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Chapter Text

Alexander Gideon Lightwood was a journalist. That’s what the world thought. Alexander Gideon Lightwood wrote for the New York Times, and was known for his cleverly subtle remarks about celebrities and politicians and whatnot he obviously hated but loved to interview, because they were all so unbelievably stupid, and he was so unbelievably not.
And during the day, that was all true. But Alec had always had a preference for the dark.

June 12th, 2010, New York City

The city seemed to agree. In the daylight, New York was all bellowing taxi drivers and people expertly dancing through the hubbub of traffic and tourists with coffee cups in their hands from the vegan cafes on every corner, Alec among them. But when the sun had long since set, and the clouded skies turned dark, the night people emerged. They staggered around in their sparkling dresses and leopard print suits, eleven-inch heels, eyeliner running, and already drunk at 7 o’clock in the evening after downing five shots of tequila. They were louder than the cars themselves, more reckless than the lorry drivers, and freer than the stars.
Alec liked to watch them. It wasn’t just that it was part of his job- his other job- it was that he was sure he was seeing the same people night after night, but had no way to tell if he was right, because they never wore the same thing more than once, and they were always surrounded by rowdier or more intoxicated crowds. As if they had different friends for different nights, depending on how drunk they wanted to get, or how much trouble they felt like causing. It was one of the only things Alec could not tell with one glance.

Sometimes, rarely, Alec felt like jumping down there and joining in. Fortunately, New York nights were relentless, and there was never more than a ten-minute break before there’d be a buzz in his ear and the police radio at his side would report in another attempted stabbing, or robbery, and he’d have to run off heroically with his bow and quiver attached to his back and handcuffs ready at his waist.

Tonight was one of those nights when Alec wondered what it would be like to drop everything, just for a moment, and dance on the streets with these oh-so vibrant people, and leave reality behind. Just for a bit. Just until he was needed. But the irritating- and comforting- truth was that he was always needed, anywhere and everywhere, because it was New York City, after all.

“Warden, come in.” A voice crackled in his ear. See?

“Warden, here.”

“Good. There’s a threat of gun violence three blocks from you. B. Street.”

“On it.” With a buzz, The Watchman disconnected. Hodge Starkweather monitored, controlled, and instructed every single superhuman in their force. One might ask how he managed it, but his powers helped: he had control over any bird he chose with his power, and could see through their eyes, hawk vision and all. As technology updated over the years and he grew older, he was provided with tracking systems and GPS, but Alec doubted he needed it. The man never seemed to falter. Maybe he never would.

Quickly, Alec stood from his perch on the railing of the building’s roof, and ran along it with cat-like stealth, jumping onto the office building opposite. He paused briefly to look back down at the crowds on the streets below him, pouring out of clubs and bars, drinking and dancing the night away. They all looked so at ease. He wondered what they’d think if they knew they were being watched, made sure they stayed out of trouble. Would they feel comforted or burdened? Safer or controlled?

Another buzz came from his ear. Alec knew what it meant: hurry up. He patted his mask to check it was secure, counted the arrows in his quiver, and felt the reassuring weight of his bow on his back; a ritual, if you like, before diving into mayhem. Then he turned and set off, looking for trouble.

Interesting, the man with eyes like a cat’s thought. What was that shadow-like man doing up there, alone in the dark? And why, in the light of the moon, did his blue eyes gleam so brightly with longing?

***

Alec stepped into the room covered in blood. The night had not been forgiving. Droplets of it splattered onto the black marble floors, and he could feel it seeping uncomfortably down his back from a deep gash below his neck. No matter. It would heal soon. Grunting, he heaved himself slowly onto the leather sofas placed beside the door, and allowed himself a moment to catch his breath.

One. Two. Th-

“Warden. Good to see you back. I take it all went as it should?” Maryse Lightwood had never been a particularly motherly figure, but you had to give it to her: she was dedicated to her job. Even if it involved sending three of her children out onto the city’s streets at night to deal with everything the police couldn’t. “We’re called ‘Elites’ for a reason,” she would say. “We can do what nobody else can. We have strength nobody else does.” We can save people who wouldn’t have lived otherwise, Alec always thought afterwards. He’d thought it so many times that sometimes he expected his mother to say it too, but she never did. That was just her. She cared less about what their jobs actually gave people; safety, closure, ease- the list went on- than what it gave back.

Power.

In 1991, nearly 20 years ago, a massacre silenced the world. Nobody knew where they came from, the Circle members, or why; all anyone knew was that they decimated more than 1,000 buildings in one night, and killed over 10,000 uncatalogued supers. Then Valentine Morgenstern went home, kissed his wife goodnight, and burnt the house down with she and their son still inside it. And then shot himself in the head.

There were a hundred conspiracies as to why, of course, but Alec doubted any were true. He had always thought that Valentine was nothing more than a madman, an extremist dedicated to eradicating the world of supers who refused to institutionalize themselves as the others had, with trackers implanted into the backs of their necks, a hawk watching their every movement, answering to a superior’s command. Alec thought Valentine focused so firmly on controlling everyone else that in the end, he couldn’t control himself.
Yet there Alec was, a tracker lodged somewhere in the back of his neck, and the Watchman still in his ear, having monitored every movement he had made during the night.
Sometimes, when he felt like deceiving himself, Alec blamed his parents. The parents who had been very involved in that very massacre all those years ago and spent the years since trying to make up for it, trying to prove that their yearning for power and death had been Valentine’s influence. As evidence of their devotion, they’d offered up one child after the other to join their forces, never stepping a foot out of line. Alec had been the first. He’d trained and developed his powers since he was four. You never had a choice.

But when Alec was in his darkest, most honest moods, he only blamed himself. He could have left at any time. He could’ve run far, far away. He used to imagine packing a bag and just leaving, to a place where nobody cared about supers, where nobody wanted anything from them. He knew better now that that kind of place didn’t exist, and probably never would, but still. You could’ve left, he would think into the silence, at the eerie, quiet time in the Institute when everyone else was asleep. But you stayed.
For your siblings, he’d continue. For your parents. A long while later, as his mind finally drifted towards dreams, he’d think: For the power.

***

“Yes, Mother. There were practically no disturbances.” Maryse said nothing, mouth straight and eyes scrutinizing, then nodded.

“I take it there weren’t too many mundanes getting themselves into trouble this time?” As if it was the mundanes who were at fault.

“No, Mother.”

“Good. We’ll debrief in the morning. You are dismissed.”

Alec walked through the corridor back towards his bedroom, hands curled into fists at his sides. Maryse wasn’t fooling anyone except the Clave, who believed only what was easiest. She could trip over herself bowing and grovelling to them all she liked, but the obvious truth was that she couldn’t care less about the Elites’ main purpose: protecting mundanes by bringing rogue supers to justice, exterminating the threats that lurked in alleyways and dark streets across every city. She only liked the power it gave her, the promotions that rolled in as she brought in criminal after criminal, just as she had liked the thought of the power the massacre of those people in 1991 would give her, when she had believed the Clave would regard them as heroes.
By the time Alec reached the door of his bedroom, his jaw was set like concrete, and he’d completely forgotten about the cut on his back.

***

The night was wild indeed. He’d already changed outfits entirely twice, the first time after someone managed to pour a whole bottle of champagne onto his best gold-embroidered waistcoat, and the second, after which he’d artfully styled a blue-silver bomber jacket over a hot pink shirt, when a rather drunk, rather attractive young woman burned a hole through his favourite pair of black jeans with the cigarette butt she had forgotten she was holding after she reached over to place a hand on his thigh.

The Kestrel did love a party, even if he had to replenish his wardrobe afterwards. (Though that was possibly another bonus.) He loved the busyness, where there was no room for thought, and he loved the dancing, and the lights, and the drink, and being in the centre of everything. What he didn’t love, however, was the apparent opportunity it gave naïve little Elite soldiers to sneak into his home uninvited, looking for trouble. Usually, he gave them the benefit of the doubt- who was he to deny anyone a good party?

Still, he watched, ready to act. His fingers curled at his sides. One of them locked eyes with him across the room. The Elite placed a hand on his side, beneath his jacket, and the metallic shine of the strange, cylinder-like hilts of the Elites' 'seraph blades' (basically knives that didn't look like knives until you pressed a button) before they were activated glinted back at him like someone’s fake metal tooth when they smiled. Immediately, the Kestrel’s mind crammed with ideas. He was powerful, but even he had his limits. His power had already been stretched over the 520 people in his apartment, including himself; he wasn’t sure he could manage even two more, especially if he’d have to make the illusion entirely different to what everyone else was seeing… except, what if he didn’t? He smiled. Ideas had always struck him like this. In all his 25 years, the Kestrel had never made a single plan, instincts guiding him along like waves in the sea, gentle and constant at the best of times, dangerous and spontaneous at others.

His eyes glowed yellow just as the Elites began to stride towards him.

Heads turned. Someone stopped the music.

Whenever people asked him to explain his power, he would say it was like blowing a giant bubble over people’s heads. He could expand it, and make it bigger, but not too much in case it popped. Or, he could close it off to make a new one, which required much more energy, and sometimes he didn’t quite have enough left. A bubble of 520 people was a rather big bubble, but surely two more wouldn’t pop it.

He extended his power that tiniest bit more, and lo and behold, the Elites joined the party. It always amused the Kestrel to see his guests before the party started. They always seemed so much happier afterwards. The soldiers, abandoning their quest for glory, looked around at the imaginary strobe lights, and the not-so imaginary glasses of tequila in people’s hands, and then to each other. Drinks? He saw one mouth at his friend. Someone turned the music back up to full volume. The Kestrel watched an Elite bust a move.
That was the thing about Magnus Bane- when he wanted a party, everyone else had no choice but to join in.

Chapter Text

Alec Lightwood strode into the office at exactly 8:00am the next morning. As usual, a newspaper lay on his desk, courtesy of his very crimson, very annoying colleague Clary Fairchild, who really irritated him much less than he let on. The headline read: ELITE TASK FORCE IMPRISONS ROGUE SUPER RAPHAEL SANTIAGO. Alec had heard about that a few nights before. His mother had been pleased, and the Elite who brought him in had received a promotion. He kept reading. Though the evidence has been said to have been purely circumstantial, the Crow, renowned owner of the Hotel DuMort, which is said to house over 2,000 uncatalogued supers, was detained by the police on June 9th 2010 under suspicion of murder. He stopped. Circumstantial? Suspicion? He’d heard from Hodge that Santiago had been caught red handed standing over a body in an alleyway covered in blood and holding a knife. What was circumstantial about that?

He looked to the bottom of the article, where the writer was credited. Magnus Bane. Of course.

Magnus Bane, otherwise known as The Peacock of New York for his flamboyant outfits, was, in Alec’s opinion, the actual reincarnation of the devil. Being three years older than Alec, Magnus had been working for The Times for four years. It took half of one for the whole world to know his name. It took the other for it to fall completely in love with him.

