this small creature—this impossibly quiet little soul—was looking at him like none of that mattered. Like he was home. The wind picked up. Not strong, but enough to sting the cuts across Alec’s chest, reminding him just how vulnerable he still was. Reality, ever the rude guest, slammed back in.
Check the perimeter. Check the portal. Don’t die in a puddle. Alec sighed, long and low. “Alright,” he whispered. “Let’s reassess.”
He reached for his gear, wincing as his arms protested. His chest felt like it had been run over by a horse cart. When he peeled back his jacket and shirt, the state of his body nearly made him hiss. Three puncture wounds, partially sealed but still seeping around the edges. Bruises spread like inkblots. A new gash along his waist—deep, precise, bleeding slowly but persistently.
“Well,” he muttered, grabbing his stele with shaky fingers. “Let’s patch this disaster up first.”
He drew the iratze with careful, practiced strokes, the stele trembling slightly between his fingers. The rune flared once—a ghost of light, thin and brittle—then guttered like a candle drowning in wax. No surge of relief. No soothing hum through his nerves. Just the raw sting of half-healed flesh and the ugly heat of infection gnawing deeper. Alec stared at the mark, chest rising in ragged pulls, the glow already dimming into nothing but white lines on battered skin.
“Great,” he muttered hoarsely, lips curling in a humorless smile. “Of course.”
He dropped his head back against the crate, exhaling slow, letting the bitter truth settle like iron: the runes weren’t answering. He was too far gone—his stamina bled dry, his veins sluggish with exhaustion and strain. His body was a shell running on instinct and spite now, and those didn’t heal wounds.
Alright, he told himself, jaw clenching. Adapt. Survive anyway.
His eyes flicked back down to the baby, who was now squinting slightly at the wind and kicking at the air like he had opinions. Alec couldn’t help it—he smirked, weak and crooked.
“I get it. You’ve got notes already.”
He glanced toward the battlefield. The portal shimmered again, blue and alive. Magnus’ blue, Alec thought. His chest tightened. That light—it meant they’d succeeded. That he was close. But the ache in his chest wasn’t just physical. It was a pull. A yearning.
“I hope you’re coming,” Alec whispered.
The baby made a noise—quiet, almost a gurgle. Alec looked down just in time to see him kick once more, then fix his eyes on Alec’s face again. Alec sighed.
“Alright, soldier,” he said softly. “We need a plan.”
He looked around, heart pounding. The crates would provide cover, but the baby couldn’t stay out in the open, not like this. The wind was rising. Shadows moved at the edge of the yard. His eyes dropped to the bundle in his lap. So impossibly small. So impossible, period. But there he was. Alec unzipped his jacket, pulling the child close. The gear’s material was tight but flexible enough—he pressed the infant gently against his chest, tucking him inside with a cautious touch and a curse under his breath. The warmth of the tiny body against his ribs was jarring. Real.
“Not exactly a bassinet,” he murmured, adjusting the baby’s head, “but we’re improvising.”
He zipped up to the sternum, leaving space for the baby to breathe, and pressed his palm over the jacket, anchoring the bundle against his chest. The baby settled instantly, small breaths puffing against Alec’s collarbone. Alec leaned back against the crate again, dragging one leg up so he could brace himself if anything came. He rested one hand on his blade, the other around his child.
His child.
He didn’t know what came next. Not exactly. But he knew one thing. No one is taking this from me. And with that thought, he closed his eyes just long enough to let the exhaustion settle like dust. Just long enough to catch his breath. Because the storm wasn’t over.
But they were still alive.
**********
They saw the light before they heard it.
It bled across the horizon like a wound refusing to clot, a jagged halo pulsing white-hot against a sky the color of bruised fruit. Every throb spilled a ripple through the air, warping it into sick spirals that clawed at the edges of Magnus’ vision.
And underneath, like something vast dragging its claws through the bones of the world, came the sound. Not noise, exactly. More like pressure—an inaudible scream threading itself through every nerve. The ley lines in Magnus’ blood went rigid, vibrating so hard his teeth ached.
“Well,” Jace said cheerfully, tightening the strap across his chest. “That looks friendly.”
Magnus didn’t even turn. “Darling, your sarcasm is like your shirt buttons—always a little too much.”
“You love it,” Jace said.
“I tolerate it,” Magnus corrected, stepping onto the ridge with a sweep of his coat. It caught the weird, pale light spilling off the tear ahead and shimmered like liquid midnight. Not that anyone noticed. Certainly not the golden menace sauntering behind him.
They moved as a unit—or as close to one as you could with Jace prowling like a cat and Isabelle gliding silent as a shadow, whip coiled at her hip like a promise. The air thickened the closer they got, clinging heavy in Magnus’ throat, tasting of iron and something worse. The void was bleeding into this place, poisoning the marrow of reality—and it wanted him.
Every breath scraped. Every pulse of power dragged claws down his bones. He locked his spine, curled a smirk across his mouth, and kept walking.
Because Alec was waiting. And Alec trusted him.
If this realm thought it could pry that promise out of his ribs, it had another thing coming.
The ground gave way beneath them five steps from the ridge.
“Down!” Magnus snarled, flinging a wall of blue fire as the surface split in a spiderweb crack that vomited black ichor and bone fragments.
Shapes tore free—five, no, six—towering brutes stitched from molten sinew and jagged plates of obsidian. Their faces (if you could call them that) were cages of spines, each maw gaping wide enough to swallow Magnus whole.
“Oh,” Magnus murmured. “That’s lovely.”
The nearest one lunged. Jace met it head-on, seraph blade singing in an arc that slashed through its jaw with a flash of light. Green ichor exploded across the stone in a hiss of acid steam.
“See?” Jace shouted over the roar. “They’re not so tough!”
Another one reared up behind him, talons curved like meat hooks.
“JACE!” Magnus flung his hand. Blue fire erupted in a geyser, slamming into the beast’s chest and blasting it backward in a shriek of shattering bone. The backlash ripped through Magnus like a chain of razors, buckling his knees. The void ate magic like sugar, draining it faster than he could shape it.
“Show-off!” Jace yelled without looking back.
“Corpse bait!” Magnus shot back, already spinning a ward into the ground with three vicious sweeps of his hand. Sigils hissed to life, coiling upward in a lattice of blue-white flame. Two beasts barreled into it and detonated in a spray of bone shards.
“On your right!” Isabelle’s voice cracked like a whip as—well—her whip cracked like a whip. It lashed around the throat of the third brute, searing runes digging in deep as she yanked, slicing its head clean off in a single, savage twist. It collapsed in a heap that stank like rot and lightning.
“Three down,” she barked, sliding under the swipe of another talon with inhuman grace. “Two to go—Magnus, left!”
Magnus pivoted, sparks peeling from his fingertips in a molten ribbon that coiled midair like a serpent and struck the lunging beast square in the chest. It went down hard, limbs thrashing, shrieking until the sound ripped the air apart.
That left one. The biggest. Of course.
And because this realm clearly hated Magnus personally, Jace was already sprinting straight at it.
“Oh, for—” Magnus broke off in a snarl. “Someone remind me why I didn’t stuff him in a crate and mail him to Idris!”
“He’s fast!” Isabelle grunted, snapping her whip around the brute’s arm to drag its swing wide.
“What’s with the death wish, damn it” Magnus hissed, flinging another bolt as Jace vaulted up the creature’s spine like a lunatic in designer leather.
The brute roared, jaws yawning wide, just as Jace launched himself off its shoulder, flipping in a blur of light and steel to drive both blades into its throat. Green ichor geysered as the monster collapsed, convulsing under its own weight until it lay twitching in a puddle of molten slime.
Jace landed in a crouch, blades slick, hair artfully tousled as though he’d just rolled out of a combat-themed fashion shoot. He blew Magnus a kiss.
“You’re welcome.”
Magnus stalked toward him, sparks dripping from his hands like liquid fury. “One day,” he said, voice soft as a knife sliding between ribs, “your little stunts won’t work—and I will laugh while the void gnaws on your perfect cheekbones.”
“Bet you’d still save me,” Jace said, flashing teeth.
Magnus smiled like a glacier. “Darling, I’d save your ashes in a jar. Purely decorative.”
“Gold jar?” Jace quipped, wiping ichor on his thigh strap.
“Plastic tupperware,” Magnus announced to no one in particular.
Isabelle coiled her whip with slow, surgical precision.
Silence fell in the wake of their carnage, broken only by the hiss of ichor eating through stone. The portal loomed ahead now, so close Magnus could feel its breath—cold, cavernous, alive. It gaped at the heart of a ravine like the wound of a god, edges glowing with molten light, its surface rippling like black glass veined in crimson. Every pulse dragged at Magnus’ marrow, a tide trying to strip him bare.
He stood there, chest heaving, and thought of Alec.
Alec pacing by the secondary circle, jaw tight, hand drifting unconsciously over his abdomen like he didn’t even notice the gesture anymore. Alec saying “Come home” without saying it, his voice breaking in Magnus’ memory like glass underfoot.
Magnus clenched his fists until sparks spat between his knuckles. I will. I swear it.
“Magnus?” Isabelle’s voice cut through the fog, steady but edged. “Talk to me. Can you close it?”
Magnus forced air into his lungs, tasting iron. “Yes,” he said, smiling thin and bright as a razor. “Though it will cost me.”
“How much?” Jace asked, casually flipping a blade.
“Enough to make you regret not writing my eulogy in advance,” Magnus murmured. His hands lifted, blue fire pooling like liquid stars, his magic screaming against the pull of the void.
The wound howled back.
And then the shadows moved.
They peeled from the edges of the portal, towering and skeletal, crawling forward on limbs like splintered spears. Guardians. Bigger than the last batch, their bodies dripping molten ichor, their eyes pits of screaming light.
Jace groaned. “Round two.”
Magnus flung a bolt that carved a trench through the stone, snarling as the void drank half its fire before it landed. Sweat slicked his spine, cold and relentless. He bit down on the tremor in his hands, on the panic gnawing his ribs—because panic was useless, and he didn’t have time for useless.
He had Alec. Waiting. Breathing. Counting on him.
“Jace!” Isabelle snapped as her whip lashed the first guardian’s leg in a flare of white fire. “Left flank!”
“I’m on it!” Jace vaulted forward like a comet, laughing like someone who thought mortality was just a rumor.
Magnus tore his gaze from the portal, summoning every shred of power left in his veins. Blue fire bloomed wide, scalding the air as he slammed it into the second guardian, driving it back in a shriek that split the sky. The backlash ripped through him, shredding nerves raw, but he held. He always held.
Because Alec’s face was the only thing left when the light burned white.
**********
Magnus had always admired symmetry. The kind of elegance that came from balance—a ward laid with perfect precision, a charm so seamless it hummed.
There was no symmetry here.
Only chaos, pulsing like a fever through the jagged wound in the sky.
The guardians fell in smoking heaps, their ichor hissing into clouds that stank of metal and decay. Silence followed, but it wasn’t peace—just the heavy, sucking quiet of something waiting to kill you when you exhale wrong.
And at the center of it all, the portal writhed.
It stretched from ground to sky like a slit carved in reality’s skin, edges glowing in molten spirals, its surface rippling black and crimson. Magnus could feel it feeding—dragging at the ley lines like a starving beast, slurping them dry until the weave screamed.
“Magnus?” Isabelle’s voice cut the hush, taut as wire. She stood braced, whip coiled and smoking at her side, her black gear shredded and slick with ichor. Blood striped her cheek like war paint. “Tell me you have a way to close this.”
Magnus didn’t answer. Not immediately. He lifted his hands, fingers trembling as he sketched a sigil in the poisoned air. Sparks flared, then guttered out like dying stars.
The void drank everything. Even his strength.
His knees wanted to fold. His chest burned like someone had poured molten glass down his throat. Every nerve thrummed with static, the ley current gnawing the marrow from his bones.
And still, he smiled.
Because that was what you did when the abyss stared back—you put on your best coat, sharpened your eyeliner, and told it to go to hell.
“Define ‘have,’” Magnus murmured, voice smooth as glass.
Jace snorted from where he crouched on a heap of shattered stone, blades slick with ichor and self-satisfaction. “Translation: we’re screwed.”
“Translation,” Magnus said, lashes lowering as blue fire coiled weakly between his palms, “is that it can be sealed. For a price.”
“Define price,” Isabelle said.
Magnus’ smile sharpened. “Blood. My blood.”
“Not an option,” Isabelle said flatly.
“Darling,” Magnus drawled, summoning a lazy flicker of sparks he didn’t feel, “I didn’t ask for committee approval.”
“Magnus—”
He cut her off with a sweep of his hand, blue flame spilling in a circle at his feet. It flared up like a cage, threads of light spinning into an invocation lattice older than angel fire. Glyphs burned around him in a spiral of cobalt, crawling like serpents across the cracked ground.
The spell sank fangs into his veins instantly. Power ripped upward in a violent surge, dragging his blood with it, every beat pumping magic into the lattice like molten gold. He bit down on the groan clawing his throat, spine locking against the agony.
And through it all, he thought of Alec.
Alec pacing by the secondary circle, jaw tight, blue eyes burning like midnight glass. Alec’s hand brushing his abdomen unconsciously, protective even in his anger. Alec saying “Come back” without saying it, voice breaking in Magnus’ bones like a prayer dressed in steel.