Magnus had made his name by essentially enchanting every celebrity he interviewed with his charms, and then watching them tear themselves apart. Take politician Imogen Herondale, for example: one minute, they were talking about her opinions on uncatalogued supers (entirely irresponsible and a stain on society) and the next, she was reduced to tears, crying into a silken handkerchief for her dead son. Bane was beautiful, charming, and completely ruthless all in one go, and nobody ever realised, because they were too busy looking at him. Except Alec, it seemed. He would sooner stare at a brick wall than look at Bane for a second too long, that interview-stealing, promotion-stealing fuc-

“Alec, are you alright?” Alec dropped the newspaper as he looked up- or down- to look at Clary, who had materialised beside his desk. “Right, yes, fine. Just—” Alec coughed- “reading the newspaper.”

“What do you think?”

“It’s good,” he replied, because it was. Magnus might’ve been the Bane of his existence, but he knew how to write a newspaper article. It was insufferable. He was insufferable.

“Yes, Alec, it’s good. Of course it’s good. It’s written by Magnus Bane. But what do you think?” It took him another moment to figure out what she meant. “About the Elites?” He asked, dreading what was coming.

“Yes.” She was looking at him fully now, the same way she had looked at him when she stood beside him during interviews over the course of her internship, openly ready to take absolutely everything in and not miss a word. Alec still didn’t know why she had. Why hadn’t she gone and stared after Bane if she admired him so much?

“I think it’s madness.” She continues. “They’re mad. It says that witnesses saw the Crow four blocks away from the crime scene at the same time people heard the victim screaming.” He blinked. Four blocks away? Ridiculous. Hodge saw him there. Even the Crow, with enhanced speed, couldn’t move that fast.

“Yes.” Alec agreed, still in his thoughts. “Madness indeed.”

***

In the mornings, when the parties were over and the crowds were dispersed, Magnus’ illusions vanished, his apartment felt much too quiet. Magnus did not like the quiet. Perhaps that was why he lived in New York. It also felt much too bare, though nobody in their right mind would describe the apartment as that. He already missed the bustle of people, the dancing, the lights. Sometimes, his friends, namely Catarina, would question why he hosted so many parties for so many strangers. “Keeps them off the streets, doesn’t it?” He’d reply. “500 or so less people for the Elites to turn up their noses at whilst they ‘ensure their safety’ lurking in the shadows, ready to jump in when Debbie, the US with the shark teeth in the flat downstairs, fancies a night out with her friends.” He’d pause. “And because I just really love to party, and it’s much less fun without a variety of strangers I’ve picked up from various clubs across the city.”

“It honestly scares me how much you care whilst caring so little at the same time,” Catarina would reply after a moment of silence.

“Oh, darling,” Magnus would laugh, “if people weren’t a little scared of me, I wouldn’t be very good at my job.”

Not for the first time, then, Magnus thought of the man on the roof. Had be been an Elite? Or had he been an uncatalogued super? Had he anywhere to go? Fuck’s sake. It was a lot easier pretending not to care than convincing himself he didn’t.

Now Magnus looked down at himself, and sighed, seeing blue jeans and a black T-Shirt with the word “HOT” printed in white across it. So someone really had ruined his favourite black jeans. He’d hoped that that was a really elaborate part of the illusion he came up with when very, very drunk during the party, but it seemed not.

Oh well. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford a new pair.

The man scanned his living room. There was a suspiciously yellow stain on the carpet- could be beer, could be something else- and the air still smelled strongly of alcohol. He’d have to get the cleaner in.

When Magnus checked the time and realised if he was already a little more than fashionably late for work, he locked his front door and hastened down the building’s stairwell, only pausing when he shoved himself through the main exit and saw a newspaper lying strewn over the steps. With a start, he realised his article had headlined- the one about the Crow that he’d written in an angered frenzy the previous morning. He picked the paper up, smoothed over the cover, and almost dropped it. Red smeared across the page beneath his fingertips. He stilled.

It was blood. He knew that without question. But that didn’t stop the chilled ache spreading through his chest like ice across a lake, and it didn’t stop him from shoving the paper into his bag to thoroughly examine later.

Then he strode purposefully towards the subway, trying very hard to rid the image of his photograph- Magnus smiling and holding out a microphone to an eyewitness who’d given evidence against the Crow’s imprisonment- smeared in blood- from his mind.

***

Nobody infuriated Magnus Bane quite like Alexander Lightwood.

Generally, it was quite hard to infuriate Magnus Bane, because he cared so little about people’s opinions on him or anything else, because he knew he was always right. But there was something about Alec- maybe it was his impossibly long eyelashes, or his unruly black hair, or his indescribably blue eyes- maybe even the semi-decent articles that had headlined once or twice- that irritated Magnus to no end.

So whenever they bumped into each other in the office, things would get a little tense. And of course, there was the issue of the coffee machine. It seemed that both men loved coffee just as much as each other, and needed it at similar times. More than one half hour had been wasted arguing over who got their coffee first.

That morning, Magnus was in a very particular mood, and was insistent that without coffee in his bloodstream, absolutely nothing would get done. Unfortunately, Alexander was in a similar mood, and happened to get their first. (Another thing to add to the list of Things to Hate about Alexander Lightwood: punctuality.)

Magnus leaned himself against the wall, one foot crossed over the other, a single eyebrow raised, and watched as Alec pressed various buttons on the machine. Alec never had sugar or milk in his coffee, and everything about that screamed ‘dislikeable’ to Magnus. He might as well drink weed killer.

“What do you want?” He demanded. Apparently, he’d noticed Magnus’ wonderful presence. Magnus couldn’t help but think he should have noticed it sooner.

“Coffee, darling.”

“Yes, I guessed that. Must you stand there and watch me get mine?”

“Does it irritate you enormously?”

“Yes.”

“Then, of course.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re a prat.”

“You two are acting like spoilt children.” Clary, who Magnus was rather fond of, shoved between them both and grabbed a mug from the cupboard. “And your boss wants you.”

“Who?” Magnus asked, still staring loathsomely at Alec from where he’d pushed himself up off the wall.

“Both of you, obviously.” She watched her mug fill with caffeine. “Thanks for the coffee, Alec.”

***

Alec tried not to let his panic show as he followed Magnus to his boss’ office. What if it was about the coffee machine? What if it wasn’t?

Like the rest of the building, his boss’ office was entirely modern, with huge glass windows facing the city and blindingly white walls. It was the kind of room that felt much too clean. Alec entered nervously, and shut the door behind him.

“Mr Bane and Mr Lightwood.” His boss greeted them. He was a thin, reedy man, with a white moustache much too big for his face. “I’ll keep this short. You both must have noticed by now that the certain controversy around super-powered beings has tipped. With every ‘criminal’ the Elites take into custody, the more eyewitnesses there are to question them. People are beginning to question the Clave’s motives, and that is something we can profit from.” He smiled. “And that, my friends, is very, very good.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now, this is what I want you to do. I want you to blow this up.” He pushed a file over his desk towards them. “I want you to get whatever interviews you can. I want you get as much information as you can. And then I want you to give me the headline of the century.”

Alec coughed. “You want us to work together?” He didn’t dare look at Magnus, who he was sure had a similar look of incredulousness on his face. “That… why?”

Alec’s boss nodded. “Because Magnus, here, gets the answers. And you, Mr Lightwood, get the responses.” It was true. The days after the few times he’d headlined, there’d been hundreds of people mailing in their thoughts on the article, not all of them good, not all bad. But it didn’t matter what they thought, it only mattered what they gave, and that was, as Alec’s boss so nicely put it, profit.

“I suppose I should mention that you’re due for a promotion, Mr Lightwood?” Ah. So now he’s showing us the prize. “And perhaps I’ll consider that request, Mr Bane, about that friend of yours.” Alec was barely listening at this point. He’d stopped at the word ‘promotion’. It would mean he was finally equal, in position, to Magnus Bane. He looked across at the man stood beside him. He’d finally have a chance to one up this disco ball of a journalist.

But not without working with him first.

***

Somewhere behind an abandoned warehouse lurked a black-masked man, waiting for the bird to arrive.

Chapter Text

Things got progressively worse after the two were dismissed from the room, and started walking back towards their respective offices. In a still, shocked kind of silence, neither of them spoke, until Magnus opened the file. "Fuck." He whispered after a moment, so quietly he barely heard himself. Alec's head snapped towards him, and raised his eyebrows. "What is it?" 

Magnus, whose mind had already drawn into itself, startled and coughed. Then, with a reserve unknown to man, he said "I recommend you read this through thoroughly, Mr Lightwood. Maybe ten, twenty times. Slow minds need practice." He shoved the file forcefully into Alec's chest, whose jaw was set, then turned on his heel and swished down the hall. 

Alec looked at the top of the file, then blinked. The Vampire, it read. Camille Belcourt.

***

An imagine popped into Alec’s mind: Maryse smiling as a super is brought into the Institute with her hands bound in chains, and it widening when she realises who it is: Camille Belcourt. “The more notorious the criminal, the better,” she had murmured to Alec, who had been standing beside her. “Nothing gets the Clave’s attention quite like the imprisonment of a mass murderer.”

"Do we know for sure that she is a murderer?" He'd inquired. His mother had looked at him as if he was an idiot. 

"Of course she is. All of them are." Now, Alec had mixed opinions on uncatalogued supers- or, UCs, as the Elites called them. He knew that some of them were murderers, that some of them wouldn't hesitate to slit a mundane's throat if it meant something valuable to them, but there were people like Valentine who called themselves Elites and then slaughtered their own families in the middle of the night. And whilst Alec knew that all supers were dangerous, including himself, he also knew that being super-powered did not erase your conscience, or your ability to develop morals. There was always going to be good and bad in the world, heroes vs villains, but that didn't mean there weren't blurred lines in between. Not everything was so black and white. 

Besides, Alec envied the UCs, really. He understood the objection to turning yourself in to an institution where you were controlled, and tracked, and stifled. He just wished that he had the choice they had. 

So when his mother said ridiculously generalising things like that, Alec had to bite his lip and clench his jaw to prevent himself from speaking. 

"Alec?"  A voice pulled him back towards reality. Isabelle's. 

"Hey, Izzy." Isabelle Lightwood was a tall girl- almost as tall as him, taller with particular heels- and also the kind that could fight in a war and manage to emerge without a speck of dirt beneath her fingernails. It annoyed some people, and made others fall over themselves trying to get her to like them. It made Alec proud that she could evoke such reactions. 

"Are you alright?" She asked, running a hand tiredly through her hair. She'd been on patrol, Alec realised. Her gold whip was curled around her wrist, and she was wearing her metal heels. He still didn't understand how it was possible for her to walk in them, run in them, and fight in them, but he recognised their value in combat. Izzy, known to the press as the Serpent, had the wicked- and flashy- ability to mould any metal to her will without batting an eyelid. The name had apparently been derived from her whip, shaped like a gold snake, but Alec sometimes wondered if it was also because of the puncture holes she sometimes left in her enemies after stabbing them in the chests with the heels she'd focused into a point during a battle.  

"Fine. Just stuff with work. The other work," Alec clarified. "I have to write an article about Camille Belcourt."

"That'll be fun." 

Alec raised his eyebrows. "Do you really think she murdered all those mundanes?"

"No. Not all of them. But she's definitely not innocent either. Better she's kept in a cell than wreaking havoc across the city, I suppose."

"Yeah." He knew Izzy's tone. He felt the same way. No matter how many criminals they'd locked up in their years of working for the Clave, it was never easy to condemn someone to a life of imprisoned solitude. 

"When's your shift?" She asked, changing the subject. 

"In an hour." 

"Alright. I should shower. I look awful." She didn't, obviously. Alec rolled his eyes. 

"See you later." 

When Izzy had gone, Alec sprawled backwards over his bed, and sighed. He was collaborating with Magnus Bane. Magnus Bane had agreed to collaborate with him. It was strange, because Alec felt as if he'd been dragging himself up a large flight of stairs with only his hands for the past year, whilst Magnus skipped on ahead. And the amount of stairs had been endless, seeming to go on forever, but abruptly, he'd reached the top. Now he looked back down and wondered what he'd missed, what he'd skipped, then ahead, to see if there were more steps to climb. That was the problem with ambition: once you reached your goal, you didn't know what to do with the success.

***

The night was cold for summer. The wind snapped at the Warden's jacket and bit at the skin below his mask, and he fought to keep his teeth from chattering. He was thankful that his leather gloves kept his hands from going numb, but they didn't stop him from wringing them. The city was far too silent, the kind of silence that built up to something, and it chilled Alec more than the wind. 

"I'm bored," his companion said. Jace had never been one for sitting still.

"Go home, then. I'll alert you when something's happening, and then you can barrel into it as usual and give the bulldozers a run for their money, by which time I'll probably be dead because you weren't there to help." 

"Are you alright, Warden?" Jace asked, after blinking.

"Perfectly, Angel." 

"Seem a bit snappy tonight."

"Since when was that an unusual occurrence?"

"You're right." 

"I always am." There was silence for a moment, and Alec trained his gaze on the streets below. 

"Think whatever it is will happen soon?" 

"Shut up, Jace."

***

When it happened, Alec did not find himself entirely  surprised.

It had been happening more and more often: a night, or sometimes a handful of nights in a row, would be oddly quiet like the journey of a firework into the sky, and then, in an explosion of sparks and chaos and death and robbery, there would be an attack. A big one, on a big place. A few weeks ago, it had been an office building merely blocks from the Institute. This time, it seemed, another office building was the target. Alec hoped it was only a coincidence that it was almost exactly the same number of blocks from the Institute, just spanning the other way. 

The Warden and the Angel knew what was happening before they were even alerted by the Watchman, having made the decision to call it a night and send out the next patrol team. They heard the screams as they turned onto the street where the Institute rested, set apart from the other buildings.

"Warden, Angel, sending in back-up. The Serpent and the Bat are on their way. They'll meet you there."

The two Elites headed towards the danger without hesitation. 

***

Glass covered the pavement. It would've been pretty, the light from the streetlamps striking it in the right places, making it glitter like the sea in the sun, if a dark liquid- which Alec immediately knew was blood- wasn't splattered across the sharp edges and pooled around the shards, dying them red. A jagged hole gaped from the side of the building, the size of a whale's mouth, and in the entrance of it stood a cloaked figure, the upper half of their face concealed by a black mask shockingly similar to Alec's own. In the darkness, he saw lips curl into a sneer, before the figure turned and walked further into the building. 

"Did you see that?" He asked the Angel. 

"I did." Jace's eyes were narrowed. Alec knew what that meant.

"See what?" The Serpent's- voice whispered from behind them. Neither man jumped. They'd both heard her coming. 

"I didn't see anything," Aline Penhallow agreed. Aline's power was pretty self-explanatory by her alter-ego- the Bat. Like Count Dracula from the Amplifier's (Simon Lewis') strange vampire obsession, (which Alec and his siblings had been forced to endure) Aline had the useful ability to transform into a swarm of bats whenever she liked. It was similar to Hodge's power, but she preferred to use it for offense rather than surveillance, and she was even more formidable for it. Nobody could say that having an ally with the uncanny power to dissolve into a swarm of screeching, flying creatures, dodge attacks, then reform to stab the attacker in the back, was invaluable. 

"It's nothing. We need to move in." People in flats adjacent to the buildings began to gather at their stairwells, and there was the wail of ambulance and fire-truck sirens in the distance. Sometimes Alec hated how difficult the mundanes made it for the Elites to protect them. He glanced up at the building. The hole was on the fourth floor. Why would they have put it there if the floor held nothing valuable? 

Unless it was a trap. But Alec didn't want to think about that.

"Bat, can you swarm and send one up there? Check if there's anyone there?"

"On it." The Elite swarmed, a black mess of animals in the air, and a single bat darted up to examine what was behind the hole, careful to stay far enough away to avoid the jagged spikes of glass and bent metal jutting out around the edge, but didn't make a move to fly through it. When it returned, Aline reformed. "There's nothing. The room opens up- it's an office. Crammed with desks, don't know how anyone manages it. The only things I could see that were out of order were the ceiling lights- smashed through. All of them." Strange, Alec thought.

"Right. There are six floors. I'll head to the roof with Bat and we'll make our way downwards. Serpent and Angel start at the bottom. See if you can find out why they've targeted this building. If you come across anyone, knock them out. If you see any mundanes, get them out, and make sure one of you stays with them." Alec paused. "Try not to kill anyone, Angel."

Jace just smiled. Izzy coughed. "How are we supposed to get into the building?"

"I'm sure you'll think of something." Before Alec had even thrown his grapple hook and attached himself to the wire, his brother had barrelled straight through the glass doors with a not-so-subtle crash. 

***

Alec was very thankful- to nobody in particular, he told himself- that he was a good climber, and that he wasn't scared of heights. He vaulted himself over the building's railings with the grace of a cat. Aline stood waiting. "Took you long enough." 

"Yes, well I don't exactly have the ability to transform into winged creatures, so I have to make do."

Aline raised an eyebrow. 

"Sure." Alec met her gaze for a second, then looked around. The roof was like any other building's; empty, and cold. "Anything?"

"Nothing. I already checked. I figured out how to get inside, though."

"Lead the way."

Alec followed Aline towards the corner of the roof, where a steel, circular hatch disguised itself within the greys of the concrete. "All yours." She said. He gripped the rusted handle and twisted. With a loud screech, the hatch sprung upwards, and Alec had to steady himself momentarily as he stumbled backwards from his own force. "Easy, angel," Aline said, flashing him a grin, then disappearing through the hatch. He was quick to follow. "Don't call me that," he muttered, once he'd easily clambered down the groaning ladder and they'd found themselves in a storage room. He brushed dirt from his hands onto his thighs. "Ugh," Aline eyed him. "Yes, Alec, marvellous solution to having dirt on your gloves. Wipe them on yet another item of clothing on your body."

"Sorry, Bat, do you see a laundromat anywhere?"

Aline muttered out something that sounded a lot like "boys are disgusting." She began to sift through the cardboard boxes shoved lazily onto the shelves on either side of them. "Why are you so opposed to people finding out that you're not actually useless?"

Alec huffed. "Useless? People think that?"

Aline thought for a moment. "Well, no. They just think you... they just think you have less of an affinity to be fighting what Elites are supposed to fight. And, well. Obviously you don't broadcast your powers to the world like Jace. The press have spent years trying to figure out who you are, how to label your powers- the ones that actually think you have any- but they've never even managed to take a photo. You never let them. Why?"

"I don't answer to the press."

"Well, you don't exactly answer to the Clave, either, Alec."

Alec's furrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean by that?"

"I can't think of any other Elite who has a job outside the Institute. It's unheard of. And then people pair that with the fact that the only power you tell people you have is as mediocre as enhanced hearing, sight, agility, and some marksmanship skills. They don't think you're devoted. They think you're hiding something."

Alec almost laughed at that. "Why is it their problem, what I do and don't do with my life? It's not like I skip any patrols. And I put just as may handcuffs on criminals as everyone else."

"People don't like it when they don't know whether or not someone can read their minds, or shapeshift, or shoot lasers from your eyes." Aline paused. "People don't like it when someone has power over them, in general, but they like it much more when they at least know what it is."

"I don't have the power to read minds, Aline." 

"I know you don't." She grinned. "You'd hate me if you did." She said it jokingly, but her eyes darted to the side for a moment and she turned. "Come on. We have a job to do."

Chapter Text

The building, they found out, was an office building for The Forum, a magazine known for vocalising its very strong opinions on UCs and steadfastly supporting the Elites. Alec found a number of copies of some older issues stuffed inside a box, all printed with bright pictures of Elite supers shaking hands with business men and long passages preaching the Elites' goodness as if they were gods. He was surprised to find one that, three pages in, rattled on about the writer's adoration for the Warden, how he'd heroically saved her from 'criminal UCs' under the cover of night.  

After briefly rummaging through some of the boxes, they stole from the room, boots treading lightly on the linoleum flooring. They emerged into a hallway, which opened out into a larger room, a desk planted in the middle, presumably the boss' office. Alec moved towards the door in the corner, then stopped. 

Footsteps. 

There were people behind that door. He signalled to Aline. She swarmed silently adjacent to the door. Alec turned the handle. 

A knife flitted past him, clipping the side of his face, and before he had the chance to throw one in return, his comrade attacked. A yelp echoed out into the silence of the building as one of her bats launched itself onto an enemy's head. There were three, the Warden counted. They all wore the same black masks- like Alec's, like Aline's, and like the figure's that Alec had seen earlier, watching from the side of the building. In quickfire concession, Alec rounded off three arrows, pinning one of the men into place against the wall by his jacket. The other, who had backed into a corner, began to wave his hands around drastically- trying to summon something?- but quickly stopped with a knockout punch to the head. The one with the knives, caught by surprise as Aline rematerialized and came at him with a series of punches, fell to the ground. Alec touched his ear. "Warden reporting, alongside Bat. Managed to catch three. Top floor. We'll leave them for you." 

"I'll send some out," Hodge replied. Whenever patrols turned into bigger jobs like this, where they had to infiltrate a place the enemy had broken into, or stop them in the process of robbing banks, the Elites didn't have time to play clean-up. The team would have to keep moving, so they'd call in what Idris called "The Dispatch", where, quite literally, whoever was not on patrol that night or hadn't been called out yet would be dispatched to bring the criminals in. All Alec had to do was make sure they couldn't escape before Dispatch arrived.

After handcuffing the criminals and making sure they were all thoroughly unconscious, deeming the rest of the floor empty (it seemed, mostly, to just be office rooms) searching the floor below and finding that empty too, they descended to the fourth floor. The first sign that something was wrong was the body of a mundane man sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, the floor beneath him cracked. The hallway was a mess. Old issues of the magazine littered the floor. On one of them he spotted his brother's face, a photo snapped in the midst of a fight, and he didn't fail to notice small splatters of blood on the cover. Looking closely, he noticed more; it trailed off, down the corridor, and disappearing around the corner. "Bat," he said, quietly, "we have a trail." 

***

As they rounded the corner and started down the perpendicular corridor, Alec begun to hear the distant sound of a fight. It was like hearing someone speak when you were underwater, muffled and echoing, but he could just about make out the clanging of metal on metal, and the shouts between his siblings as they no doubt knocked out criminal after criminal. Aline turned her head to look at him. "Through those doors," she said, then swarmed. 

***

Whenever Alec entered a fight, the Warden took over completely. Though Alec was generally a pretty spatially-aware person, he was never as graceful as he was when he knew what he was doing. And he certainly knew what he was doing in a fight. The chaos of it slammed into him as he hastily pushed open the doors, and the room- big, and crammed with desks and chairs as Aline had said it would be- seemed alive with energy. Adrenaline buzzed through his arms.