I will, Magnus swore as blood slicked his lip. Even if it kills me.
The air convulsed with a shriek that wasn’t sound so much as a rupture in sense. The portal fought back, vomiting gouts of black fire that splashed against Magnus’ wards in detonations that shook the ridge. Each blast ripped a scream from his nerves, but he held—he always held—his teeth bared in a grin feral enough to scare gods.
Until the guardians rose again.
Not dead. Never dead.
Their smoking carcasses spasmed, knitting in jerks of sinew and shadow, dragging themselves upright on limbs like splintered spears. Ten feet away. Five.
“Ah,” Magnus hissed between his teeth. “Of course. Because why wouldn’t resurrection be on tonight’s menu?”
“Magnus—” Isabelle’s voice cracked like her whip as it lashed into the first brute, carving a trench of burning ichor down its chest. “We’ve got you!”
“You’d better,” Magnus bit out as the ground under him cracked, his circle hissing in protest. “Because if this lattice breaks before I finish, the ensuing explosion will turn you both into modern art.”
“Good incentive,” Jace yelled cheerfully, vaulting over a smoking rib cage to drive his blade into a guardian’s skull.
“Why are you smiling?” Magnus snarled, magic shrieking in his blood as he forced the next seal closed. “Normal people don’t smile during apocalypse!”
“I’m not normal!” Jace called back, spinning, stabbing, moving like a comet in leather.
“Point taken!” Magnus snapped, hurling a bolt of raw force into the crawling shadow trying to breach his ward. It detonated in a splatter of ichor that smelled like burned bone.
But they were losing ground. For every limb Isabelle severed, another punched through the void to join the fray. For every blade Jace drove home, another mask cracked into a grin full of teeth.
“Buy me thirty seconds!” Magnus roared, his voice breaking as blood spilled from his nose in a hot rush.
“Take twenty!” Isabelle shot back, whip whistling in a vicious arc that wrapped a brute’s neck and yanked. The head popped clean off in a gout of green steam.
“Magnus!” Jace’s voice—bright, cocky, and entirely too close to insanity. “Cover me!”
Magnus’ head snapped up just in time to see Jace sprinting—sprinting—straight at the tallest guardian, his blades a blur of white fire.
“Oh, for—JACE, I SWEAR—”
Too late. Jace vaulted off a heap of bones, flipped midair like a damn circus act, and drove both seraph blades into the brute’s spine. The thing shrieked, convulsed—and exploded in a geyser of ichor that should have killed him outright.
It didn’t. Somehow. Because apparently physics and probability loved Jace Wayland enough to make Magnus homicidal.
“HA!” Jace bellowed, landing in a crouch amid a rain of gore. “Did you see that?!”
Magnus’ hands shook so hard the next glyph splintered. “One day,” he hissed, “your luck will run out, and I will send flowers to the funeral I REFUSE TO ATTEND.”
“Send whiskey instead!” Jace called, slicing another guardian’s head clean off.
“I’m going to kill him,” Magnus muttered through his teeth, power surging in a torrent that ripped a scream from his chest as the final seal locked into place.
The circle roared, a sun igniting at his feet. Threads of blue fire lashed upward, twisting into a spiral that speared the portal dead center. The wound convulsed, vomiting gouts of black flame as the weave cinched tight, knotting its edges with Magnus’ blood.
Light ripped the sky open. The blast hurled him to his knees, the taste of copper thick on his tongue. He felt it tearing out of him—magic, marrow, breath—until the portal shrieked and collapsed inward like a lung exhaling its last.
And then there was silence.
Magnus sagged forward, hands braced on stone slick with blood—his blood—vision tunneling in shards of cobalt light. He barely felt Isabelle’s grip on his shoulder, heard only the wild hammer of his pulse and a single name burning through the static in his skull.
Alec.
Alec waiting at the circle, eyes sharp, hands restless. Alec whose voice would break like glass when Magnus staggered back through that portal—if he made it back at all.
He dragged in a breath that tasted like ash and spat it out in a laugh bright enough to scare the dark.
“Darling,” he rasped, forcing his spine straight as the glow faded around them, “let’s go home.”
**********
The portal spat him out with all the grace of a bouncer tossing out an unwelcome guest. He stumbled onto dry and dusty dirt, leather shoes scuffed and streaked with something that smelled like forgotten compost. The air shimmered behind him, and when Jace and Isabelle had been spiraled out, with a graceful flicker of his fingers, the tear in reality zipped itself closed with glistening blue sparkles.
He straightened slowly, muttering curses in a language that didn’t technically have vowels. His coat, once a tailored masterpiece of velvet and charm, hung askew on his frame, singed at the hem and stained in questionable shades of grime. His hair, normally a gravity-defying crown, was plastered to one side of his forehead with sweat and whatever that idiotic blond Shadowhunter had sprayed while stabbing mindlessly at everything in sight. He looked like a wreck. He felt like a wreck. And he was over it.
“Fantastic,” he said dryly, flicking some grey goo off his lapel. “Next time the world needs a savior, I’ll be at the spa, happily exfoliating while everything burns.”
He scanned the desolate landscape, the faint light of late afternoon. Gathering what was left of his dignity and smoothing his coat into something almost fashionable. He clenched his jaw, he needed a bath, scented oils, steam rising, a bottle of wine and he needed Alec right at the center of it all. The day needed to end chest to chest, all limbs and warmth and kisses pressed into collarbones or he would throw a tantrum.
Then he saw them. Two demons laying sprawled across the dirt, dark little bug-like bodies in a pool of dark fuming ichor. Each had one arrow lodged cleanly through its skull, clean shots. His chest tightened. The demons were still there so the kill was fresh and/or those demons faded back into the void in a fashionable latency.
He took a slow step forward, then another, staring at the bodies. What the hell happened here? This was supposed to be safe. The meeting point. The quiet after the storm. Alec was nowhere in sight. His breath caught, eyes darting across the landscape, a smear of black blood, an arrow half-buried in the dirt. I shouldn't have left him alone Magnus thought.
The screech cut through the air like a blade. Something casted a shadow over his body from above, feathers and claws and a sick, rotting stench hitting him square in the nose. He stumbled backward, boots grinding against loose gravel, and for a stunned second all he could do was gape. It looked like a chicken. If a chicken had crawled out of hell. Slick feathers, a grotesque hole in the middle of its face resembling somewhat a mouth, it was halfway between absurd and horrifying. What the—
He didn’t even have time to raise his hands before an arrow whistled through the space between them, fast and final. It struck the creature dead-center in its skull. The demon gave a violent twitch, then dropped to the dirt with a thud, limbs spasming. Dust swirled around him.
He stood there, heart hammering, staring down at the twitching corpse. And then he looked up. There, across the gravel yard, just behind some piece of broken crates, stood Alec. Alec stacked his bow onto his back and started to jog towards him and Magnus could see that the boy was unwell. He had one hand holding his chest and one holding his side. He was unsteady and moved oh so slowly his face stunningly pale in the quaint lightning. He couldn’t move for a moment, too many emotions crashing at once: shock, relief, a guilt that threatened to choke him, and under all of it, a love so sharp it left him raw. Then his feet moved before his thoughts could catch up. He crossed the gravel yard in quick, uneven steps. And as he grew closer to the Nephilim he could see a little bulge in his gear. Alec’s eyes were fixed on him like a lifeline keeping him going forward.
The shape became clearer. Small. Tucked in tight against his boyfriend’s chest, wrapped inside the tight material, cradled securely in the straps of his gear. A baby. He stopped mid-step. His breath caught. The world seemed to tilt sideways. He stared, throat closing around a surge of emotion that had no words. He had left them. He had left both of them. Alec had to do it alone, he was so proud of the man he loved and so ashamed of himself. Alec would never even contemplate holding Magnus accountable for his hardship, but Magnus would never forgive himself, and never was a very long time in a warlock’s life.
All the power he had, all the fire and flair and talent—and still, his love had faced demons alone, wounded and exhausted, with a baby strapped to his chest. Protecting them both. Shielding their child with nothing but grit and a bow and that maddening, unwavering heart of his. Guilt bloomed like a bruise behind his ribs.
I let you carry everything. I was supposed to be the one who kept you safe. I was supposed to be the one who didn’t leave.
He started walking again, slower now, gaze fixed on the small bundle nestled against the bloodstained jacket. When they finally reached each other, he didn’t speak. He just reached out, first to touch the baby's back, gentle, reverent. Then to his boyfriend’s face, fingers brushing away blood and sweat. His voice came out barely a whisper.
“You had the baby”
And then more broken:
“And I wasn’t there”
Alec didn’t answer. He just leaned into the touch, eyes half-lidded, body sagging with relief and exhaustion. Alec kept slouching more and more against him, all the fight gone from his frame, kept upright now only by closeness and sheer will. His breaths were shallow, almost trembling, as though even the act of staying conscious had become difficult. Between them, the baby stirred, a tiny, warm bundle nestled awkwardly inside the folds of his lover’s gear jacket, face barely visible beneath the edge of cloth and blood-damp fabric. One small hand twitched. The younger man shifted with visible effort, hands moving with care despite how much they shook.
“I... I can’t—” he murmured, voice rough with fatigue. “You should take him. In case I go down.”
Slowly, delicately, he began to unfasten the straps, working his jacket loose from his chest. Every motion was heavy, drained. But his hands remained steady where it mattered, as if protecting the child was the one duty anchoring him to consciousness. A tiny hand peeked out, fingers curled, completely unaware of the danger that had passed. Magnus stepped closer to help, cradling his boyfriend’s waist as the child was passed forward, soft and silent, no heavier than a kitten. His arms lifted on instinct. And then the weight settled in his hands. He stood there, stunned. The baby curled against his chest with a faint, unconscious sigh, tiny and warm and impossibly real. So small. So fragile. His head fit beneath his chin like it was meant to live there.
Every part of him stilled. His heart ached in a new, unfamiliar way. He looked down, mouth parted, eyes wide. The baby’s skin was soft against his palm. His heartbeat was fast compared to his, the slowest of them three. Tears welled in his eyes, thick and sudden. He blinked them away, barely.
“You come out of the womb and straight into a demon battleground? Drama queen, just like your bapak.” Magnus whispered to the child.
Beside him, Alec sagged a little more, half-folded with exhaustion. He tightened his hold on both of them and whispered:
“I’ve got you now. Both of you.”
Behind them, gravel crunched—quick, uneven footsteps approaching from across the yard. He glanced over his shoulder. The two younger shadowhunters were crossing the space toward them, dust-streaked and panting, one of them limping slightly. Isabelle led the way, her whip still in hand, a smear of something dark across its handle. She looked winded, scraped-up, but intact. And when her eyes fell on the baby in his arms, she stopped. Her breath hitched, he saw it, the sudden stillness in her shoulders, the way her fingers curled tighter around the handle of her whip. She stood there for a second, just looking, as if trying to take in every detail at once: the tiny head tucked beneath his chin, the twitch of a newborn hand, the way he held the baby like something sacred. She took a slow step forward. Then another. Her expression didn’t change, no smile, no tears, but her posture softened. The stiffness in her stance faded. Her chin tilted ever so slightly, lips parting just a little, as if caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. She didn’t speak. He shifted slightly to let her see better, instinctively protective but not blocking. The baby made a small sound in his arms. She came closer, stopping just an arm’s length away. Her whip dipped. The fight was still in her. But right now, she wasn’t a warrior. She was a sister meeting her nephew. And a big smile spread across her face.
Magnus felt Alec lose his footing at his side, body heavy with exhaustion, strength leaking out of him like water from a faucet. And that’s when the golden boy—of course—stepped in. Boots crunched on gravel as he sauntered over, hair somehow still perfectly tousled, not a speck of blood on his face despite the demon guts smeared across his gear. He gave the baby a quick once-over, mouth twitching into a smile that was too fond to be casual. Then, catching himself, he blinked, shook his head a little, and raised his eyebrows in mock offense.
“Oh good, he inherited your sense of timing and flair for dramatic inconvenience. Can’t wait for toddlerhood.” Jace said to Magnus with a smirk.
But he didn’t linger. No cooing, no soft touches. Just a look, a grin, and then a pivot—back to business. He moved to Alec’s other side, slipping an arm around his back, catching him with practiced ease. Despite the dramatic flair, his grip was steady, surprisingly careful.
“Alright, hero,” he muttered, eyeing the blood-soaked gear. “Let’s see how bad you let things get the one time I’m not there to protect your pretty ass.”
"You tried to pet a hellhound because, and I quote, ‘it looked like it needed love.’” Alec retorted weekly smiling. Jace chuckled finding comfort in their usual bantering, and so was he, he realized.
He began to assess the wounds with fast, practiced hands, no panic, no fuss. But the concern was there, plain in the way his eyes kept darting to his friend’s face, watching for signs of pain. Magnus said nothing. Just watched. There was something strangely grounding in it, that quiet, teasing loyalty. That unspoken rhythm between them. The golden boy knew what he was doing. Knew how to make it all seem like a performance, so no one would look too closely at how deeply he cared. He appreciated that, more than he’d admit out loud.
The baby stirred in his arms, warm and dozing now, one fist curled against the fabric of his shirt. He looked down at that tiny face, so calm, so unaware.