As Izzy lay about with her whip, and Jace with his blades, Alec took out his bow. Shooting had become second nature to him now, and he didn't have to think twice before letting go of the arrows; they always hit the mark anyway. One, two, he counted. Three. They went down. Alec was almost surprised by how easy it was: they weren't mundanes, Alec knew. In his peripheral, he could see Izzy dodging lazily aimed, crackling bolts of lighting from someone's fingers, and Jace dancing around someone whose hands burned with flames. There was a certain clumsiness to how they wielded their powers, like excited children who were still learning how to control them. But adults had had their lives to learn. Why hadn't they?

He scanned the room for the cloaked figure he'd seen earlier. Nothing. Above him, one of the exploded ceiling lights fizzed sparks. He dodged out from underneath it, only to collide with a man- a UC- gripping a knife. So much for spatial-awareness. The man lunged, and Alec dodged. Sometimes, it reminded Alec of dancing, the twisting and the turning and the leaping, except for the fact that it was a rather violent exchange. 

Alec had the knife from the man's hands in an instant, kicked him to the ground, and just as he was about to drive it home, the man's face changed. No, his entire body changed- and instead, it was Jace there beneath him, eyes wide through his mask, blonde hair matted with blood. "Alec," he rasped, "what have you done?" The knife clattered to the floor, but it was too late. Somehow, without realising it, Alec had plunged the knife deep into his brother's heart, and like ink to paper, it spread. "No," he whispered. "No." He fell to his knees. The thump echoed into silence- it seemed the fighting had ceased.

"Alec?" His sister's voice came from behind him. "Are you alright?" Why wasn't she screaming? Why hadn't she thrusted a sword through his back? Thrown her whip round his neck?

Alec looked at his hands. So covered in blood- his brother's blood. Blood he had shed. It seemed black in the darkness of the building. He reached to clasp Jace's hand, to grip life back into it, to force the cold from it, then stopped. The hand was soft, the fingers short and stubby, and definitely not Jace's. He forced himself to look at his brother's dead, unblinking face, and froze. Not dead- and not Jace. Alec looked again at his hands, at his leather gloves, worn from so many years of notching arrows. Where had all the blood gone?

The man looked at him briefly in confusion- then over Alec's shoulder, and began to crawl backwards in fear. 

The Warden  stood and turned, and the Kestrel stared back. 

***

Alec knew who it was when he turned around, of course. All the Elites did- not because he seemed too dangerous, particularly, or a criminal- but because of how little information they had on him. The Clave liked to know everything about everything and anyone, and the only thing they knew about the Kestrel was his love of partying and his talent at convincing whole clubs that they wanted to take a taxi all the way to Brooklyn and dance there instead. 

That, and the fact that whenever the press were around, he made a point of making an appearance, but seemed to evade any kind of interrogation by the Elites every time. 

The first thing Alec noticed was his fashion sense. It was such a difference to Alec's black jacket, shirt, jeans, boots and mask that he felt he ought to laugh. Tonight, he wore a long black coat, the Sherlock Holmes kind, black leather trousers, and a glimmering golden shirt which, Alec noticed, matched his unusually coloured eyes that glittered beneath his feathered mask. He was taller than Alec by more than a few inches, but that might have been the platform boots. 

The second thing Alec noticed was the pull at the corner of his lips; pure disdain. 

"You Elites," he said, and his voice was soft and endearing, but loudly teasing at the same time. "Blatant killers, the lot of you."

It felt like a slap in the face after beginning to drift off in Hodge's history lessons.

Alec had killed before, it was true. He'd shot arrows through men's heads, slit their throats from behind with a single swipe of a blade. But did that make him a killer? Those people had died so the innocent could live, but now Alec suddenly thought of those criminal's families,  their children and parents and siblings and lovers. He wondered if they would be so thankful for his work towards eradicating the threat of villains on the streets. What was he, really? A killer or a hero? 

Was there really a difference, when you were a destroyer of lives, yet you saved so many too?

Chapter Text

One of the first things the Kestrel was taught when he began a life of fighting crime was when to strike.

The wind ruffled his mask's feathers. The cold nipped at his fingers, ungloved, and chilled his rings so that the metal bit into his fingers. His borrowed police radio buzzed angrily at his side.

'Break in at office 462, The Forum, Brooklyn. Supers involved.'

He was already on the way there, of course- he'd heard the screams when they came- but the police radio was useful for when everything that happened seemed to happen just out of Magnus' reach. The nights when he decided to patrol were the nights when he felt the most responsible for everyone he watched, everyone he kept an eye on- he couldn't bear the thought that something was happening across the city that he didn't know about, that there was someone getting shot at or stabbed that he couldn't help. Of course, the Kestrel couldn't save everyone- he knew that- but the police radio was a reassurance. At least he knew that somewhere, other people were rushing to the rescue too. Some nights, the radio would buzz again, and alert the officers that the situation was "under control"- which often meant that an Elite had swooped in and heroically saved the day before they had a chance.

Catarina often scolded Magnus when he spoke like that. "Why are you so bitter? Would you rather no Elites came and the police were too late? They get saved, Magnus, that's what matters. Whether it's by you or the Elites or the police does not." Magnus knew she was right, but it had always been like that for him- caught in between his hatred for the Elites and his love of the city.

Now he stood below the building, staring at the gaping hole in the side. It looked like a bullet wound, perfectly circular, rimmed with jagged spikes of glass like torn skin. He could hear the sounds of a fight- metal clanging and bodies falling and breaths in and out- from above, thundering into the quiet streets below.

So that's where the fun's happening, the Kestrel thought, the corner of his lips turning up. But how would he get in?

He scanned the building. Magnus had always been a good climber- shimmying up drain pipes and clawing himself up the sides of buildings like a cat- but the building was almost entirely glass. He'd need one of his fabulous hot pink grapple hooks, and definitely some gloves (of which he had a choice out of sparkly purple, sparkly blue, sparkly gold and so on), to pull that off. He hadn't thought it was a skyscraper-climbing kind of day before he set out, so he hadn't brought along either. But-

What was that? He moved along the side of the building for closer inspection. How had he not seen it before? A suspiciously man-shaped hole on the far end of the building, round the corner, opening into the blackness of the abandoned ground floor. The Kestrel didn't question things like this anymore; a small hole in the side of a building was surely much less worrying than a huge chunk out of an entire floor, anyway. He grinned into the darkness.

Here I come.

***

Magnus was not one for subtlety, nor for hiding, but he could appreciate the advantages of both. He skulked in the shadows of the room, where he'd quietly slipped through the loud, groaning metal doors as they swung back and forth. He wondered who had pushed them open so forcefully that they threatened to break off their hinges. There was limited light in the room, and though it was large, it was oddly shaped- on the far end, the massive hole hung wide, desks crammed the middle, paper strewn across the floors, and other rooms were cordoned off with plaster at either side as if someone had one day decided they wanted a private space and demanded the builders come in to lay down some walls. At Magnus' end, where some of the lights still flickered weakly on and off, the fighting commenced, whilst Magnus concealed himself beneath a particular area of blackness, where he doubted any light ever reached anyway.

For all their violence and chaos, fights seemed to last an awfully long time. Usually, whenever the Kestrel met with violence, he'd stop it as soon as it started. It wasn't that he couldn't fight- he certainly could- but using his powers sped things up. Magnus surveyed the contenders. It wasn't difficult to tell then apart- the Elites (he had no doubt they were Elites from the way they fought, as if they were entitled to every win- he didn't miss the look of surprise every time anyone even got close to hitting the blonde-haired whirlwind he suspected was the very Angel from the papers) were all trained to fight, and it showed. Besides, they all wore boring outfits of black leather. Their opponents were what Magnus really noticed. None seemed particularly young, but they seemed to wield their weapons- mainly knives and guns-uncertainly, as if they were using them for the first time. But still, after being knocked down countless numbers of times, they got up again.

The adrenaline was thawing now. Even the Elites were slowing, their movements ever so slightly heavier, twinged with exhaustion. He watched the girl with the golden whip throw a punch at a man's face, and saw her stagger minutely forwards in her heels- of which Magnus definitely approved- before righting herself. His gaze slipped across the room, and landed on a man he hadn't noticed before- where had he been? He saw the bow strapped to his back, the empty quiver. He saw the smashed ceiling light above him groan, fizzling with a spray of sparks, and watched the man jump out from underneath it- and collide with another, who had been approaching him most unsubtley with a knife.

The archer-man had the idiot on the ground in seconds, and the idiot's knife, too. It was in these moments that the Kestrel felt most like a poisonous snake- constricted, ready to lunge.

He struck.

The air always changed when he first used his powers. It felt thicker, and movements felt slower, as if he was walking at the bottom of a sea bed. He'd asked Ragnor about it and apparently it was to do with the initial amount of power he gave out before he controlled it. He focused.

The Kestrel wasn't stupid. He'd already seen the shadow-like bow and arrow man glance at the blonde across the room after tackling the man- checking if he was alright? Or checking for his approval? It didn't matter. It was a weakness.

Some weaknesses were all too easy to exploit.

The man fell to his knees, and the knife fell to the floor. The clatter punctured the now silence of the room. The fighting had ceased. Magnus could see what the man was seeing, of course- he could look right in to the invisible bubble of power around him and the it would seem just as real. The only difference was that he knew it was merely an illusion. Though perhaps the word 'illusion' wasn't right for it- it would seem very real to the victim. Magnus was sure that the shadow-man would be able to feel the slick of blood between his gloves, feel the limpness of his companion's hand. It was a simulation. It was entirely real, and then it wasn't.

All the others were seeing, or experiencing, was a field of daisies and a distant sunset. Magnus enjoyed their confused expressions as they looked around perplexed. He approached a super- one of the non-Elites- and brought out the handcuffs. She struggled, twisted her head behind her to meet her attacker's eyes, but all she would see was a pink horizon. She was unable to fight her capturer, because to her, Magnus was completely nonexistent- if she reached out to grasp him, her hands would feel only air, regardless of whether she managed to reach him or not. Because in the end, it wasn't her illusion- it was Magnus'.

He quickly went about handcuffing the rogue supers, giggling at their startled faces when their hands were bound, knowing they would only be able to hear the cry of birds and the hum of crickets in the long grass.

God, he loved his job. (His other job).

Now, he thought, a hand on his hip as he scanned the room. What should I do with them? He surveyed the Elites. The shadow-man sat trembling on his knees on the floor, gloves off, gripping the man's hand desperately. The bitterness towards Elites inside Magnus- the cruelness that came out sometimes, though rarely- wanted to laugh. There the Elite was, trying to hang on to a man he'd just tried to kill, and who wasn't even dead. Magnus had placed one of his favourite charms- 'bubbles', as he liked to call them- on the particular criminal. The papers called it The Blank, and had deemed it the Kestrel's signature move. All the enemy would see was white, could try walking forwards and feel nothing beneath their feet, try screaming and no sounds would come, or at least they wouldn't register any. Magnus suspected it was as effective as it was because being hit with nothing, for however long, was surely a lot scarier than any dark chamber or prison, and more confusing than any field of daisies. It distressed people enough to either make them flail around dumbly for a few seconds, or not even risk moving an inch. Either way, it worked in his favour.

Currently, the man lay, eyes wide open- he might've been dead afterall- and completely frozen. Effective indeed.

With a flick of his hand, Magnus popped all his imaginary bubbles except one. Immediately, the girl with the cool whip, (would've been cooler if it was pink) who Magnus had noticed had accepted the illusion with narrowed eyes and knees bent, ready for a fight- though it wouldn't have been much of one, seeing as she couldn't see, hear or feel him- rushed towards the shadow-man. She crouched behind him to put a hand on his shoulder, and whispered something. From the way her lips moved, it seemed to be "are you alright?"

The shadow-man looked down at his hands. Magnus let himself through the illusion. Ah, yes, the blood. A nice touch, he thought.

He begun to knead the man's hand, as if to bring life back into it with warmth, and the criminal, free from the illusion, looked at him from where he lay on the floor in utter confusion. The cruel streak, lodged deep in Magnus' chest like shrapnel, wavered. He'd only meant to put the man in a state of sheer distress for a few moments, not traumatise him for the rest of his life.

He popped the last bubble.

He watched the realisation sink in, as it always did when he performed things like this. He waited calmly in the shadows, watched the shadow-man look up in shock at the rogue super.

He emerged.

Chapter Text

The criminal noticed him immediately, as did the rest of the room- even the handcuffed supers, who he'd pushed gently to the side into a group, watched him. He tended to have that kind of effect on people. Everyone appreciated beauty.

Magnus watched the shadow-man's shoulders tense as he stood and turned.

The first thing he noticed were the flash of his eyes behind the mask that covered half of his face- the almost violet blue, furious and beautiful, and eyes he had seen before. Last night, turned to the sky. Ah, he thought. So this shadow-man is that shadow-man.

He schooled his features into his usual Elite-despising grimace.

He spoke lowly, the trained, soft pur that disguised his usual tone puncturing the silence. "You Elites." He curled his top lip. "Blatant killers, the lot of you." It was true enough, and from the way the shadow-man's lips parted, he had hit a sore spot.

Magnus wouldn't deny that he'd made a fair share of kills himself. He felt that everyone was entitled to a little, well, wrath- and there'd been instances where his remarkable amount of patience had simply been worn out, and he only saw red, and then afterwards, blood. A lot of it.

There was a difference between the Elites and supers like Magnus, UCs (the 'Uncatalogued') who willingly devoted a handful of their nights a week to patrolling the streets and making sure that not only were the mundanes safe from criminalised supers, but that they kept each-other safe from the watchful eyes of the Clave and their ignorant generalisations. The difference was this: whilst the Elites killed for power, and status, the UCs killed to eliminate threat, and were even reluctant to do so. Most UCs, in fact, hadn't even gone that far. Like Magnus planned to do tonight, many were happy to handcuff them, maybe gag the ones who didn't need their hands to use their powers, then call the police and keep a watchful eye on them from the roofs of shadowed buildings until they arrived. That way, at least, the Elites could take no credit for their capture. Besides, as much as the Clave liked to seclude themselves from the rest of the world in their little egocentric bubble and pretend they called all the shots, they were simply another unqiue branch of the police, the only difference between them and the original police department being that the same families had worked there for generations, devotion to their 'cause' being inherited over and over again. So the criminals would end up in the same places- specialised prison cells built to contain every anomoly they could think of.

The shadow-man clenched his jaw. He blinked, and appeared to drag himself out of whatever well of thought he'd fallen into. He looked up. "The Kestrel, isn't it?"

Magnus didn't reply. He didn't need to.

"This is Elite business." His voice was low, and although it didn't sound abnormal, particularly, Magnus could tell that he too had been trained to disguise the real sound of his voice to protect his identity. He spoke quietly, and vaguely, with no hint of personality- no anger, no tremor. Nothing.

"Well, sweetheart," Magnus saw the man's eyes roll, "I disagree. I like to call it... city business."

"City business?" His voice gave no clues, but Magnus would have betted that at least one of this man's eyebrows were raised.

"This is New York City, isn't it? Or am I mistaken? You'd be surprised how many times it's happened. Though, really, I suppose it was rather exciting to believe I was getting on a flight to Los Angeles and ending up in Argentina-"

"Enough." A fraction of frustration slipped through. "You will le-"

"Careful." The woman with the whip behind him, which Magnus now saw was a long, golden metal snake- so this must be the Serpent from the papers, and their blonde accomplice must be, Magnus had been correct, the Angel, which meant the man currently glaring at him behind the gaps in his mask was the ever-mysterious Warden- placed a hand on his arm. The Warden looked at her, and there was a silent moment of communication between them, before he took a step backwards.

"What my partner here was about to say was that we're extremely thankful for your help, despite the fact that I much prefer daffodils to daisies, and that we'd be happy to take it from here." The blonde stepped in from across the room with a blinding smile. The journalist side of Magnus was actively screaming now, and he ached for a notepad and pen so that he could start asking questions, and then he could wave it in Alexander's face the following morning and boast that he'd scored interviews with two of the most renowned supers in New York, and could even give a solid description of the Warden's appearance.

Unfortunately, tonight, Magnus Bane was another man, probably lounging with a glass of wine in his lavish Brooklyn apartment, and the Kestrel took control of the reins.

"I'll keep that in mind next time I feel like buying you flowers, sweetness." He winked, then clapped his hands together, resuming the small amount of seriousness he managed to conjure up in situations like these. "I'm so glad you appreciate my obviously much-needed help." He thought he saw the Warden's hands clench into white-knuckled fists. "But I couldn't leave you to sort this out yourself. No, that wouldn't do. Where would my manners have gone?" Then, before any of them could react, he whipped out one of the many burner phones on his person (hot-pink, of course) and dialled 911.

"Hello, there. The Kestrel speaking. Yes, the one from the papers. The very one. No, you cannot have my number, pumpkin- and before you check, this is a burner phone- but maybe I'll stop by later and leave you my autograph. There there, don't cry. Now, I've just single-handedly captured around 17 rogue supers at office 462, floor four. I've left some very nice bystanders to watch over them in case they try anything. Thank you, love. Bye, now." 

He dropped the phone and crushed it with his toe. "A shame," he said, "she was nice."

***

The Warden watched, incredulous, as the Kestrel turned to leave, then abruptly turned back, sashaying towards him. A hand went to the knife at his side, but all the Kestrel did was bend down beside him, pick up a coil of absailing wire and a grapple hook that seemed to have been dropped by the criminal Alec'd almost killed and who seemed to have disappeared-he'd worry about that later-, then right himself to meet Alec's gaze. The Kestrel grinned. "Goodbye, little shadow."

Then he turned and disappeared.

***

Simon Lewis had not always had powers, but he refused to tell anyone that, because the instance in which his powers appeared to have manifested was far too embarassing. It involved two very large amps, a few stupid college graduates who had decided to start a band, and near death. Simon didn't like to go into the details.

Still, what happened that day was the only explanation for what happened afterwards- Simon was suddenly super-powered, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about. Nor, he found, did he want to. His dreams had been fulfilled. He had entered the world of science-fiction. He could do anything.

Anything, it seemed, other than look his best friend, Clarissa, in the eye. They never kept secrets from each-other, and this relatively large one had begun to take a toll on their relationship. He was fairly sure Clary knew he was keeping something from her, but the problem wasn't even that he didn't want to tell Clary about his strange development, it was who he'd  finally gone to for help.

Clary Fairchild openly despised the Clave, for many reasons- Simon suspected she hadn't told him all of them- and yet he'd walked right into the Institute, practically begging to be accepted as a trainee, anyway.

He remembered that day, months ago, extremely clearly, and wished he didn't. He remembered shaking in a mixture of nervousness, excitement, and anticipation as he knocked on the huge wooden doors, the church-like building looming over him, and them being opened almost immediately by a silver-haired man who didn't welcome him or introduce himself, just turned back around and expected Simon to follow. The entrance of the Institute opened up, the floors marble, two curved staircases on either side, a ginormous stained glass window painting multi-coloured light on the mahogany-plated walls. He was lead into a small room on the right, which held a small desk and a computer. The man seated himself behind it and stared at Simon expectantly, eyebrows raised. "Um. Hi. I'm Simon Lewis, and I have powers, obviously, and you probably guessed that, but I really need- I'd like to begin training to be an Elite, and, well, you probably guessed that too-"

"Power?"

"Sorry?"

"What is your power, young man?"

"Um, well, I don't really know what it's called but, I suppose it's a kind of amplification."

The man typed something on his computer, then looked back up. "Elaborate."

"Well, I can amplify sound, like my own voice."

"And how would this be useful to us in combat situations?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure I can increase pitch to, well, stun or demobilise enemies, and, um, I've shattered glass before."

The man gave a non-commital grunt.

"There's something else." Simon's voice was quiter now. "On Thursday. I don't know how it happened, but I- I was really mad at my friend, and I just- snapped? One of his ears started bleeding. He's been admitted to the hospital. The doctors say his hearing in that ear has completely gone. Don't.. don't you need hearing for balance? And balance to fight?" Simon had felt like he was grasping for strings then, but he hadn't needed to. The man was looking at him with interest now. Simon was glad his trauma pleased him.

 "Hmm. Yes. I can see how this would be beneficial. Tell me, Simon, why didn't you come to us before? Most Elites that aren't born into the profession admit themselves when they're about eighteen, sometimes before. You can't be younger than 21."

"Well, my powers felt so mediocre, before. But what happened the other day scared me. I need to be able to control them. I need to be taught how. And I'd rather use them on the bad guys than the good ones." It was partly a lie, of course, but the rest wasn't.

"Indeed." The man looked at Simon for a moment, before his lips curled into the smallest of smiles. He looked back at his computer, then swivelled in his chair to grab something from the printer. He handed it to Simon. Simon stared.

ACCEPTANCE INTO THE CETS- SIMON LEWIS

POWER- SOUND AMPLIFICATION

SIGNED- THE WATCHMAN

"Drusilla will escort you out. You start tomorrow. Don't be late." A pause. "Oh, and Simon?"

"Yes?"

"Remember who's watching."

Simon did.

***

It was pretty hard to sneak out to meet your secret girlfriend when your mentor quite literally had the power to watch over the whole city, but somehow, Isabelle Lightwood managed. As usual, a hood shadowed her features, and her hair was braided back. She'd even avoided wearing heels, and was instead wearing black boots that she'd stolen from her friend Emma, who owned at least six pairs of them, and who probably wouldn't notice. (Emma was a little work-obsessed.)

The streets were busy. Drunk couples zig-zagged along the pavements, too intoxicated to walk in straight lines, and rowdy groups of friends trooped in and out of clubs, their makeup streaked and their outfits glittering. Izzy eyed them.

Damned birds.

She had many talents, but discretion wasn't one of them. She knew that if she wore what she wanted- she was in a mood for something velvety, or maybe something sequined- all eyes would be on her, and Hodge would wonder what everyone was staring at, and her cover would be ruined immediately. It had happened before- thankfully, she'd only been sneaking out to go dancing, not to meet her secret mundane girlfriend (Maryse would probably have a heart attack if she found out) and she'd only been given a mild scolding. That was just the way it was. New York City had an appreciation for beauty, and as much as that worked in Izzy's favour, it seemed it worked against her too.

She walked on, somehow remaining graceful in boots, and kept her head down.