Then he turned to Isabelle, who was already stepping closer, hands half-raised like she couldn’t wait another second. Her whip was already back around her wrist, arms out, eyes wide with barely contained joy. He passed the baby into her waiting hands, and the transformation was instant, her whole frame softening, cradling the child and making googoo sounds to him.
"Don’t fall too in love, he’s mine."
Then, with a wink Magnus added: "But I’m absolutely calling you when I need an hour alone with your brother and a locked door."
She rolled her eyes without looking up, already making faces at the baby.
He turned back to his lover, who was still on his feet, barely, one arm looped around his Parabatai’s shoulders. Not that Jace seemed to mind—he carried him like he weighed nothing, throwing in the occasional dramatic flourish for good measure as if giving his friend a hero’s exit.
“Don’t drop him,” Magnus muttered, moving toward the center of the yard. “I’m still using that one.”
“Please,” the blond boy replied, but not to loudly though. “He’s lighter than the trail of glitter you leave behind wherever you go.”
A ripple of power stirred at his fingertips as he raised one hand and drew the portal open—thin lines of blue light spidering outward into a tear between worlds. Warm wind blew from the other side. Home. Finally.
He turned back as the others started to move, the young woman leading the way, cooing at the baby, the Parabaitais close behind.
He waited a beat, then stepped toward the portal last, glancing over his shoulder with a crooked half-smile.
“Let’s never do this again.” He paused. Looked directly at the Jace. “Especially with each other.”
Jace scoffed.
“You’d miss me before we even hit the threshold.”
“Devastated, but I’d recover by lunch.” he said with a wink, and stepped through the portal.
The portal closed behind them with a whisper. They stepped into his penthouse, all plush velvet and layered decadence. The lighting was soft and the faintest hum of city life lingered beneath the windows, muffled and distant. But all of it, the marble inlay, the art, the chandelier that dangled just a bit too arrogantly above the main hall, blurred into the edges of his focus. The only thing that mattered was the man he held.
He and Jace moved slowly, carefully, Alec’s weight leaned undone into both of them, legs dragging slightly with each step. He was still breathing, strenuously, his skin was cool, his jaw slack, his eyelids fluttering without rhythm. His head lolled slightly against Jace’s shoulder. They reached the bedroom. The lights dimmed a little as they entered, Magnus’ tension obviously disrupting his magic.
“Easy,” he murmured, though he wasn’t sure if he said it to the other man or himself.
He let Jace guide them to the bedside, then reached out first. One hand cradled the back of Alec’s neck, the other slid under his knees, and together they shifted him down laying him down with care. The dark haired Shadowhunter stirred weakly, a faint sound catching in his throat. His head turned blindly toward the source of warmth. Magnus gently arranged the limbs that had gone limp, brushing the hair from his love’s forehead with the backs of his fingers. His touch lingered there. Just for a second. Jace hovered nearby, hands half-tucked under his arms knowing there wasn’t much more he could do.
“You good?” he asked, quiet. Not soft, he didn’t do soft.
The high warlock nodded once, not looking away.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Jace held his gaze for a moment, then gave a short nod and slipped silently from the room. The door shut behind him with a hush. Somewhere beyond it, in the other room, Isabelle whispered something gentle, and the baby made a soft, sighing sound. Safe. He turned back to the bed. The man he loved was sprawled in the center, wounded and still. And somehow, even in this state, he looked like home. He reached for the magic forming at his fingertips. Time to fix what’s mine.
The room had gone completely quiet now, just the sound of his battered sweetheart’s shallow breaths. He sat beside the bed, took a long breath, and let the magic settle into his palms. Warm, blue, pulsing faintly like a second heartbeat, it curled between his fingers, waiting. He looked down at the body in front of him, in his bed again. His hand hovered over the torn gear jacket. He hesitated for half a second, then exhaled through his nose and flicked his fingers. The fabric unraveled at the seams, not torn, not pulled—just undone, slipping away from skin that had no business being so marked up. He pushed the cloth aside gently, carefully, afraid to hurt.
He started at the neck. The skin there was scratched raw in angry lines, swollen and irritated. He cupped the side of his neck with one hand, the other brushing across the scratches, fingertips lit with soft magic. Light spilled across the wounded skin like warm haze, sinking slowly. He watched as the angry skin smoothed beneath his fingers and the rune on Alec’s neck became the flawless lines he knew. His thumb stroked lightly along the edge of the healed skin, brushing his jaw just once before moving down.
The chest came next. He had seen this body bared before, so many times. Had traced each line with lips and tongue, memorized each curves and each singularities of Alec’s skin. Three puncture wounds marked the upper chest, just along the right side. The skin around them was red and puffy, glistening where the infection had started to set in. He pressed his palm flat over them, slow and firm, channeling heat into the muscle, deeper than skin. His magic pulsed in short waves, coaxing the poison out as the wound hissed and sealed.
He bit his lip.
“You let a chicken claw you,” he murmured softly, almost smiling. “You're lucky I love you.”
No answer. Just a shift of breath, a twitch of fingers. He moved lower, hands smoothing down the bruised expanse of his ribs and flank. The discoloration was vivid, deep blue and purplish, the telltale signature of blunt trauma. He let his hands move slowly, tracing the bruises with steady hands, watching for any twitch or flinch.
As he reached the side, he felt it, a give in the bone. A subtle crack. He stilled. Then laid both hands over the area, letting the magic sink into the cage of bone and nerve, and felt the fracture draw back together beneath his palms. Alec made a quiet noise, more breath than sound, but it was pain.
“I know,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”
He leaned over him now, eyes scanning down the spine, the bruises darkening the curve of his back. He worked silently, hands drifting with tender precision, easing each mark into memory. Not gone, but soothed. Quieted. He almost didn’t see the laceration just above the waistline, low on the left side. A clean cut, too straight to be random, definite and precise. His jaw clenched, something that had to do with the parting, the birth he figured. He touched it last.
He moved lower, hands hovering over the final wound. He braced one hand gently against his boyfriend’s hip to steady him, the other drifting just above the cut. The light in his palm deepened, warmer now, more focused. He reached for the current of magic that lived just beneath his skin, summoned the quiet hum of healing he’d done a thousand times before. But the moment his power met the wound, it recoiled. The magic flared, then pulled back, it sparked against something unseen, something buried deep that refused to give in. He frowned. What the hell? He pushed again, slower this time, more deliberate, narrowing the stream of magic like threading a needle. The skin shuddered beneath it. The edges tried to knit, trembling as if caught between mending and resisting.
He deepened the pressure, hand now flat above the wound, letting more power flow through his palm. The light pulsed harder. The air around his fingers shimmered faintly with heat. And the wound resisted. It fought him every inch of the way, closing in tiny, grudging pulls—first at the corners, then creeping slowly toward the center like something being dragged shut against its will. The skin twitched beneath his touch, spasming once, and then, Alec gasped. His back arched slightly off the bed, ribs lifting off the bed in a reflexive jerk. His face twisted, breath catching. Magnus froze.
“Hey, hey…” he murmured, instantly softer, hand lifting from the wound just enough to ease the pressure while still letting the magic hum below the surface. “It’s alright. I’ve got you.”
He smoothed a hand gently over his boyfriend’s side, thumb stroking the uninjured skin near the edge of the cut. His voice lowered, warmer.
“I know it hurts. Just a little longer, alright?”
He rested his hand along his boyfriend’s side, anchoring him with touch while the other hand resumed its work, slower this time, quieter. He sent the magic in beneath the pain, soothing where he could, pushing through where he had to. Another breath. Another pulse of power—this time steadier, deeper, drawn from further inside himself.
The wound gave. Reluctantly, with a faint hiss of heat, the final edges pulled together and sealed, leaving behind a pale, raised mark. He exhaled. Carefully.
His hand stayed pressed there looking down the man beneath his hands.
“When I leave you alone you nearly die. I hope you’re prepared to never pee alone again”
He stood from the bedside with one last glance, his fingers brushing gently over his Alexander’s now-steady pulse. The wounds were gone. The bruises faded. Breathing even. For the first time in what felt like forever, he could leave the room without fear of losing him.
He padded out quietly, leaving the door slightly ajar, and found the Nephilims where he expected, both seated in the sunken living room, surrounded by too many throw pillows and just enough exhaustion. Isabelle, a dashing feminine image of her brother, held the baby close against her chest, swaying unconsciously in her seat. Jace, long legs draped over the edge of the sofa, arms thrown back like he was posing for a portrait, looked perfectly composed in a way only someone deeply exhausted and completely vain could.
They looked up as he entered.
“He’s fine. Resting. All patched up.” he said simply.
The sister closed her eyes and exhaled, her shoulders sinking in relief.
“He’ll live, then?” Jace said raising an eyebrow.
“Oh yes,” the galler man replied, stepping forward, voice low but smug. “Which means I get to take care of him and exploit his weakened state for ‘recreational purposes.’”
He caught the golden boy’s expression twist into that familiar grimace, the universal look of someone who’d just been force-fed exactly the wrong mental image.
“Good,” the sister said always happy and non-plussed about knowing about Alec’s intimacy, standing with practiced ease, the baby tucked snugly in her arms. “He’s going to sleep for a while, huh?”
“He’s probably dreaming about apologizing for being a burden, that idiot” Magnus said tenderly.
He reached out, and she carefully transferred the baby into his arms. The little one didn’t stir, just gave a sleepy sigh as he nestled into the crook of his chest like he belonged there.
“Well,” he said, rocking back on his heels slightly, “You’ve both been very brave and moderately helpful. Now vanish before I have to offer snacks.”
The sister laughed.
“Trust me, I need a bath and a nap in that order.”
Jace stretched like a cat, tousled hair somehow still artful.
“And I need a very long shower, a very large mirror, and a fan club that appreciates the way I make entrails look elegant.”
The warlock gave him a once-over, then a lazy snap of his fingers to open a portal.
“You are an inspiration to the unhygienic.”
They made their way to the door, Isabelle glancing back once more and just before crossing through, the devilish blond boy turned with a wink pointing at the baby,
“Careful, he’s already better looking and twice as likable.” before they disappeared into the portal.
Silence returned. He looked down at the baby now dozing against him, tiny fists curled, mouth slightly open. Still sleeping, still perfect. He gave a soft hum and snapped his fingers once. In an instant, the dried blood and slime vanished from his hands and neck. His hair swept itself back into place, spiked and shining. The baby shimmered clean too, a faint sandalwood note in the air, subtle, elegant. Another snap. Comfortable but stylish loungewear appeared on both of them. His was a draped dark silk top and perfectly fitted trousers, casual but enviably tailored. The baby now wore a tiny matching wrap in deep slate blue, trimmed with gold thread at the hem. Tasteful. Understated. Iconic.
He walked to the mirror, turned just slightly for angle, and grinned.
“Your daddy’s going to cry when he sees how stupidly gorgeous we are,” he said under his breath, glancing from himself to the baby.
He looked down at the sleeping infant, whose little hand twitched in his sleep.
**********
The penthouse was unnervingly quiet in the wake of chaos. The city outside still pulsed, but within these walls, Magnus felt the pressure of too many silences: the quiet of exhaustion, of frayed nerves, of too much blood lost these last few days. He had healed Alec—well, as much as magic could. But he couldn’t quite do miracles. Healing wasn’t always enough. The boy still looked pale, fragile in ways Magnus wasn't accustomed to seeing. He was curled into the soft depths of the bed, breath slow but steady, as though he were something precious that might shatter at the wrong touch. Magnus hovered.
He told himself it was practical. The baby—small, still unsettlingly new—had started to fuss, his soft mewling growing into breathless, shrill sobs that tightened Magnus’ throat. He had done what he could: songs, cradling, soft whispered nonsense in languages he remembered from another life. But none of it seemed to matter.
The baby didn’t need him.
He needed Alec.
The child wasn’t like infants born from organic reproduction, who could be calmed with milk or rocked into satiation. His body—his very being—was not yet ready for the world in full. His digestive system wasn’t built enough to handle food, his magic not yet sparked into its own self-sustaining flame. For now, he needed Alec. Needed the quiet current of Omega magic that had sustained him in the womb to continue flowing into him to keep his fragile systems functioning. Until the day the baby’s own magic matured enough to take over, it was Alec’s breath, Alec’s Scent, Alec’s power that kept the child alive.
Magnus hesitated. Alec needed sleep—gods, he needed sleep—and he had sworn to himself, swore even now, that he would not be the one to disturb the fragile peace Alec’s body had carved out of near-death. But the baby’s cries were rising, frantic now, and something deep and basic in Magnus’ chest twisted painfully.
So he chose.
Gently, awkwardly, he gathered the small bundle into his arms, cradling the fragile warmth against his chest as he pushed the door open with a soft sigh. The room beyond was dark, only a small nightlight casting its soft glow across shadowed walls. The faintest scent of magic lingered—his own, burned faintly into the air—and something sweeter underneath: Alec’s.
He stepped inside.
The child—his child, he still could barely think the words—was still sobbing softly, but the moment they crossed the threshold, Magnus felt it: a shift. The air thickened, the weight of Alec’s Scent brushing over him in waves, but it wasn’t the usual soft leather and cool steel filled with Alec’s feelings and needs.
This was new.
It wrapped around them both—him and the child—gentle but potent, vast in its quiet strength. It was protection. It was belonging. It was primal. And just like that, the child’s cries faded into weak moans, discomfort still there but no longer despair.