When she reached Pandemonium, she relaxed. Not even Hodge would be able to see her here-animals weren't allowed inside, firstly, and there were just too many people to only notice one. The lights glowed blue, then purple, then pink, dyeing the hundreds of heads of hair around her. Sparks flickered above her. It was odd how it was one of her favourite places, though admittedly, that probably had something to do with who she always met there. Izzy looked around. She knew that at least half of them were UCs, and wouldn't hesitate to kick her out if they knew who she was. She didn't blame them.

A pair of hands snaked from behind her, reaching over her eyes. "Guess who," a voice shouted into the clamour of bodies and music from below her shoulder. Izzy spun, a smile already wide on her face.

There she was.

Izzy bent to kiss her, one hand twining into soft hair, the other running a thumb over her freckled face. They pulled apart.

Izzy looked at the girl in front of her, watched the multi-coloured lights flicker through her eyes, took in her flaming hair and the exactly 27 freckles dotted over her nose and cheeks.

"Clary."

Chapter Text

Maryse Lightwood, known (and feared) by every super-human in New York as the Leech, stared at her son (not unusually) in disappointment, after he had accounted the night's every detail.

Alec had always thought that her alias was hilariously fitting. This was for a multitude of reasons:

1. Maryse Lightwood had the power to manipulate and control the blood inside any living creature.

Unfortunately for Maryse, but not for her enemies, this procedure did not enable her to completely control said creature's actions, like the bloodbenders in Avatar: The Last Airbender. Instead, Maryse opted to draw the blood from the body as she saw fit- sometimes, this was at a 'smaller' scale, aiming to tire or dizzy the opponent, small cuts Maryse had inflicted in battle spitting blood in abnormal amounts. Other times, which Alec noticed was whenever she was in a particularly foul mood- which was most of the time- she would evict the blood from the body altogether, letting it fountain from the mouth like an erupting volcano, leaving the body hollow, as if someone had drunk from it through a straw. (The first time Simon saw this, he had exclaimed: "It's like that one Doctor Who episode, with the space rhinos!" Obviously, none of the other Elites knew what he was talking about, though that was not an unusual occurence.)

2. Maryse Lightwood was hungry for blood.

Maryse sought power, and the more bodies that were delivered at her doorstep, the more powerful she became. It was a craving to her, a hunger- she resembled vultures in this way, except it mattered not whether the enemies captured were in handcuffs or body bags, whether their blood was hot or cold. Every UC detained, reasonably or not, was more money in the bank, was another message to send the Clave: I am loyal, I am perfect, I will never flout your rules again.

3. Maryse Lightwood could draw the life from a person's body with the wave of a hand, or a raise of the eyebrows, or a purse of the lips, both figuratively and not.

When she would enter a room, conversations and laughter ceased, warmth disippated, and the Elites would assume their positions dutifully and robotically, hands clasped behind their straightened backs, awaiting orders as if they were wired machines.

Now Alec resumed this position, which both his battle-partner and his sister liked to call The Statue: if they were walking down the Institute's halls together and their mother turned the corner, one of them would whisper "STATUE" and they would reflexively stand taller, any expressions from their faces gone. It had begun as an amusement, turning it into a game, but it felt increasingly to Alec like a warning signal. He wondered, sometimes, what would happen if he did nothing, if he kept walking, or if he just stood there and raised his eyebrows at her, a challenge- what would she do then? Slap him like his father did?

But now was a time to obey, to square his shoulders and endure the scolding, as if he was five years old, and wait to be sent away.

"Warden," his mother started- never Alexander, never Alec, never her son- "are you saying that you let a-" she sniffed in disgust- "a UC, and the Kestrel, of all people, involve himself in Elite business?"

Elite business should go fuck itself, thought Alec, realising how much he had sounded like his mother earlier that night, and how much he hated it. "Well, I wouldn't say we let him-"

Maryse raised her eyebrows. "Then why is it that the police records are now saying- yes, I've already had them checked- that twenty super-powered criminals were captured by the Kestrel on June 13th, 2010, at 11:14pm?"

"I- he-"

"I've never seen anything like it, mother. He stopped us, all of us. It was like we were transported to a completely different place. It- it didn't feel like an illusion, like it vaguely says on the database. It felt real." Izzy interrupted him.

Maryse looked at her daughter inquisitively. "Explain."

"Well, one minute we were all fighting, in the office building, fourth floor, and then the next minute, we weren't. We were in a field, of come sort. Flowers, trees, everything. There was grass beneath my feet, I could smell the daisies, I could hear the birds- and then in a blink, we were back, and the Kestrel was there." Alec noticed how she left out his mental breakdown. He was eternally grateful. He should buy her flowers.

Maryse's eyes were narrowed, and Alec could tell she was thinking. "This is good information. Very good. It seems the Kestrel is much more of a threat than we thought. I'll have to get Hodge to update the records." She paused. "Interesting. Interesting indeed." She turned to Alec. "But this doesn't excuse your insolence. This is- this is propaganda, do you understand? What is the press going to say? They're going to say that a UC- the Kestrel, of all people, the partier, the saviour of a few petty knife crime scenes, the overgrown pigeon- upstaged four of the most distinguished Elites in New York- in America!" She laughed then, a bitter, humourless sound. Alec didn't remember the last time that she laughed properly, or for the right reasons. "There will be consequences, Warden." She glared singularly at her son, as she always did, as if everything was his fault simply because he was the oldest. "The UCs- the rogue supers, the criminals- this encourages them. This tells them: if the Kestrel can do it, why can't we?" 

Alec knew there was no point in apologising, in trying to justify himself- when Maryse was angry, she saw no reason, and usually took it out on her son. That was one of the many similarities between she and her husband. "What do you propose we do?"

She smiled, and it was one of the smiles that made Alec fancy that he could see her teeth sharpen into daggers.

"I want you to locate the whereabouts of the Kestrel, I want you to capture him, and then I want you to bring him to the Institute."

She looked, in turn, at his siblings.

"I want you to bring him to me."

***

Their mother had sent them to their rooms, but they all hurried into Alec's, which had long ago been established as their own little meeting room. He slumped into an armchair, Jace into the other, and Izzy dramatically flung herself onto his bed.

"I suppose the first thing to talk about is what the fuck just happened?" Izzy spoke, straight to the point as always.

"What I want to know is why the Kestrel's suddenly come out of hiding. He hasn't interfered with us before."

"I don't think he was ever in hiding, Jace, not really." Izzy laughed. "Hiding in plain sight, more like."

"I have so many questions," Jace moaned, rubbing his face with his hands. "Also, why did nobody tell me the Kestrel is such a catch?"

"Ah, yes, there should definitely be a category on UC reports: Hot or not? With a rating from 1-10."

"He would totally be a 10."

"Can we stop talking about how attractive the man that just embarrassed us is? I'm trying to think." Alec muttered.

"Alec, if you could rate my hotness from 1-10, what would you-"

"What I want to know is where all the mundanes went. Where did all the blood come from?" Questioned Alec, ignoring his brother and his need for attention as he stared at his hands.

Blood on the floor. Blood on the streets, blood and glass. Blood on his hands.

"I don't-" Izzy started, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. Looking at her siblings, she got up to open it. Aline.

"Guys," she panted, "the chairman of The Forum. He was in the building tonight. He's dead." Her face was pale, eyes wide like a doll's. "His body was found round the corner, in an alleyway. Nearly every bone was broken. And," she stopped to catch her breath, "pierced through with glass."

***

As Alec made his way into work that morning, all he could think of was blood.

The Dispatch team of the night had been sent out to scour the building and collect blood samples, and it had been confirmed- the trail of blood Alec and Aline had found leading to what had now been dubbed as the "fight room" and the blood on the pavement outside the building's entrance matched the blood of the chairman's. But how had it got there? Why?

The chairman was one of the mundanes still in the building at the time- and apart from two other bodies Dispatch had discovered in the building, and the one which he and Aline had found, the rest were unaccounted for. They had simply disappeared.

Blood on the floor. Blood on his hands.

Ironically, it was unusual for an Elite to feel so responsible for the wellbeing of a mundane- most of them were much too self-obsessed and/or power obsessed for that- but since he had started patrolling all those years ago, Alec felt that this was one of the only things he had complete control of, though he knew how overly ambitious that was. Here was this vast amount of people that Alec had the exact skillset to protect, here were lives Alec could save, even if he couldn't save his own. So as much as he didn't care who handed the criminals over to the police as long as they were taken off the streets, as much as he respected the Kestrel for doing exactly what he had set out to do, he hated him too.

Alec was used to feeling hopeless, but not on patrol. And yet he had never felt so hopeless as he had last night, not even under his mother's scrutinizing glare, not even as his face connected with his father's fist whenever he came home.

I have killed my brother, he had thought. Who will keep my secrets now?

***

Magnus Bane was in a particularly cheery mood that morning, and had decided that even Alexander Lightwood would not ruin his celebrating.

Yes, he thought after beating his arch-enemy to the coffee machine during his break, today is a good day.

He thought again of the previous night, and one part of his mind- the very, very small, annoyingly reasonable part- fumed. Why did you do that, you bitter, idiotic sod? Years of lying low, of carefully concealing your identity with your pathetic little illusions, just so that you could ruin it in five minutes- and for what? To see the Elites' faces when you stole their victory? To make your stupid, unneccesary and simply inefficiently dramatic exit? You could've taken the stairs, and then maybe you wouldn't have injured your ankle on the way down, you've never been the best at absailing-

Oh, shut up, the other side, the side Magnus much preferred listening to, interrupted.

He knew that the voice of reason was right, that what he had done was stupid, that years of meticulous planning had been flushed down the drain with last night's actions, but he couldn't shake off how good it had felt, how rewarding it was to surprise them, as if he'd swept their legs out from underneath them so that they sat, dazed, on the floor.

It wasn't that he had missed using his powers. He used them constantly; to conceal the unusual colour of his eyes to hide the fact that he was an abnormality, that he was far from mundane, at his parties. Whenever he went on patrol. To capture the criminals, of course, and to keep himself hidden; making his hair blonde, or red, or chestnut brown (or, when he just couldn't help himself, pink). Altering the appearance of his clothes to boring old suits, altering the appearance of his body completely, so that he resembled a tall, blonde woman, or a short, thick, broad-shouldered man with a mohawk. Sometimes he would create stories for himself- I am a lawyer that has braved the Supreme Court who has a secret, terrifying alter-ego, or, I still live in my parents' basement, and compete in online-game tournaments to earn my money.  

Magnus knew he'd have to call Catarina later, explain to her why the headlines were probably already declaring the Kestrel a hero, when all they'd ever called him was a party-animal, or a debauchee. If only you knew, he always thought when he read newspapers like that, if only you knew.

He hadn't missed feeling powerful, he'd just missed people knowing that he was.

Chapter Text

That afternoon, when Magnus danced into the private office room their boss had given them to work on their collaboration (even he was surprised by his jolliness) he was instantly met with a glower. It seemed, Magnus thought, that Alexander's usual foul mood had overleaped itself.

It was as if the air was crackling with electricity, the two men staring at eachother- one jovial, lips twisted into an eternal grin, and the other glum, eyebrows knitted as if stuck together with superglue.

"Mr Lightwood," Magnus flounced towards one of the desk chairs, "you're looking particularly divine this afternoon."

Alec looked at him with the slumped, unimpressed frown of a housecat too lazy to get up for its breakfast. "Mr Bane. What a pleasure." Well, at least his sarcasm never wavered.

"I see you've taken my advice and are doing some extra reading," Magnus replied dryly, looking at the contents of the file spread out on the desk.

"I organised its events chronologically. Wouldn't want anyone getting confused." Alec said this with so little expression that if you'd never spoken to him before, you wouldn't know that it was an insult.

"Yes, well, it's always good to work in a way that meets your own needs. Now," Magnus clapped his hands together before Alec could reply, "where do we begin?"

***

Despite the constant insults, some sugar-coated and some most definitely not, they worked quickly together, and efficiently. At some point in the last day they'd both decided that this was an opportunity for the both of them, and that they'd be stupid to try declining it. The case itself was difficult- it was intricate, and it was controversial. The first thing they decided on was who to interview- Lily Chen, first, who was known for her aggressive stance on the discrimination of UCs and how it was, quite frankly, "bullshit". This was followed by deciding who would interview her. ("Me, obviously," said Magnus. "She only talks to people who wear things equivalent in beauty to what she would consider wearing to the Met Gala.")

"We need to think of a headline," Alec said. Magnus, who had been noting down questions to ask Ms Chen during his interview, raised his eyebrows, still hastily scribbling down notes in an annoyingly elaborate script onto a battered notepad.

"You mean you've already thought of one."

"Yes."

Magnus looked at him. "Well, let's use it then."

"What, no argument? You don't think that you have an infinitely better one without even hearing mine?" Alec looked at him, the tiniest hint of amusement curling the corner of his lips.

Magnus busied himself with his notes, rearranging the files and stray bits of paper across the desk. "Didn't you hear what the boss said, Lightwood? I get the answers, and you get the responses."

"I think you get enough responses yourself."

"Are you complimenting me, darling?"

"Are you complimenting me, Bane?"

They continued.

***

By the end of the workday, they'd divided most of the work between them; Alec with his headline, and a write up of his interview with Camille Belcourt herself. The police had graciously, and unusually, allowed The Times to send a journalist over to ask questions; both Magnus and Alec had been emailed at the beginning of that afternoon confirming the date and time, and although they'd been surprised- neither of them had even bothered to ask for one- an interview with the Vampire was something the public would respond to. The Vampire had been feared by mundanes and supers alike for years, but oddly, as soon as someone said they'd been wrongfully imprisoned, they were more than happy to protest. (This was surprising to nobody but the Clave, really. The Elites were hated much more than they knew. A sadistic murderer let loose on the streets was decidedly better than letting them win.)

That left Magnus his interview with Lily Chen, which he was secretly buzzing with excitement about; he'd met Lily before, but only ever as the Kestrel. He had already resolved to go outfit shopping that evening before the interview the next morning, which would be conducted in a quiet cafe The Times had rented out for the occasion.

To: Cat Babe

Fancy a shop?

From: Cat Babe

No.

From: Cat Babe (one minute later)

What time?

Magnus smiled. He could always count on Catarina, he knew, but then, he had thought he could always count on Ragnor too, and where was he now?

Dead.

He supposed that one of the reasons Alexander Lightwood irritated him so much- and then, why Magnus envied him so much- was that he was as bitter as the pith of an orange, whilst having everything Magnus had ever wanted.

He thought of the pictures on Alexander's desk- of a younger Alec's arms draped around a similar-looking girl, both grinning dopily at each-other, as if they didn't know they were being photographed. His sister, he knew. Isabelle Lightwood. Nine times out of ten whilst walking past Alec's desk towards the coffee machine on his break, Alec was texting someone vigorously, smiling into the phone. Clary seemed to have noticed this too, and would sometimes lean over his shoulder: "Tell Izzy Clary says hi!" She'd grin, even though Magnus didn't think she'd ever even met Alec's sister before. And then there was the amount of times that the office had gone for drinks at the end of a long Friday night, and every time, Alec had declined: "Family dinner," he'd say.

It had taken a long time to realise that having a family did not exclusively mean having a mother, or a father, or a brother or a sister. It had taken even longer for Magnus to place the amount of trust that he had ended up placing in his friends- Raphael, and before that, Catarina, and then before that, Ragnor.

Sometimes, he couldn't help but feel that this trust had been betrayed, that Ragnor had left him, just as he had always said he never would. But that was ridiculous- that was the anger talking. The only one to blame for Ragnor's death was the one who had killed him, and one day, Magnus vowed, they would be forced to regret it.

So, maybe originally, Magnus' jealousy of Alexander had stemmed from him having a family in the first place, an automatic safety blanket that he had never had to work to trust. After Ragnor's death, though, Magnus envied that Alec had kept it.

He knew that the jealousy was irrational. He knew that plenty of the others in the office had huge families at home, had game nights on Saturdays, roasts on Sundays. But whenever he saw Alec, with his luminous eyes and his messy hair and his confident stride, whenever he read his articles with their brilliant headlines and their thought-provoking ideas, watched as he threw himself headfirst into the public's line of fire, knowing he'd get backlash and hate just for being just, he thought: this is what I could've been.

***

That night, the wolves howled.

Maia Roberts was angry. In fact, she was so angry that she shook, so angry that she almost murdered someone on the train just for looking at her funny, (probably because she looked like she wanted to murder someone) so angry that she almost burned every newsagents she passed to the ground.

When she got home, proud of herself for managing not to kill anything, she was comforted by the fact that the rest of them were just as angry as she was. Newspapers had been spread across the tables, dating back to three years prior, the headlines like: UC FOUND DEAD IN ELITE DISPATCH VAN, and UC ACCUSED OF STARTING FIRE AFTER RESCUING 22 CIVILLIANS FROM BURNING APARTMENT BUILDING.

And then, the most recent ones: yesterday's, RENOWNED UC, THE CROW, DETAINED BY ELITES AFTER ACCUSATIONS OF MURDER, and today's, BARTHOLOMEW VELASQUEZ, ALIAS THE DRILL, ACCUSED OF INVOLVEMENT IN ROGUE-SUPER BREAK IN, QUESTIONED BY THE CLAVE.

The Elites had been particularly harsh in revealing Bat's identity. Some supers, who were rarely in the public eye, never bothered with concealing their identities. Raphael Santiago, AKA The Crow, had no enemies other than the Clave, who hated UCs the most profusely- who cared if people knew he was the owner of the DuMort, regardless of the fact that he was also a UC? Besides, Maia had always suspected that Raphael's carelessness with his identity was a 'fuck you' to the Elites- here I am, in broad daylight. I am not hiding from you. I help the people you hate, I am one of them, and you can't do anything about it except watch.

But other supers, like Bat, couldn't take the risk. Santiago made his money from the DuMort, a hotel which openly housed UCs, but Bat had only just finished university, and had begun an internship. Most companies refused to take UCs as employees, (out of fear? Out of prejudice?) which was ironic, because the workplace was crawling with them. But there were procedures you could take to ensure that to mundanes, you were mundane, to Elites, you were a UC with a life elsewhere as a mundane whom they would never find, and to UCs, you were simply that- a UC, with no life besides that. So the plated jackets and pants and boots were made to disguise the proportions of your body, you learned to change the tone of your voice, masks were worn to conceal the most distinguishable parts of your face, you modified your posture and the way you walked. When Maia Roberts was no longer Maia Roberts but the Incinerator, she did all these things, and did them well. Because a life when everyone knew you were a UC was no life at all.

So this would mean that he would lose his internship, that he would be recognised on the streets, that every new job he applied for would deny him his right to work like the rest of them. The rest of his life would be spent preparing shu pork at the Jade Wolf for delivery, that is, if he was set free.

"They took Raphael. Now they've taken one of our own." Maia forced out, breaking the silence. Luke looked at her, his usually kind, steely eyes tightened with a kind of rage that Maia had never seen in him before.

"What do we do?" Amabel, one of the others, whispered.

Maia saw Luke's jaw tighten, saw him fiddle with the wedding bands on his fingers- one had belonged to his wife Jocelyn, who had died about three years ago in an attack. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. 

Silence.

An angry sigh from the corner of the room. The furious group of UCs turned towards it.

Somehow, Clary Fairchild managed to make sitting with her legs crossed in dungarees and a stripy green t-shirt look intimidating. Her hands were clenched at her sides, and her freckled face was twisted into a look of barely contained rage, mouth pursed together tightly, eyes hawk-like as she stared the rest of the room down, as if they were measly humans and she was the giant.

"We take them back, of course."

***

That night, the Warden thought only of hatred.

He hated this city. He hated the dancing, the drinking, the sparkling, the talking. He hated the way the lights of the clubs and the bars flashed multi-coloured, so blinding, so pretty, so enticing. He hated how intoxicatedly happy the people were, how they laughed off vodka being spilled down their best dresses, how they giggled and swayed, grinned and staggered. Most of all, he hated how busy it was, how everyone in the world, it seemed, had somebody alongside them except him.

He hated his job. This job. He hated how he had to watch people that were so happy, knowing that they were only alive because he was there to watch over them.

He hated the criminals who threatened their happiness, but more than that, he hated that he was never given credit for putting them away. Jace always liked to joke that he was like a ticket warden- you leave your car in a parking space that you haven't paid for for a second too long and boom, there's the ticket, and a price to pay, without ever seeing who put it there. And he was right- he showed up, he did his job, and then he disappeared, because those were his orders. Nobody was ever to admire the Warden as they admired and loved the Angel, or the Serpent, or the Bat. But he couldn't help but think, what if they did? What if I was so popular that I was deemed a celebrity, that journalists rushed to interview me, that photographs of my masked face were analysed and plastered on the fronts of newspapers? Would I feel less lonely then?

So he hated his parents. He hated the secrets they made him keep, and the secrets he kept from them.

But most of all, he hated Magnus Bane, and his stupid, beautiful face, and his entitled, presumptuous attitude.

Chapter Text

Unsurprisingly, and somewhat hilariously, all Elites were avid bath users.

One of the many reasons Alec hated living in the Institute was its hollowness. It wasn't as if it lacked character, with it's stained-glass windows and its mahogany beams and its engraved marble floors, but every room, even the ones bustling with people like the training room or the meeting rooms or the infirmary, had been cursed with a kind of loneliness that sometimes Alec wondered if only he could feel. Even Izzy's room, which she'd desperately tried her hand at refurnishing (one day she'd set out after recieving her measly monthly pay check- Elites didn't earn much, and when Alec had asked his mother about this, she'd said: "Well, what do they need to money for? It's not like they pay rent."- to Ikea, and she'd bought herself a pink duvet set and a vanity and installed herself a rotating wardrobe) was dark, and somehow isolated from everything else, even though it was only across the hall from Alec's.

This meant that it had always been a huge relief to the New York Elites that although the Clave had held back on properly renovating the rest of the Institute, they'd spared no expense on the bathrooms. Alec himself probably spent more time in the shower or the bathtub than he did in his own bed. He braced himself for the sharp sting of pain as the scalding water hit the countless numbers of gashes across his chest, arms, and legs, and was surprised to feel a dull throb of pain just below the back of his neck. He realised he'd forgotten about the particularly nasty cut he'd recieved from a rogue super two nights before, one who had flung knife-like spikes at him which had appeared to spring from his nails at will. After binding his hands and calling Dispatch, reassuring the man who the super had been trying to steal from, Alec had picked up one of the spikes from the ground and taken it back to the Institute with him to be entered onto the database. When he'd looked it up, it displayed the super's name- THE STRINGRAY, simply because the throwing needles he produced from his nails could knock you unconscious with a tiny scratch, and kill you with a big one.