Magnus’ breath caught.
He made his way to the bed, steps feather-light on the floor. Alec lay curled, turned towards them, lashes resting like dark strokes against pale skin. His features were slack with sleep, the sharp angles of his cheekbones soft in the low light. For a moment Magnus didn’t move. He simply stood, his arms cradling the baby as he looked—drank it in: Alec, alive, breathing. The fragile miracle of it. When the child whimpered again, Magnus blinked out of the reverie. He climbed onto the bed carefully, heart thudding, and settled beside Alec. The baby stirred in his arms, and before Magnus could decide what to do, he saw Alec’s fingers twitch in sleep. His eyes slitted open, unfocused but seeing. His hand lifted weakly. A lazy, imperious gesture: bring him here. Magnus’ throat tightened. He obeyed without words, leaning in to place the child in the crook of Alec’s body, close against his chest.
The change was instant.
The baby sighed, breath catching once, and then stilled. His little hands fisted weakly into Alec’s bare chest. The room itself seemed to ease, tension sliding out of the air. Magnus exhaled in a shudder. He lay down slowly, facing them both, close enough that he could see the gentle rise and fall of Alec’s breathing. The baby was nestled between them, his impossibly tiny form curled like a comma against Alec’s warmth. Magnus lifted a hand, hovering it above them both. Blue light gathered at his fingertips—soft, pulsing, held back. He let the magic unfurl, barely more than threads, letting it touch—Alec’s skin, the baby’s faintly glowing presence. And he saw the softest flakes of light lifting, shimmering, dancing in the air: blue, silver, pale as stars.
From Alec, the magic drifted—silver-bright, like moonlight on snow—reaching gently into the child. And something strange happened: the magic reached back—to him. Blue and silver twined, soft as breath.
Magnus’ eyes stung.
He pulled the magic back, the lights dimming, his fingertips trembling. He reached instead to Alec’s face, tracing along the sharp line of his jaw, brushing curls from his forehead with infinite care. Alec didn’t wake, but the faintest flicker of a smile touched his lips in sleep.
Magnus’ heart ached.
He let his hand drift to Alec’s hip, resting there lightly. His eyes never left them—this fragile, precious pair—until the soft rhythm of their breathing began to pull him under too. For the first time in what felt like lifetimes, Magnus let himself drift, cradled in the soft glow of magic, heartbeats, and the unspoken promise that for now, they were safe, a family.
Chapter 17: A new equilibrium
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Silence was a strange creature in Magnus’ penthouse. It had claws once—sharp and merciless, carving into the edges of every room when he used to come back from battles alone. When laughter faded and voices died, the quiet would creep in, coil around his throat, and whisper old names like curses. But tonight… no. Tonight silence was soft. Gentle. A downy thing curling in the corners, threaded through the golden pools of lamplight like soft ribbons. Magnus leaned back into the cushions, one arm draped along the back of the sofa, a glass of something amber and expensive balanced between two long fingers. He hadn’t taken a sip. He didn’t need to. The intoxication was already there—spilling like sweet honey through his veins.
Alec lay stretched along the far end of the couch, half-reclined against the armrest, the picture of exhaustion so heavy even his ingrained Shadowhunter rigidity had surrendered to it. His gray T-shirt was soft and worn, clinging in gentle folds instead of the strict lines of gear, the collar tugged slightly askew from where tiny fingers had grabbed at it earlier. His dark hair had given up the fight hours ago, curling in damp strands against his temple, a few rebelliously brushing his brow. Magnus had stripped away what remained of his battlefield elegance long ago—though in this case, the battlefield was a nursery scattered with burp cloths and mismatched socks. Gone were the boots and buckles, replaced by bare feet tucked beneath a throw, long legs sprawled carelessly, their usual grace traded for bone-deep fatigue.
Beside him, a tiny blanket lay crumpled like a surrendered flag, and on Alec’s chest, rising and falling in a fragile rhythm that could undo entire worlds, was Max—sleeping, small fists curled tight, a soft whimper caught in his throat. Magnus had taken his boots earlier with all the ceremony of a Broadway finale, sweeping them off with a flourish and a teasing, “Darling, you’re desecrating my floors with fatherhood chic. Tragic, truly.”
Alec had only rolled his eyes, the faintest smile tugging at his lips before fatigue pulled it away again. Now he simply lay there, quiet, head tipped back against the cushion, lashes casting shadows like smudged ink across pale skin. Not a warrior. Not tonight. Just a man who’d fought too many battles—and found himself in the fiercest one of all, holding something so impossibly small it made the rest of the world feel like smoke.
The baby’s breathing came in delicate, uneven sighs—like the world’s smallest bellows, rising and falling in a rhythm so fragile Magnus found himself counting every lift of that minuscule chest. His hair—if you could call it that—was a whisper of black down, damp and curling at the crown. His fists, impossibly small, peeked from the folds of Alec’s shirt, one curled in sleep, the other twitching like a thought not yet formed. Magnus set the glass down without looking, fingers loosening as if they’d forgotten what to do with crystal and liquor when something infinitely rarer occupied his view. He let his gaze drink them in—Alec and Max—bathed in the low amber glow that softened the sharpness of Alec’s jaw, gilded the blue shadows under his eyes into something almost holy. By the Angel, he looked wrecked. Pale from blood loss and sleepless nights, leaner than Magnus liked. But alive. Breathing. Here. Magnus’ throat tightened against a swell of feeling he wasn’t sure he could name without breaking.
Two weeks. Two weeks since the world almost tore itself in half. Since Magnus felt reality crack like glass under his hands while Alec’s life burned like a tether at the edge of the void. Two weeks since he thought—truly thought—that love wasn’t enough. That all the power he’d hoarded, every sin and secret, every ounce of wit and steel—none of it would matter against the simple cruelty of fate. And yet… here they were.
Whole? No. Not quite. There were fractures—hairline cracks spiderwebbing through them both, invisible to anyone who didn’t know where to look. But Magnus knew. He could feel them in the way Alec’s fingers sometimes twitched against the baby’s blanket even in sleep, like he was reaching for a bowstring that wasn’t there. He could taste them in the hush that fell between words when Magnus woke sweating in the dark, shadows of old magic clawing through his veins.
But those cracks? They were filled now—with lamplight. With laughter, sometimes, soft and startled, spilling out in sudden bursts when Magnus tried (and failed) to button Max into something with more sequins than fabric. With the sound of tiny hiccups that sent Alec into near panic until Magnus swept in like an opera star to demonstrate the ancient magic of a burp cloth. Magnus smiled faintly at the memory, tilting his head against the cushions, watching Alec’s chest rise and fall under the small weight of their son.
Max.
The name curled warm on his tongue even in thought. Short for Maximus—dramatic, of course, because Magnus had argued for a name with grandeur. But when Alec said, soft and sure, “Max,” something in Magnus unraveled. Max, for a man Magnus had never known except through Alec’s memory. A man who chose freedom when the Clave offered him chains. Who vanished into a mortal life rather than carve his soul hollow for the glory of an institution that devoured its own.
Magnus understood that kind of defiance. Admired it. Maybe even envied it, once. Now he honored it—curled small and perfect against Alec’s chest, fist twitching in sleep.
A hum of magic stirred at Magnus’ fingertips before he realized it—a shimmer of blue cascading from his nails, pooling in the air like liquid starlight. He let it drift, soft as silk, settling over Alec and Max in a halo that pulsed faintly with protective wards. Unnecessary, perhaps. His penthouse was locked down tighter than the Spiral Labyrinth during an apocalypse drill. But still. He couldn’t stop weaving layers of safety like blankets, tucking them in with wards that whispered mine to the dark. He reached out before thought could stop him, his hand hovering above Alec’s knee for a moment before settling lightly on his thigh. Just a touch. Just enough to remind himself they were here. Warm. Real.
Alec stirred faintly, lashes fluttering, but didn’t wake. Magnus’ mouth softened. His fingers lingered, trailing idly over the seam of Alec’s worn sweatpants until they brushed the edge of the baby’s back.
So small.
So breakable.
And yet, somehow, the fiercest force Magnus had ever felt now lived in something that weighed less than Chairman Meow on a lazy afternoon. He let his head tip back, eyes fluttering shut, the lamplight painting warm ghosts behind his lids.
He thought of Alec’s smile when Max wrapped tiny fingers around his index—wobbly and uneven, like Alec wasn’t sure how to hold joy without dropping it. He thought of the way Alec had said, voice cracking like old glass, “He’s… so small,” as if the universe had given him a puzzle piece that didn’t fit until Magnus slid his hand over Alec’s and whispered, “Yes. And he’s ours.”
A sound broke softly from Magnus’ throat—half laugh, half something he would never shape into words. He swallowed it down and let his fingers drift to Alec’s hip, resting there like punctuation at the end of a vow. His eyes never left them—this fragile, precious pair—until the rhythm of their breathing began to pull him under too.
**********
The first thing Alec learned about newborns was that time stopped making sense. Hours folded in on themselves, days stretched and vanished like mist, and night and day became a blur stitched together by soft cries, the rustle of blankets, and Magnus’ low, melodic hum as he rocked Max against his shoulder like a sorcerer soothing a restless spell. It was… disorienting. It was also the happiest Alec had ever been. Not that he’d admit that out loud—not yet, not when Magnus would turn it into some grand monologue involving violins and fireworks.
Right now, Alec was focused on the baby sprawled across his chest like a living furnace, impossibly small yet radiating enough warmth to make Alec sweat through his T-shirt. Max’s breathing was soft and uneven, his tiny mouth pursed in a dream-sigh. Every so often, one fist would twitch, his fragile fingers curling around the cotton like he was already gearing up for some future where grabbing seraph blades was an option. Alec pressed his palm gently against Max’s back, just to feel it—the delicate rise and fall, the steady proof of life that anchored him harder than any rune ever had. He’d been terrified at first. No, terrified didn’t even cover it. Petrified. This wasn’t a demon he could stab or a mission he could fail and make up for later. This was permanent. A life. A helpless one. Depending on him.
And yet… when Max had wrapped those minuscule fingers around Alec’s index for the first time, something had cracked open in his chest. Something warm. Something raw. He didn’t have a name for it, but it stayed—burned, even—in the quiet hours between midnight and dawn, when Magnus padded into the living room barefoot with his hair mussed and his voice soft as starlight, murmuring, “Go back to sleep, Alexander. I’ve got him.”
The intercom buzzed.
Alec jumped, one hand flying instinctively to Max as if demons could break through Magnus’ wards by sheer audacity and somewhy buzz the Intercom. The baby made a faint, disgruntled noise but didn’t wake. Alec exhaled slowly, rolling his eyes at himself. He wasn’t on patrol anymore. He wasn’t drawing a bow at the sound of footsteps in the dark. He was on a couch in Brooklyn, wearing sweatpants, smelling faintly of baby lotion and something rancid he didn’t want to identify.
Magnus’ voice floated from the hallway, melodic and faintly amused. “Darling, I swear on my finest eyeliner—if this is another delivery of floral arrangements, I might ban orchids for a century.”
Alec smirked, stroking Max’s back in slow circles. Magnus had gone overboard after the birth—bouquets, enchanted mobiles, enough tiny outfits to clothe an army of warlocks. Alec had drawn the line at matching family ensembles.
“No,” he’d said firmly that morning, holding up a sequined vest that looked suspiciously like Magnus’ in miniature.
“But imagine the photographs!” Magnus had argued, one hand clutching his heart like Alec had run a blade through his aesthetic soul.
Alec had shaken his head, lips twitching. “We’re not dressing like a show choir, Magnus.”
He could still hear the pout in Magnus’ sigh.
The sound of the intercom crackled again, pulling Alec back. Voices. Magnus answering with a drawl that slid toward something tighter. Curious, Alec sat up, easing Max against his shoulder. The baby wriggled, blinked once, then sank back into the crook of his neck, warm and pliant. Footsteps approached. Magnus reappeared in the doorway, his expression composed—but Alec knew him too well. Under the gloss, tension flickered sharp as a blade.
“Alexander,” Magnus said, voice careful. “You have a visitor.”
“Who—” Alec began, then froze.
Because he saw her before Magnus moved aside.
Maryse.
She stood framed in the doorway like a figure carved from steel—tall, shoulders squared, her hair swept into a severe knot that gleamed under the penthouse light. Her face was the same—elegant, cold edges honed sharp over decades of discipline—but her eyes… her eyes were softer than Alec remembered. Blue, like his own. And hesitant in a way that twisted something deep in his gut.
“Mom,” Alec said, the word strange on his tongue.
It came out flat. Guarded. But his pulse spiked anyway, roaring in his ears. She exhaled, a sound almost like relief—then stilled. Because her gaze had dropped, and there—curled in Alec’s arms, wrapped in pale blue and breathing in tiny huffs—was Max. Maryse didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Her lips parted like she’d swallowed words too heavy to lift. Alec shifted slightly, angling the baby closer to his chest without even thinking. His instincts were a thicket now—bristling, protective, coiled tight around this small, perfect thing that had nothing to do with runes or oaths or the Clave’s choking chains.
“What are you doing here?” he asked finally, voice low. The question under it—Why now?—hung heavy in the air.
Maryse’s throat worked as she swallowed. She took a half-step forward, then stopped when Magnus—smooth as silk—shifted subtly into her path. He wasn’t bristling. Not yet. But there was iron in the line of his spine, warning coiled in the soft gleam of his cat eyes.
Maryse’s jaw tightened. Then—quietly—“I wanted to see you. To be sure you were safe. After everything.”
“We’re fine,” Alec said evenly. His fingers tightened slightly on Max, who stirred but didn’t wake. “We’re all fine.”
Maryse nodded, her gaze dipping again to the baby. When she spoke, her voice cracked like frost underfoot. “What… what is his name?”
“Max,” Magnus said before Alec could answer, tone light but edged. “After his uncle. A man with excellent taste and, as I hear it, better sense than most Nephilim.”
Maryse’s lips curved—just barely—but Alec saw it. A smile, soft and quick, like a ghost. “I loved my brother,” she said simply.
Silence stretched. Alec felt it pull taut in his chest. Magnus shifted, his presence radiating heat like a shield, but he didn’t speak. He was waiting—for Alec. Always Alec. And Alec… didn’t know what to give her. Not yet.
Maryse seemed to read it in his face, because her next words came quiet, halting. “If—if you’ll allow it… I’d like to visit. When you’re ready. And if I can… I’d like to be part of your lives.”
The words landed like a blade sliding through soft earth. Alec blinked, stunned, then looked at Magnus. The warlock’s gaze was unreadable—gold and bright and steady. But in the tilt of his head, in the slow blink of those long lashes, Alec read the truth: Your call, Alexander. Always yours.
Alec’s voice was calm when it came. Too calm. “When you say ‘your lives,’ Mom… you mean mine and his?” He glanced down at Max. Then, deliberately, his eyes lifted to Magnus. “Or do you mean all three of us?”
Maryse flinched. Just slightly. Then her chin lifted, and Alec braced for a fight that didn’t come.
“I mean all of you,” she said, and there was no steel in it now—only something raw and strange and maybe real. “Anyone who matters to you… matters to me.”
For a moment, Alec just looked at her. Then—slowly—he exhaled.
“Do you want tea?” he asked.
Maryse blinked. Then, softly—“I’d love some.”
Magnus’ brows rose. Alec shot him a look that said don’t, and Magnus—miraculously—said nothing as he stepped aside to let Maryse in.
Maryse Lightwood had the kind of presence that made even Magnus’ wards hum in wary curiosity.
She crossed the threshold like a soldier advancing into enemy territory—spine a blade, chin tilted at a perfect angle that spoke of habit rather than pride. Her coat, severe and dark, swept against her boots with a whisper like unsheathed steel. She looked, Magnus thought absently, as though she had been carved for command: all sharp planes and deliberate stillness, honed across decades until warmth was something you put on like armor—rarely, and with care.
Except… the eyes.
Blue. The same blue as the boy now slumbering against Alec’s chest in the bedroom beyond, the same shade Magnus sometimes swore burned brighter than angel fire when Alec argued about duty versus desire in a tone that could strip paint. But Maryse’s eyes tonight were stormlight dulled at the edges—hesitant, uncertain, like someone who’d finally found the door to a room she wasn’t sure she had the right to enter. Magnus caught that flicker in the second before she shuttered it. Old habits were efficient that way.
“Tea,” Alec had said, and then vanished down the hall with Max still curled in his arms, leaving Magnus to play host in what was shaping up to be his least favorite social experiment since that dinner party with three rival High Warlocks and one misbehaving Ifrit. Magnus summoned a smile like a blade slipped under silk.
“Do come in,” he purred, stepping aside with the kind of grace that could make poison taste like honey. “Shoes off if you intend to breach the sanctum of the rug. It’s vintage Veylarian weave—handwoven by monks who cried for seventy-two hours over every knot.”
Maryse’s lips compressed. Not quite a smile, but something ghosted there—an acknowledgment, maybe, that she recognized provocation when it shimmered like stardust in front of her.
“I won’t endanger your rug,” she said evenly, toeing off her boots with brisk efficiency before lining them against the wall like soldiers awaiting inspection.
Magnus arched a brow. Score one for the matriarch, he thought, gliding toward the kitchen in a spill of emerald silk. The wards stirred at his passage, curling like lazy serpents along the baseboards, their faint luminescence pooling against the marble. Protective reflex, nothing more. He trusted Alec’s mother about as far as he could throw the Clave’s moral compass—which, incidentally, he’d once considered catapulting into another dimension. Still, for Alec, he would try civility. Perhaps even charm. Carefully rationed, of course.
He flicked his fingers, and the tea set bloomed across the counter in a shimmer of cobalt and gold: porcelain older than most continents, delicate enough to hum when the steam kissed its rim. Water whispered into a rolling boil as Magnus summoned a tin from the top shelf—dragon pearl jasmine, because nothing soothed tension like a brew that smelled faintly of moonlight and old poetry. Behind him, footsteps approached—measured, quiet. The kind of quiet you cultivated when your life depended on hearing a demon breathe fifty yards away.
“Nice place,” Maryse said finally, her voice a careful blade sliding along neutral ground.
Magnus allowed himself a slow turn, one brow arched high enough to require its own postal code. “Thank you,” he drawled. “I do try to make apocalypse recovery chic look effortless.”
Her gaze swept the space—gleaming floors, chandelier scattering prisms across velvet drapes, the faint shimmer of wards stitched into the seams of the room like threads of starlight. Her jaw softened by a fraction. Approval, or resignation? Hard to tell.
“I didn’t come here to fight,” she said quietly.
Magnus tilted his head, smile glinting like the edge of a coin. “And yet, historically, that seems to be our favorite pastime.”
Something flickered in her expression—guilt, sharp and sudden, before she masked it with the efficiency of a woman who’d learned to bury sins under duty. “Things change,” she said. Not defensive. Just… flat. Like a fact she was still teaching her own bones to believe.
Magnus said nothing. The kettle sang low, a silver thread of sound curling through the quiet as he poured steaming water over the pearls, watching them unfurl in lazy spirals—tiny green fists surrendering to heat. The scent rose soft and floral, winding around them like a truce. Alec’s footsteps returned before Magnus could decide whether to lace his civility with venom. He turned—and the sight made something in his chest pull taut. Alec stood framed in the archway, Max bundled against his chest, dark head pillowed under Alec’s jaw. His shirt was rumpled and fatigue clung to him like a second skin—but his grip on the baby was steady, protective. Fierce, in a way that made Magnus’ throat tighten.
Maryse drew in a breath sharp enough to cut. Magnus saw her fingers twitch at her sides, like she wanted—achingly, instinctively—to reach out. But she didn’t move. Not yet.
“Mom,” Alec said, voice calm but iron-edged. His gaze swept the room once, landing on Magnus for half a beat—checking, always checking—before sliding back to Maryse. “You wanted to talk.”
Maryse nodded, throat working. “I did.” Her eyes dipped to Max again, and the steel in her frame wavered—just slightly—like frost under the first kiss of thaw. “He’s… beautiful.”
Alec’s jaw tightened. He didn’t move closer, but he didn’t retreat either. The air between them stretched taut as a bowstring.
Maryse’s gaze lingered on the tiny bundle against Alec’s chest, and something shifted in her face—so subtle Alec might have missed it if he didn’t know her tells. The rigid steel of her expression softened at the edges, thawing like frost under sunlight.
“Max,” she murmured, tasting the name as if it were fragile, a relic pulled from old memory. Her lips curved—not the taut, perfunctory smile Alec had grown up with, but something gentler, tinged with grief and pride. “Your uncle… he would have loved that.”
Her voice faltered on loved, like the word had a weight she wasn’t used to carrying out loud. For one brief moment, the woman who had drilled discipline into his bones seemed undone—not by weakness, but by something rarer. Alec’s fingers tightened protectively over Max’s blanket, his chest tightening with an ache he couldn’t quite name. For a moment, silence swelled—a silence thick with ghosts and things unspoken. Magnus let it breathe, his own pulse ticking in counterpoint to the soft sound of Max’s breath against Alec’s chest.
“He looks like you,” she said softly.
Alec’s heart gave a painful twist, like a reflex he couldn’t control. He didn’t answer.
Maryse looked over at him. “May I…?”
Alec nodded, but it wasn’t automatic. It was measured. Thought out. He glanced at Magnus first, and Magnus, for all his guarded elegance, gave the faintest of nods—neutral, but not cold. Maryse bent slightly, hands trembling just enough to be noticed, and reached forward. She lifted Max like he was made of glass, cradling him against her chest with an instinct Alec hadn’t expected from her. She adjusted his blanket. She adjusted her hold. And then she just stood there, staring down at the tiny sleeping face, as if it were too much to take in. Her breath hitched. It was so quiet Alec almost missed it. But the sound—that soft, startled exhale—cut through everything. She sank onto the couch slowly, eyes never leaving Max’s face. “He’s so small,” she whispered.
Alec sat across from her, Magnus beside him, both watching with a silence that wasn’t quite comfortable, but wasn’t hostile either.
Maryse rocked slightly. Just once. Then again. Her fingers moved over Max’s back in a way Alec remembered from childhood—those same firm, confident passes when he or Jace had come home from sparring bruised or angry. So many years ago. She looked up at Alec then, and there was pride in her eyes, yes—but also something that looked like shame.
“I used to think I was protecting you,” she said quietly. “When I was really just pushing you further away.”
Alec held her gaze. “You still have time to change that. If you want to.”
She nodded, once. “I do.”
He believed her. Not completely. Not yet. But enough to offer her something better than suspicion.
Magnus cleared his throat gently, rising from the couch. “I’ll make more tea,” he said, though Alec was sure he just needed the excuse to leave the room. Magnus hated emotional vulnerability when he wasn’t the one orchestrating it. Maryse’s eyes followed him to the kitchen, then returned to Alec.
“He loves you,” she said. “I can see it. Every time he looks at you.”
Alec felt heat rise to his cheeks. “I know.”
“He’s good for you,” she added. “Different. But good.”
Alec tilted his head, arching a brow slightly. “And you’re fine with that? With… him being part of this?”
Maryse looked down at Max again, brushing a thumb gently along his tiny cheek.
“I didn’t come here to choose which parts of your life I wanted to accept,” she said. “I came here because I want to be part of all of it. Of you. Of him. Of this little boy who’s already stronger than I’ll ever be.”
The baby shifted slightly and let out a little coo, as if to punctuate the moment. Alec stared at them. At his mother. At his son. He didn’t feel peace exactly—but there was something softer in his chest now. Something loosening. When Magnus returned with the tea, Maryse accepted a cup with a quiet thank you. And for a moment, in the middle of a room filled with old ghosts and fresh beginnings, Alec allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, they could learn how to be something like a family again.
Magnus perched on the edge of his own couch like a guest in someone else’s parlor—a rare, uncomfortable feeling for a man who could conjure empires in velvet and glass with the flick of his fingers. He sipped his tea slowly, letting the jasmine curl over his tongue in delicate ribbons of calm he didn’t feel. Because Maryse Lightwood was sitting on his couch, holding his son. Technically, Alec’s son too. But Magnus, in his most honest moments—the kind he only allowed in dark corners at three a.m.—knew this child was every spell he’d never dared cast, every fragile piece of hope he’d hidden under silk and wit for centuries. And now Maryse Lightwood, with her blade-cut posture and those eyes like frost that had once frozen every step Alec took, had her hands on that hope.
He set his cup down with a sound so soft it barely registered, then laced his fingers loosely in his lap. Outwardly calm. Inwardly… not. The wards coiled at the base of the walls like lazy serpents, humming in time with his pulse. Maryse cradled Max the way someone holds a secret they’re not sure they deserve to keep—arms steady, but her jaw tight like she feared it would crack under the weight of something so small and breakable. Her thumb brushed the edge of Max’s blanket. Once. Twice. A rhythm almost reverent. Magnus caught the tremor in her hand. Interesting.
“Tea tolerable?” he asked lightly, breaking the silence with a question as polished as a blade slipped between ribs. “I’d hate for you to think we’re savages. Alexander’s palate isn’t quite as discerning as mine.”
Maryse’s lips twitched—a ghost of amusement, gone almost before it bloomed. “It’s perfect,” she said quietly. Her voice carried the same steel, but softer now, like metal left to warm in the sun.
Magnus inclined his head, the picture of civility, while his thoughts curled like smoke. He wanted to hate her. By the Angel, he’d spent years polishing that loathing into something sharp and dazzling. For every word that had carved Alec down to shadow. For every look that made him feel like love was a battlefield and Alec was losing. And yet. There was no battlefield in Maryse’s eyes now. No clipped disapproval. Only something stripped raw—hesitation threaded with longing, with something that might even be guilt. It made Magnus want to hiss, to dig in, to ask if contrition tasted bitter after decades of sanctimony.
But then Max shifted in her arms, and Maryse froze—not like someone startled, but like someone afraid to breathe in case the moment shattered. The look on her face—oh. That wasn’t steel. That was something Magnus hadn’t expected to see on her features in this lifetime: tenderness, naked and unguarded, bleeding through every line like sunlight through cracks in stone. And damn it all, Magnus felt something in his chest loosen.