Yet there Alec was, the wound almost fully closed over, only a little red around the edges. Other supers would've wondered: why am I not dead? But all Alec thought was: all thanks to the angel.

***

That morning, Alec set out for work with a buzz of nervous energy around him, pinching his hands together in the way that he did when he was anxious. He and Magnus had agreed that whilst Magnus went for his interview with Lily Chen that morning, Alec would start work on the article, and whilst he was in his interview with Camille that afternoon, Magnus would continue it.

Well, at least he's out of the office for the morning, Alec thought.

Entering the office, Alec immediately noticed Clary's furious typing and equally furious expression. At first, Alec had been irritated (and unnerved) by Clary's questions, and her passion for the protection of UCs. He'd seriously believed that she was a UC spy. But once a year had passed and she clearly had no intentions of uncovering his secret identity and revealing it to the world, he realised he had developed a fondness for her, a certain soft spot reserved for people like his sister. It was this fondness that made him approach her and ask her what was wrong; he'd have ignored anyone else, or told them to stop banging on their keyboard.

Clary looked up at him, startled, and for a moment she reminded Alec of himself, reaching for his bow or his knives at the slightests of sounds. "Nothing. Nothing's wrong. I'm fine. Why?"

"Well, I'm slightly worried that you're about to murder your laptop."

She looked apologetically at her computer, then back at him. "I'm alright. Honestly, I am." Alec didn't believe her for a second. Again, he recognised himself in her, the way she so adamantly refused to admit to Alec that she was not, in fact, fine. "Now," she said. "Tell me about this interview you managed to score with Camille Belcourt."

***

Clary had not spoken to him in an entire 24 hours by mid-morning, and by Simon's standards, that was far too long.

Simon wasn't stupid. He knew Clary was keeping secrets from him, and he suspected there were many. A couple of nights ago he'd been tempted to bring it up with her: where do you go in the evenings, when you disappear? Are you safe? But he knew that Clary knew that he was keeping things from her, too, and to ask her would lead to her asking him. It felt like an impossible situation, one that made Simon feel like he was balanced on a tightrope- if he stepped forwards too far, or too quickly, he knew he would fall.

And then there were the Elites. Something had happened that week, something big, and the Institute had since been a flurry of chaos, swarms of Elites hurrying through the corridors with huge stacks of files in hand, and Maryse Lightwood even more terrifying than usual. (Every time Simon saw her, he'd turn back the way he'd came and hide himself in the training room or his bedroom.)

Simon had seen the newspapers, something about a massive break-in at an office building a few blocks away, that about 22 mundanes had completely disappeared, and that the criminals on the site had been captured by no other than the Kestrel, "notorious Brooklyn partier" as The Sun said. But, of course, the Elites refused to tell him anything. Alec had been stubbornly tight-lipped about it, whilst Izzy had shied away from him as he approached her. Jace had looked apologetically guilty and told him that he couldn't say anything about it, then grinned at him as if nothing had happened, and asked Simon if he wanted to go to the training room with him. Although Simon understood his reluctance to flout his mother's orders, that last one had stung more than he wanted to admit. He'd had to work hard to gain Jace's friendship, suffering through the repetitive insults and teasing, and he liked to think that Jace trusted him enough not to leave him in the dark. And yet, there he was.

Adjusting to life as an Elite-in-training had been difficult. Even last night, six months after he'd gotten there, Simon had trouble sleeping, the emptiness of the room thick and black, the stiffness of the mattress digging in to his back. He had stared at the ceiling. What is the point of this? He thought. I'm keeping secrets from my best friend, my body feels like it's been pushed through a meat grinder, my mom thinks I'm in a military training camp, and I don't even get served breakfast in bed.

But for some reason, he had been bestowed this power, and he was sure he was meant to help people with it. So he steeled his resolve, persevered, and took as many baths as humanly possible.

***

Magnus Bane waltzed into the office that afternoon with a ginormous stack of notes and a dreamy look etched onto his face. "There," he said triumphantly, slamming the stack onto Alexander's desk. Alec didn't so much as flinch, but the coffee in his large mug slopped over the sides, splattering dangerously close to his laptop. "Careful," Alec snapped, already glaring. "Go on then, tell me how it went."

"Such fabulousness cannot be described with words, Lightwood," Magnus exclaimed, feigning shock.

"Good luck writing it up for the article, then."

Now it was Magnus' time to glare. "I'm sure I'll manage."

"Yes, well let me know when you need my help." Alec checked his watch. Time to go. "Email me the progress," he said, and stood to shrug on his coat, then turned back towards his desk. 

The offensively large stack of notes was gone, and so was his coffee.

***

The SCU (Super Containment Unit) was located far underground, beneath a series of warehouses on the outskirts of the city. Alec would have to get a taxi there, but he didn't mind. As the busyness of the city dimmed, the air became quieter, leaving him with a moment's peace before he would have to interview the Vampire.

It wasn't that he was scared of her, but he was nervous; he'd been there when she was taken into the Institute. He'd been wearing his mask, of course, but what if she recognised him still? Camille's power included an extremely enhanced sense of smell- what if she remembered his?

And then there was the issue that had been bothering him all morning. For the past few days, he'd been in a sort of bliss, busy with work as the Warden and still dazed after his boss' offer. The doubts had only started kicking in that morning, as he begun writing the article. What would his mother think? What would his father think? Neither of them had ever been supportive of his job as a journalist- Elite parents preferred their children to work only as Elites, something about being distracted from their duties otherwise- but they'd tolerated it. He knew that that grace period would end as soon as those first copies were sent out- their son, the Warden, publishing an article on the mistreatment of UCs by the Clave, whom they had spent ten years cozying up to. But he wanted this, wanted the recognition, wanted the promotion, and some part of him loved the idea of using this collaboration as an outlet for the opinions he was never allowed to speak of, never even allowed to have. So he'd brace himself, and he'd deal with the consequences when they came- and they would- as Alec always had done, with a straight back, head held high, and no complaints. 

He nodded a thanks to the taxi driver, handing him some cash, and stepped out of the car. He was greeted a moment later by two heavily-armed men, who lead him towards the entrance of one of the warehouses, down an ominous-looking flickering hallway, and accompanied him into the elevator at the end. One of them pressed one of the buttons- the last floor, floor 92. Next to the button was printed: 3. Alec knew that in the SCUs of every country, there was a sort of hierachy, categories 1, 2, and 3. 1 was for petty criminals, rogues whose powers were so useless that they could only be used for crimes like shoplifting. These criminals were kept inside the prison only temporarily, until a mundane prison was found that was equipped to accommodate them, and they'd be transferred there to finish their sentence.

Temporary imprisonment stopped at Category 2, where the majority of the criminals were kept, further and further underground. These were usually the most well-known rogues, the ones that made the headlines by bombing apartment buildings or stealing jewels from vaults after lives of petty crimes, but got caught very soon afterwards, their moments of fame short-lived. These criminals were powerful, but not so powerful that they could evade the Elites or enemy UCs, and not so clever that they could hide themselves from them well enough.

And then there was Category 3, and that was where the Vampire was. This was more out of tradition than necessity; Camille wouldn't be too difficult to contain, but she'd allegedly killed so many people, and until now, had gotten away with all of it. This made her far more dangerous than a rogue who had exploded an entire museum, only to be arrested by Elites the following morning after getting so drunk that she'd fallen asleep on the sidewalk outside it.

The elevator's doors slid shut, and they descended. The silence made the journey stifling, and out of curiosity and awkwardness, Alec asked, "So, where'd you put the rogues the Kestrel caught yesterday?" There was silence for a moment, and then one turned to him. "What r-"

The elevator doors sprung open with a ping. Before Alec had time to contemplate what the security guard was about to say, he was being pushed out, and then he completely forgot everything in awe of his surroundings. He'd expected to be surprised, but he hadn't expected this.

To his left and right, the corridor stretched endlessly, so far that even his enhanced sight couldn't make out the end, so far that he imagined it simply going on and on forever. He could count on either side of the corridor to his left at least 70 doors, each, he assumed, an entrance to a cell. That meant he was surrounded by at least 280 Category 3 rogues.

"New installations are through there." One of the guards pointed to a shorter corridor in front of him. Alec tried not to notice how they called them 'installations' as if they were cupboards or sinks or french doors in someone's new apartment.

There were doors on either side of the corridor, and one that rounded it off at the end. About halfway down, the guards stopped abruptly at door number 027. "Here," one said. "When you go in, there'll be seven layers of bullet-proof glass separating you from the prisoner, so don't worry, its perfectly secure. There's a microphone inside her cell, as there is one outside. Ask her your questions, then leave. You have a maximum of ten minutes."

Then the door opened to Camille Belcourt.

Chapter Text

Jace lay, sweating, on the floor of the training room, his arms crossed beneath his head. Izzy sat on a bench opposite, staring distractedly at a bottle of water in her hands. Cool afternoon light shone across the room, washing her silver.

"Izzy," Jace started, "what's wrong?"

She blinked and looked up at him, startled. "Nothing's wrong. Why?"

"I managed to beat you 7 times out of 10 today. Usually it's only 5. What is it?"

"I'm just tired, honestly." She tucked an invisible strand of hair back behind her ear, which she only ever did when she was lying.

"Does it have anything to do with your late-night escapades to a UC night-club?"

"No." She paused. "Wait, what?" She was standing now, her eyes panicked. Jace stood up to meet her.

"Relax, Iz. I'm not going to tell anyone."

Izzy combed her hands through her hair. "How do you even know?"

"Mom put me on monitor duty the night of the break-in. Honestly, Izzy, did you really forget the tracker shoved into the back of your neck?"

Shit. The trackers were a precautionary measure- Hodge usually knew where they were anyway- and after she'd gotten away with it the first few times, she'd assumed nobody ever checked their signals.

"Monitor duty?" She repeated.

"Yeah. I had no idea it was a thing either. I think Maryse just did it because she had to punish somebody, otherwise her head would've exploded. It's basically just sitting at the only computer in the entire Institute and watching a bunch of dots move across a map of New York for 5 hours."

Izzy wrung her hands. "So this isn't, like, a regular thing? Someone isn't on monitory duty every day?"

"The computer was covered in dust and took an hour to start up, so I assume not. Besides, there aren't enough Elites here for people to take shifts doing it late into the night instead of patrolling, for something that's only an extra precaution."

"Right. Right." She had begun pacing the room.

"Izzy," Jace spoke gently, "where do you go that's so important to you that you don't want anyone to know about it?"

She sighed. Izzy knew that if she didn't tell someone about Clary soon, she'd spontaneously combust, but Jace wouldn't have been her first choice when talking about her love life. But he was her brother, and she trusted him more than she trusted most.

She turned to him. "I've met someone."

Jace gasped, and smiled. "What's his name?"

She raised her eyebrows at him. "Her name is Clary."

"Okay. So, why haven't you told anyone about her?"

Izzy took a deep breath. "Because she