Alec sat opposite her, silent, his long fingers curled over his knees, his posture deceptively relaxed. Magnus knew better. He could feel the tension coiled under Alec’s skin like a drawn string. Every flick of those blue eyes tracked the baby, the way Maryse’s hand hovered near his jaw, the angle of her arm. Protective instinct blazing under exhaustion so deep it painted shadows beneath his eyes. Magnus wanted to reach across the space, take that tension in his palms, and knead it away. He wanted to spill a quip sharp enough to slice the heaviness and make Alec roll those storm-cloud eyes. He wanted—By the Angel, he wanted too many things, and right now, none of them were wise. So instead, he leaned back, draping one arm along the back of the sofa like a king tolerating a visiting diplomat. His voice slid out smooth as satin dipped in arsenic.
“You seem comfortable,” he drawled. “I confess, I half-expected a lecture on how warlock energy might somehow stain the baby’s aura.”
Maryse looked up sharply. Then, to his surprise, she huffed—soft, rueful. “I’ve said enough things I regret, Magnus. I’m not here to add to the list.”
Magnus blinked once. Twice. Well. That was… unexpected.
He tilted his head, studying her like one might a serpent that suddenly started quoting poetry. “Personal growth. How refreshing.”
Alec shot him a look across the coffee table—one of those narrow-eyed, please-don’t-start-a-war-in-the-living-room looks. Magnus offered him a smile, slow and feline, and reached for his cup again. The tea had gone lukewarm.
Maryse bent her head, pressing her lips lightly against Max’s dark crown. It was a fleeting touch, almost hesitant, but the sound she made—a breath sharp enough to quake—twisted something Magnus had spent years armoring. He looked away before it could undo him further, his gaze sliding to Alec instead. And oh, that look.
Alec’s face had softened—not into trust, not yet, but into something more dangerous. Hope. Fragile and flickering, bright enough to burn if it broke. Magnus’ throat tightened around words he didn’t dare spill. Don’t bet too much on this, Alexander. Don’t stake your heart on the illusion that people change overnight.
But he didn’t say it. Not when Alec’s lashes dipped in that slow blink, when the corners of his mouth eased like he’d set down a weight for the first time in years.
Instead, Magnus rose with a sweep of emerald silk, masking the tremor in his chest with flourish. “Well,” he said lightly, reclaiming the pot for a dramatic refill, “look at us. The picture of domestic tranquility. Someone fetch a painter. Or a novelist. This scene deserves a climax.”
Maryse glanced up, one brow arching in faint amusement. Alec rolled his eyes. And Max—blissfully indifferent to the tectonic shifts of lineage and loyalty—yawned wide, a tiny pink tongue curling like punctuation at the end of a sentence none of them had learned to read yet.
**********
The door clicked shut behind Maryse with a whisper like the end of an echo. For a long, brittle moment, the penthouse held its breath. Alec stood rooted in the living room, hands braced on the back of a chair, staring at the space his mother had just vacated as if expecting her to materialize again in a swirl of coats and complicated feelings.
She hadn’t slammed the door. That felt… significant. Growing up, silence had been her sharpest weapon—the clang of words withheld always louder than a shout. Tonight, though… she’d left with soft words and the faintest curve of a smile Alec hadn’t seen since he was small enough to ride on her hip. He exhaled slowly, tension bleeding out of his shoulders like ink into water. Behind him, Magnus swept in from the hallway, silk trailing like green fire in his wake, one brow arched in an expression so steeped in theatrical disdain Alec almost laughed. Almost.
“Well,” Magnus purred, tossing himself onto the couch with a liquid grace that made fatigue look decadent. “Wasn’t that the most riveting performance of civility since the Council tried to host an inter species peace banquet?”
Alec dragged a hand down his face. “It wasn’t that bad.”
Magnus tilted his head, cat eyes gleaming molten gold in the low light. “Darling, she kissed my child. In my living room. While complimenting my tea with the sincerity of a woman chewing glass. That’s practically a Shakespearean tragedy.”
Alec couldn’t help it—the corner of his mouth twitched. Magnus saw it and narrowed his eyes like a cat catching a hint of rebellion.
“Don’t you dare laugh,” Magnus warned, lounging deeper into the cushions like an exasperated deity. “I have endured things tonight, Alexander. Things no warlock should endure without at least a monogrammed medal.”
Alec’s lips curved despite himself. “You didn’t exactly help.”
Magnus placed a hand over his chest, feigning mortal injury. “I beg your pardon? I was the embodiment of grace under fire. A veritable diplomat.”
“You called her ‘fascinating’ in the tone you use for cursed relics,” Alec pointed out, scooping up Max from the bassinet with careful hands. The baby stirred, stretching one tiny fist toward the ceiling before collapsing back against Alec’s chest with a sigh so soft it felt like forgiveness.
Magnus’ mouth quirked. “Well,” he said lightly, “she does possess similar destructive potential.”
Alec rolled his eyes, lowering himself onto the armchair opposite. For a moment, silence stretched—a quieter kind now, threaded with the soft rhythm of Max’s breathing and the faint hum of wards purring along the penthouse walls.
When Alec spoke again, his voice was softer. “She… asked to be part of our lives.”
Magnus’ smile dimmed by a fraction, shadows flickering through molten gold. “She did.”
“And you…” Alec’s gaze lifted, catching the glint in Magnus’ eyes. “You think that’s a bad idea.”
Magnus didn’t answer right away. He reached for the tea tray instead, fingers tracing the rim of a porcelain cup as if searching for omens in cooling leaves.
Finally—quiet, measured—“I think expecting a person to dismantle decades of dogma overnight is… ambitious.”
Alec’s jaw tightened. “You don’t believe she means it.”
“I believe,” Magnus said gently, setting the cup down, “that she loves you. Fiercely, in her way. I also believe that love has teeth, and old habits bite hardest when fear comes knocking.”
Alec stared at him, throat tight around words that felt too heavy to breathe. She came, he wanted to say. She held him like he mattered. He wanted to tell Magnus about the way Maryse’s voice had cracked when she said Your uncle would have loved that. Instead, he looked down at Max, who blinked up at him with eyes so startlingly blue it hurt.
“I’m not asking her to change overnight,” Alec said finally, voice low but steady. “I just… I want to believe this is a start.”
Magnus’ silence stretched long enough to make Alec glance up. The warlock was watching him, expression unreadable except for the faintest quiver in the corner of his mouth—a tension Alec recognized now as restraint. Then Magnus exhaled, the sound soft as silk tearing. He rose, crossing the room with the slow, deliberate grace of a man walking into a storm. When he reached Alec, he crouched low, one hand sliding along the armrest until it brushed Alec’s wrist—warm, steady, grounding.
“Hope is a dangerous thing, Alexander,” Magnus murmured, voice pitched for Alec’s ears alone. “But it looks good on you.”
Alec’s throat closed. He swallowed hard, tilting his head just enough for their foreheads to meet in the hush between words.
“I know people don’t change overnight,” Alec whispered. “But maybe… maybe this time, she will. Even a little.”
Magnus closed his eyes. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Max made a tiny noise between them, the smallest sound—and somehow, it steadied everything.
When Magnus pulled back, his smile had returned—not brittle this time, but slow and curling, like dawn teasing the horizon.
“Well,” he said lightly, brushing a finger down Max’s cheek, “if nothing else, our son appears to have weaponized charm. I almost pity your mother.”
Alec snorted softly. “Almost?”
Magnus’ grin sharpened. “I reserve the right to enjoy the show.”
They tucked Max into the bassinet an hour later, after a round of whispered bickering over who had the better swaddling technique (Alec, obviously). When they finally collapsed into bed, Alec let his head fall against Magnus’ shoulder, the exhaustion pulling at his bones like gravity—but under it, warmth bloomed. Fragile, flickering, but real. For the first time in what felt like lifetimes, Alec allowed himself to think: Maybe things can be different.
**********
The intercom buzzed like an angry hornet.
Magnus cracked one bleary eye open from where he’d collapsed on the chaise at three a.m., still in his silk robe, hair tousled to the point of avant-garde tragedy. The sound knifed through the fragile peace of a morning that hadn’t yet earned its title.
He groaned. Loudly. Chairman Meow, perched on his lap like a tyrant, flicked his tail in disdain.
“Who,” Magnus rasped, dragging himself upright with all the drama of a resurrected corpse, “dares summon me at—” He glanced at the clock and made a face. “—this ungodly hour of… ten-thirty.”
The intercom buzzed again, more insistent this time. Magnus shuffled over, one hand dragging through his hair, the other clutching his robe closed like modesty hadn’t been a foreign concept for centuries. He jabbed the button with a manicured finger.
“Yes,” he drawled, voice velvet-wrapped irritation, “whoever you are, I strongly advise rethinking your life choices, because until I’ve consumed a gallon of caffeine and possibly a croissant, I am neither merciful nor hospitable.”
A crisp voice crackled through, sharp enough to cut the static.
“Maryse Lightwood. May I come up?”
Magnus froze.
For two beats, silence reigned—broken only by Chairman’s smug little purr. Then Magnus found his voice.
“Oh,” he said, words sliding out like silk dipped in disbelief. “Why, of course. Why wouldn’t the matriarch of Nephilim propriety drop by unannounced while I am—” he glanced down at his robe and sighed theatrically, “—clearly underdressed for judgment?”
He pressed the door release before his brain could list reasons this was a terrible idea, then pivoted toward the bedroom. “Alexander!” His voice ricocheted off the walls like gunfire dipped in glitter. “Darling, brace yourself—the cavalry approaches, and she brought pearls of maternal penitence!”
By the time the sounds of steps made it up the top floor, Magnus had managed to look less like a man three steps from the grave and more like a host pulled from the pages of Vogue: emerald robe belted artfully, hair coaxed into deliberate waves, and just enough sparkle dusting his lids to suggest I woke up like this.
The door swung open.
And in swept Maryse Lightwood—a storm disguised as a woman, her arms laden with so many shopping bags Magnus half-expected an army of delivery men to follow. Bergdorf’s, Harrods, an upscale baby boutique Magnus suspected had a waiting list longer than Idris’ treaties—oh, she hadn’t come to talk. She’d come armed.
“Maryse,” Magnus purred, masking his shock beneath a smile sharp enough to peel paint. “To what do we owe the—” His eyes flicked to the avalanche of bags. “—invasion?”
Maryse breezed past him like a war general surveying hostile terrain. “Where’s Alec?”
“In the bedroom,” Magnus said smoothly. “Recovering from the emotional hangover of your last visit.”
Maryse ignored him, dumping the bags onto the chaise with military precision. Out spilled a chaos of pastels and plush—tiny onesies, bottles, packs of diapers that looked like fortifications for a siege. Magnus stared, one manicured brow arching high enough to signal incoming snark.
“Darling,” he drawled, sweeping an arm toward the carnage, “have you robbed a department store, or are you starting a baby cult?”
She shot him a look—sharp, fond, and utterly unimpressed. “Don’t be dramatic.”
Magnus clutched his chest. “Madam, that is my native tongue.”
Alec appeared then—hair rumpled, T-shirt clinging in all the ways Magnus privately approved of, Max nestled against his shoulder like a sleepy little monarch. Alec’s eyes widened at the sight of his mother knee-deep in baby paraphernalia.
“Mom?” His voice cracked like an old floorboard. “What are you—”
“Helping,” Maryse said briskly, already moving toward the coffee table. “This place isn’t babyproofed. That glass sculpture—” she jabbed a finger at the delicate, rune-etched art Magnus had acquired from a Djinn auction, “—is a death trap.”
Magnus gasped. “That sculpture is a masterpiece, forged in the fires of—”
“It’s gone,” Maryse said, and Magnus watched in mute horror as she hauled it off the table like a woman moving a chess piece.
Alec stood frozen, Max blinking drowsily against his chest. He looked at Magnus, helpless, like stop her, and Magnus answered with a glare that said I tried diplomacy; now we burn.
“Oh, and these curtains,” Maryse continued, sweeping across the room with terrifying efficiency. “Far too long. Trip hazard.”
“They are handwoven by sylphs,” Magnus hissed, trailing her like an outraged peacock. “Sylphs, Maryse. Do you know what that costs in wingspan karma?”
“Do you know what an emergency room visit costs?” she shot back, yanking a crystal orb off a side table. “This is glass. Babies climb.”
“Babies also crawl,” Magnus countered, snatching the orb from her hands and clutching it to his chest like an orphaned child. “Alexander, say something before your mother bubble-wraps the parquet.”
Alec adjusted Max with one arm and dragged the other down his face. “Magnus,” he muttered, voice pitched low, “just… let her.”
Magnus whirled, silk flaring. “Let her? Love, she’s dismantling my aesthetic!”
“She’s dismantling a safety hazard,” Alec corrected, dropping onto the couch with a grunt. His eyes were already half-lidded with exhaustion, and Magnus—damn him—felt his indignation fizzle under the sight of those dark smudges under Alec’s lashes.
He sighed, long and operatic, and flicked his fingers to levitate a cluster of knives off the counter before Maryse could start a lecture on bladed décor.
Two hours later, the penthouse no longer looked like Magnus Bane’s curated sanctum. It looked like a glossy parenting magazine had exploded. Outlets covered. Corners padded. Rugs replaced. And—dear Lucifer’s silk sheets—there were pastel storage bins stacked in the hall like squat, judgmental gnomes.
Magnus stood in the wreckage, one hand pressed dramatically to his forehead. “I feel… violated.”
“You feel grateful,” Maryse said, snapping the lid on a toy chest with military precision.
“Oh yes,” Magnus deadpanned. “Grateful that my home now resembles a daycare operated by militant minimalists.”
Maryse ignored him, bustling over to coo at Max, who had decided to sleep through the entire domestic coup like a tiny, smug diplomat.
“And you,” she murmured, brushing a thumb across the baby’s cheek, “are going to be safe. Even if I have to hex-proof this place myself.”
Magnus blinked. Twice. That… was unexpected. Almost endearing, if he ignored the urge to shriek at the sight of foam guards on his obsidian side table.
Then Maryse straightened, dusting off her hands. “One more thing.”
Magnus braced. Alec, wise man, looked like he was considering a tactical retreat.
“You two,” Maryse said, fixing them with a stare that could cut steel, “need to take care of yourselves too. Sleep when the baby sleeps. Eat real meals. And—” her gaze sharpened, “don’t neglect your intimacy. It’s easy to lose each other when a child comes.”
Alec choked. “Mom—” His ears flushed crimson so fast Magnus almost applauded.
Magnus, ever the opportunist, arched a brow and purred, “Sound advice, really.”
“Magnus,” Alec hissed, scandalized.
Maryse smirked. Smirked. Then turned toward Chairman Meow, who had slunk onto the counter like a furry spy.
“And keep an eye on the cat. They like to sleep on babies.” She paused, frowning. “Yours is… unusually small.”
Magnus’ jaw dropped. “Unusually—! He’s a Persian, not a direwolf, Maryse!”
She was already sweeping toward the door, leaving Magnus sputtering in her wake. “You’re welcome,” she called, tone light as silk.
When the door clicked shut, silence rolled back in—thick, stunned, and faintly citrus-scented from the organic baby wipes Maryse had apparently conjured from some secret arsenal.
Alec collapsed onto the couch, Max nestled against his chest, and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Please tell me that wasn’t real.”
Magnus stared at the foam-cornered furniture, then at Alec, then at the baby blinking up with angelic indifference.
“It was real,” Magnus said slowly. “And, darling…” He flung an arm wide, silk sleeve fluttering like a banner of defeat. “I think we’ve been… babyproofed.”
Alec snorted—a soft, startled laugh that broke like sunlight through cloud. Magnus felt it catch in his chest, warm and unbearable.
He crossed the room, sank beside Alec, and curled a hand against the back of his neck. “Three days ago, I thought this apartment was untouchable,” Magnus murmured. “Now it’s covered in foam, my orb collection is exiled, and your mother kissed my cheek like we weren’t mortal enemies.”
Alec turned his head, blue eyes tired but bright with something softer. “Weird week.”
Magnus smiled, slow and curling. “The weirdest. And yet…” He glanced down at Max, who gurgled like a punctuation mark in their shared absurdity. “I find I don’t mind.”
Alec’s hand brushed his, warm and calloused, twining their fingers together in the quiet wreckage of bubble wrap and pastel chaos. For once, Magnus didn’t reach for words. He just leaned in, pressed his forehead to Alec’s temple, and let the sound of his son’s breathing drown out the noise of the world beyond their door.
The penthouse didn’t feel like Magnus’ anymore. Not completely. Alec sank deeper into the couch cushions, Max curled warm and boneless against his chest, and let his eyes roam the battlefield of babyproofing chaos. Foam guards on every sharp edge, drawers locked with spell-bound clips, two pastel play mats Magnus swore were “the ugliest sins of mortal design,” and bins overflowing with plush animals. A baby monitor blinked in the corner like an all-seeing eye. Alec’s bow had been pushed so far into a corner he half expected Magnus to bedazzle it out of spite.
He exhaled, slow and shaky, tipping his head back. Max stirred against his sternum, a soft sound slipping from tiny lips. Alec smoothed a palm down the baby’s back, his callused thumb tracing idle circles through the blanket. Across the room, Magnus hovered near a stack of Maryse-approved safety rails, looking like a man standing over the smoldering ruins of a beloved kingdom. His robe—emerald and scandalous—flared as he turned, eyes narrowed on a set of plastic outlet covers like they’d personally insulted his lineage.
“Darling,” Magnus said gravely, “I hope you’re aware that your mother has desecrated my home with foam.”
Alec stifled a laugh, resting his cheek against Max’s downy head. “Foam might save Max from cracking his skull when he starts crawling.”
Magnus gasped, a hand flying to his chest. “He’s two weeks old! If the child demonstrates crawling at this stage, Alexander, I shall assume infernal influence and call an exorcist.”
Alec huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh. “Relax. Maryse is just… thorough.”
“Thorough?” Magnus spun, silk rippling like the indignation of a thousand divas. “She turned my curated sanctuary into—into—” He gestured wildly at the bins. “A Nephilim-approved nursery from hell.”
Alec shifted Max slightly, suppressing the grin tugging at his mouth. “Thought you liked hell décor.”
Magnus narrowed his eyes, stalking closer with the slow, lethal grace of a man whose threats usually involved Latin incantations. He stopped just shy of Alec’s knees, peering down with burning gold eyes that had leveled demons and monarchs alike.
“You’re enjoying this,” Magnus accused.
Alec looked up, feigning innocence. “Little bit.”
Magnus pressed a hand to his forehead like the weight of Alec’s betrayal might render him unconscious. “I have suffered indignities in my long and storied life, Alexander, but being aesthetically outmaneuvered by Maryse Lightwood ranks near the top.”
Alec’s lips twitched. “You survived demon princes. You’ll survive foam guards.”
Magnus’ mouth curved into a slow, feline smile—the kind that promised chaos in silk gloves. “Careful, darling. One more quip and I’ll hex this foam into leopard print.”
Alec barked a laugh before he could swallow it. The sound startled Max, who let out a tiny grunt, his face scrunching. Alec softened immediately, rocking him gently until the tension melted from that tiny frame.
And just like that, the laughter faded from Alec’s throat, replaced by something heavier, warmer.
He looked down at Max—his impossibly small hands curled like commas against Alec’s shirt, his breath puffing soft against Alec’s skin. And then beyond, at Magnus, who stood watching with that look Alec had learned to read like scripture—equal parts mischief and devotion, bright and breaking all at once. Home, Alec thought. Not the Institute, not Idris, not any place carved from angelic steel and blind tradition. This. A penthouse cluttered with foam guards and silk robes, spells stitched into doorframes, laughter tangled in sleepless nights. This was theirs.
And maybe it was messy. Maybe Maryse’s sudden warmth would curdle under pressure. Maybe the Clave would come knocking with chains hidden under honeyed words. Maybe the world would always tilt toward war. But right now? There was Magnus—hair tousled, eyes molten—and Max, breathing softly like a promise Alec never knew he was allowed to make.
He shifted his grip on the baby and met Magnus’ gaze. “Thank you,” Alec said quietly.
Magnus blinked. “For what? Surviving a maternal blitzkrieg armed with nothing but sarcasm?”
“For staying,” Alec said simply. “For… all of this.” His throat worked around the weight of everything he didn’t say—every time he’d thought love wasn’t enough, every night Magnus had held him through storms he never named. Something in Magnus’ face broke open—not a crack, but a flare, like sunlight spilling through stained glass. He dropped to one knee beside the chair, silk pooling around him like spilled emerald, and cupped Alec’s jaw in one elegant hand.
“Love,” Magnus murmured, voice low and roughened at the edges, “where else would I go?”
Alec swallowed hard. His free hand slid into Magnus’, their fingers threading in a grip that felt like a rune without ink, a vow without words. Max made a tiny hiccup then, breaking the hush like a drumbeat in miniature. Both men looked down at once, and Alec swore he saw it—the exact moment Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn, conqueror of kingdoms and collector of empires, melted entirely into stardust.
“He’s judging us,” Magnus whispered solemnly, brushing a knuckle across Max’s cheek. “Already. Look at that expression. Pure Lightwood.”
Alec’s lips curved, slow and helpless. “Pretty sure that’s gas.”
Magnus gasped. “Alexander! How dare you malign our progeny’s gravitas?”
Alec shook his head, biting back another laugh. And for once the sound came easy.
**********
The knock came on a bright, deceptively peaceful afternoon. Max was nestled in Magnus’ arms, tiny fingers curled into his silk robe as Magnus hummed something from a 17th-century opera that sounded suspiciously like a lullaby. Alec sat across from them, boots propped on the coffee table in quiet rebellion against Magnus’ “no mundane furniture abuse” rule, sipping coffee like a man clutching the last remnant of sanity. The wards pulsed softly. Magnus flicked two fingers toward the door, already anticipating a courier or, worse, another unsolicited floral arrangement from the House of Versace. Instead, the door flew open without waiting for permission. Because, of course, it did.
“Don’t get up,” Isabelle said breezily, striding in on stilettos that gleamed like murder. “We’re family.”
Behind her, Jace sauntered in with all the smug elegance of a man who thought archangels consulted him for fashion advice. His golden hair caught the light like some celestial endorsement deal.
“Oh, fantastic,” Magnus muttered under his breath. “Two Nephilim peacocks in my sanctuary. Just what I needed to complete the tableau of chaos.”
Isabelle’s eyes landed on Max, and whatever retort Magnus had loaded died as she made a beeline for him. She didn’t even slow down—just swept the baby out of Magnus’ arms with surgical precision, like a jewel thief relieving a mark of his crown treasure.
Magnus blinked, clutching at empty air. “Excuse me—!”
But Isabelle was already cooing, her voice dropping into that velvet-soft tone Alec had only ever heard reserved for rare silk and her favorite daggers. She adjusted Max against her shoulder with practiced ease, eyes glittering with delight. “I swear, Alec, he gets cuter every time I see him. You’re going to ruin me for every other baby in existence.”
Alec smirked into his coffee. “Pretty sure you were ruined the second you started Googling ‘combat-ready baby carriers.’”
Isabelle shot him a grin over the baby’s head, then resumed whispering nonsense to Max, who blinked sleepily as if wondering why his world smelled faintly of demon blood and rose perfume.
Magnus pressed a hand to his chest like a man witnessing his soul being repossessed. “Is there a Lightwood family tradition of grand larceny I should be aware of?” he said acidly. “First the pillages of my aesthetic, and now you—” He gestured dramatically at Isabelle. “—steal the only thing standing between me and total emotional nudity.”
“Emotional nudity?” Jace echoed, flopping onto the couch with the graceless sprawl of a golden retriever who’d just claimed the best spot in the sun. “That sounds like something you should charge extra for.”
Magnus skewered him with a glare hot enough to crisp seraph steel. “Ah, Jace Wayland. Living proof that Darwin occasionally looks the other way.”
“Love you too, Magnus,” Jace said cheerfully, propping his boots on a rune-etched table Magnus would hex later out of spite. His gaze swept the room, lingering on the foam guards, outlet covers, and pastel storage bins like exhibits in a crime scene. “Wow,” he said finally, tone dripping smug amusement. “Did IKEA and a daycare have a love child in here, or is this… aesthetic evolution?”
Magnus’ eye twitched. “Blondie,” he said with dangerous sweetness, “choose your next words very carefully. Or I’ll redecorate your face in chartreuse.”
Alec coughed into his coffee to hide a laugh.
“Don’t,” Magnus snapped without looking at him.
“Oh, I’m not laughing,” Alec lied smoothly.
“Traitor,” Magnus muttered, collapsing into a chair with the grace of a dying swan. “I survived centuries of warlocks trying to burn my kingdom to cinders, and yet here I am, undone by babyproofing and Lightwood women.”
“Lightwood women are unstoppable,” Isabelle said serenely, still cradling Max like a queen holding court. She glanced up, eyes bright. “Honestly, Alec, I can’t wait for him to get bigger. Start eating. Stop needing you every second so I can babysit.”
Alec’s brows drew together. “You’re planning my son’s independence already?”
“Obviously,” Isabelle said, tilting her head as Max yawned in miniature. “Also then you and Magnus can, you know—” She made a vague gesture that screamed innuendo even before the words landed. “—get your sex life back.”
Alec choked. On air. His ears went crimson so fast Magnus nearly applauded.
“Isabelle,” Alec hissed, voice strangled, “oh my God—”
Magnus, for his part, leaned back and smirked like a cat with cream. “Finally,” he murmured, “someone in this family who understands priorities.”
Alec shot him a glare so sharp it could’ve shaved marble. Magnus only smiled wider, utterly unrepentant.
“You—” Alec began, then stopped, dragging a hand down his face before stabbing a finger at Isabelle. “You’re just like Mom.”
That made her blink. “Excuse me?”
“Yeah,” Alec said grimly, “She was here last week.”
The silence that followed was seismic. Isabelle’s mouth fell open. Jace sat up so fast he nearly sent a cushion flying.
“I’m sorry,” Jace said, voice cracking on a laugh. “What? Maryse? Here? As in, inside this penthouse? Voluntarily?”
Magnus sniffed, summoning a glass of something dark and expensive with a flick of his fingers. “Yes,” he said dryly. “She waltzed in, desecrated my décor, and babyproofed the ninth circle out of this place. I’m still in mourning.”
“You let her in?” Isabelle demanded, wide-eyed at Alec.
“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” Alec muttered, heat creeping up his neck. “She… wanted to see us.”
“Us,” Magnus interjected, voice sugary enough to rot teeth. “Plural. Inclusive of yours truly.”
Jace let out a low whistle, leaning back with his hands clasped behind his head. “Man. Eternal conflict with the mother-in-law. Classic.” His grin sharpened. “Better treat Alec right from now on, Magnus. Wouldn’t want her bringing the family whip next time.”
Magnus arched a brow so high it deserved its own crown. “Darling, if I ever required incentive to worship the ground your Parabatai walks on, the threat of maternal wrath wouldn’t make the list.”
Alec groaned. Loudly. “Please stop talking.”
But Jace wasn’t done. “No, seriously, this is wild. Maryse Lightwood—the woman who once made Alec return an extra blade because two was ‘indulgent’—is now…” He gestured vaguely at Max, who was chewing on his own fist like a philosopher pondering existence. “...Grandma mode?”
“Grandma mode with tactical overreach,” Magnus said darkly. “Do you see these foam guards? Do you? They mock me.”
“Magnus,” Alec muttered, running a hand over his face, “they’re foam. Not a vendetta.”
Magnus gasped softly. “How dare you. They are a vendetta against beauty.”
Isabelle laughed—a bright, sharp sound that sliced the tension clean in two. “You’ll live,” she said, passing Max carefully back to Alec. “And next time, you’ll thank us when he tries to chew on a coffee table corner.”
Magnus opened his mouth, prepared to deliver a retort so laced in venom it could wither roses—but then Max hiccupped. A tiny, squeaky sound, followed by an expression of such innocent disdain it could’ve come from Magnus himself.
The warlock froze. Then, slowly, a smile curled his mouth—wicked, fond, unstoppable.
“Well,” he murmured, brushing a finger down Max’s cheek, “at least someone in this room appreciates my sense of drama.”
Alec rolled his eyes, biting back a grin. Jace kicked his boots onto the table with all the arrogance of a man who’d never met consequence. Isabelle snapped a photo of Alec cradling Max while Magnus leaned in, silk pooling like liquid night, and for one dizzy, perfect moment, the world narrowed to laughter, lamplight, and the soft weight of a future Alec hadn’t dared dream.
**********
The penthouse was quiet again. No intercom buzz, no Maryse rearranging Magnus’ curated chaos, no Jace lounging like an arrogant cat on antique velvet, no Isabelle cooing at Max while threatening Magnus’ glassware with her handbag.
Just the soft hum of wards and the low golden glow spilling across silk sheets as Alec closed the bedroom door behind him.
Magnus was already perched against the headboard, long legs stretched out, a book in one hand and his robe slung carelessly over one shoulder. The lamplight painted his skin in molten tones, gilding every curve of collarbone, every angle of his jaw. He looked up when Alec entered, eyes warm and glittering in that way that made Alec’s breath falter.
“Max finally surrendered?” Magnus asked, voice pitched low and velvet-rich, like the hush after a storm.
Alec nodded, moving toward the bed in loose, tired strides. “He’s down. At least for a couple of hours.” He rubbed a hand over his face, pushing dark strands from his forehead. “Not that I trust it. He has a sixth sense for ruining sleep.”
Magnus’ mouth curved, slow and wicked. “Clearly inherited from you, darling.”
Alec snorted softly but didn’t argue. He shed his shirt, letting it fall across the chair by the window, and stood for a moment with his back to the room, hands braced on the edge of the dresser. He felt Magnus’ gaze on him—hot, unblinking, like a silk thread trailing down his spine.
When he turned, Magnus had closed the book and set it aside. His eyes followed Alec in slow, deliberate sweeps that made heat curl low in Alec’s gut despite the exhaustion clinging to his bones.
“You’re staring,” Alec muttered, voice rough.
“Observing,” Magnus corrected, tilting his head with feline grace. “My favorite art deserves attention.”
Alec rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched as he climbed onto the bed. The mattress dipped, their knees brushing, and just like that—like gravity snapping into place—they were leaning in.
They didn’t rush the kiss. Didn’t need to. It began like a sigh, slow and searching, lips brushing with the softness of something rediscovered. Magnus tilted his head, deepening it by degrees, tasting exhaustion and stubbornness and the faint tang of coffee on Alec’s mouth. Fingers slid into Alec’s hair, nails grazing his scalp, coaxing a low sound that vibrated against Magnus’ lips.
“Been too long,” Alec whispered when they broke for air, foreheads pressed together.
Magnus smiled—slow, sharp, a glint of old mischief underlaid with something blazing. “An eternity, darling.”
He kissed him again, slower this time, savoring the heat as it built in ripples rather than flames. Alec’s hands were warm and steady, skimming Magnus’ sides, mapping the dip of his waist and the flare of his ribs with a reverence that made Magnus’ breath catch. It wasn’t frantic, wasn’t the edge of battle clinging to skin—it was patience, sweet and devastating. A kind of claiming that spoke of nights nearly lost and a love clawed back from the brink.
Magnus shifted, swinging a leg over Alec’s hips to straddle him, silk sliding in a whisper. Alec’s hands settled at his thighs, fingers flexing against the bare skin like he didn’t quite trust gravity to hold them both. Magnus felt the hum of a ward flare in the distance—sensitive to movement, to intent—and snuffed it out with a flick of his will without breaking the kiss. He trailed his mouth down Alec’s jaw, tasting salt and soap and something distinctly Alexander, until his lips brushed the hollow of his throat. Alec shivered—gods, that sound—and Magnus angled lower, letting his teeth graze over a scar that ribboned pale against pale skin. His tongue soothed after, a silent benediction for every wound neither of them had words for.
“Magnus…” Alec’s voice was a rough scrape, his hips lifting instinctively, slow and desperate.
“Patience,” Magnus purred against his skin, though the tremor in his own hands betrayed him. He smoothed them down Alec’s chest, fingers catching on the soft cotton of his T-shirt, tugging until it gave. Alec wriggled out of it without elegance, and Magnus rewarded him with a kiss that curled like smoke, lush and lingering. It should have gone up from there. It should have burned—the way it always did when they crashed together like storms over glass cities.
Instead, Alec’s hands—strong, sure—faltered halfway to Magnus’ waist, and his breath hitched… with a yawn.
Magnus froze. Drew back an inch. Blinked. “Did you just—?”
“I’m fine,” Alec muttered, voice slurred with something dangerously close to sleep as his head tipped back against the pillow. “Keep going.”
Magnus arched a brow sharp enough to cut silk. “Darling, nothing kills the mood faster than mid-seduction narcolepsy.”
“I’m not—” Another yawn cracked his jaw, utterly betraying him. Alec dragged a hand over his face, groaning softly. “Okay. Maybe a little tired.”
Magnus stared at him for a long, loaded beat… then collapsed forward, burying his laughter in the crook of Alec’s neck. “A little tired,” he echoed, voice muffled by skin. “Alexander, you look like someone wrung you out and hung you to dry.”
“Baby’s fault,” Alec mumbled defensively, eyes already sliding shut as Magnus’ hair tickled his jaw. “He hates sleep.”
“And clearly it’s genetic,” Magnus said dryly, though the bite in his tone had melted into something warmer. Fond. He shifted off Alec’s hips and slid down beside him, tugging the sheets up in a sweep of emerald. Alec turned automatically, curling toward him like instinct, like gravity. His arm looped around Magnus’ waist without thought, anchoring them both in a tangle of limbs and breath and silk. Magnus exhaled, long and soft, his fingers drifting over Alec’s shoulder before settling in his hair, combing through dark strands with lazy precision. The heat between them didn’t vanish—it just softened, smoldering into something quieter. Something Magnus had never let himself want until Alec stormed into his world like a blade through shadow.
“Another time,” Magnus murmured, brushing his lips against Alec’s temple, letting the words hum like a promise.
“Promise,” Alec echoed, half-asleep already, voice rasping against Magnus’ throat.
Magnus let a quiet smile form in the dark, fingers splayed wide against Alec’s back, steadied by the even cadence no charm could match. He pressed one last kiss to Alec’s hair and let his eyes drift shut.
They didn’t make it to fireworks. Didn’t need to. Not tonight. Tonight, this was enough: silk sheets tangled around tired legs, the whisper of Alec’s breath ghosting Magnus’ collarbone, and the soft weight of love so fierce it felt like magic humming under their skin.
Tomorrow, the world could clamor. Demons could howl. Duty could sharpen its teeth.
But here—in this hush, in this fragile, perfect pause—they were safe.
And together.
Magnus curled closer, smiling into Alec’s hair as sleep tugged them under, and thought, not for the first time, that this—this chaos, this warmth, this quiet surrender—was the only spell worth keeping.
End
EPILOG
Alec returned to the Institute three months later. His steps echoed through stone halls carved with runes older than his bloodline, each one whispering duty, discipline, inevitability. The air smelled the same—steel and seraph blades, salt from the East River wind—but something in him had changed so profoundly it felt like walking through a memory instead of a home.
He was seventeen. And already he had lived a lifetime. Faced death, birthed life, held the world together with nothing but raw will and a love he’d never thought he deserved. A love waiting for him in a Brooklyn loft gilded with magic and laughter, anchoring him like the wards Magnus had sewn into his bones.
But the Nephilim had a saying: there’s always a storm after the break. And Alec could feel it—rolling at the edge of the horizon like black clouds, curling over the glass towers of Manhattan. The city pulsed with whispers, dark and urgent: of demons growing bold, of alliances fracturing, of something dark clawing its way back into the world.
It came for them on an ordinary night, disguised as chaos. Alec ran through the streets with his siblings at his side—Jace gleaming like an unsheathed blade, Isabelle’s whip coiling fire through the dark—tracking a human vessel slick with demonic corruption. Their chase carved a path through midnight until it ended at the threshold of a club drowning in strobe light and bass.
Pandemonium.
And that was where the world tilted. Where fate twisted like a blade in the dark.
Because through the crush of bodies and the pulse of mortal music, Alec saw Jace pause. Saw his gaze snare on a small figure slipping through the neon glow—a girl with hair like a flicker of wildfire and eyes that burned green in the dark. A girl who would shatter the fragile quiet Alec had fought so hard to hold.
Her name was Clary Fray.
And with her arrival, the storm began.
Notes:
First story is over but second one coming! Same pace of posting (damn it's not proof read to the end yet, gotta hurry this up!)
A big thank you to all those who reviewed and kudoed! Such a motivation! Hope to see you on the next adventure!
Pages Navigation
wishboneluck on Chapter 1 Fri 22 Aug 2025 07:58PM UTC
Last Edited Fri 22 Aug 2025 07:59PM UTC
Comment Actions
Biltong44 on Chapter 1 Sun 24 Aug 2025 06:44AM UTC
Comment Actions
Windswept_Thunder on Chapter 1 Thu 18 Sep 2025 04:11AM UTC
Comment Actions
OneMoreUser on Chapter 1 Thu 18 Sep 2025 06:42PM UTC
Comment Actions
Biltong44 on Chapter 2 Sat 30 Aug 2025 08:43AM UTC
Comment Actions
Not_so_happily_ever_after on Chapter 2 Mon 01 Sep 2025 07:59AM UTC
Comment Actions
OneMoreUser on Chapter 2 Mon 01 Sep 2025 09:28AM UTC
Comment Actions
Not_so_happily_ever_after on Chapter 2 Mon 01 Sep 2025 09:48AM UTC
Comment Actions
notcrypticbutcoy on Chapter 2 Fri 05 Sep 2025 08:48PM UTC
Comment Actions
underthetale on Chapter 3 Sat 06 Sep 2025 08:04AM UTC
Comment Actions
Biltong44 on Chapter 3 Sat 06 Sep 2025 10:18PM UTC
Comment Actions
Applelicious on Chapter 3 Mon 08 Sep 2025 04:43AM UTC
Comment Actions
OneMoreUser on Chapter 3 Mon 08 Sep 2025 04:57PM UTC
Comment Actions
ForestFree on Chapter 4 Fri 12 Sep 2025 02:49PM UTC
Comment Actions
OneMoreUser on Chapter 4 Mon 15 Sep 2025 06:44AM UTC
Comment Actions
ForestFree on Chapter 4 Mon 15 Sep 2025 07:11AM UTC
Comment Actions
Not_so_happily_ever_after on Chapter 4 Fri 12 Sep 2025 09:55PM UTC
Comment Actions
ForestFree on Chapter 5 Fri 19 Sep 2025 02:00PM UTC
Comment Actions
DaniJJ on Chapter 5 Wed 24 Sep 2025 12:31AM UTC
Comment Actions
Biltong44 on Chapter 6 Wed 01 Oct 2025 08:31PM UTC
Comment Actions
Biltong44 on Chapter 7 Tue 07 Oct 2025 05:50PM UTC
Comment Actions
Pvv on Chapter 8 Tue 14 Oct 2025 01:13AM UTC
Comment Actions
Adreen on Chapter 8 Wed 29 Oct 2025 08:40PM UTC
Comment Actions
Pvv on Chapter 9 Fri 17 Oct 2025 09:51PM UTC
Comment Actions
Biltong44 on Chapter 10 Sat 25 Oct 2025 11:32AM UTC
Comment Actions
Ayleim on Chapter 11 Sat 01 Nov 2025 03:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation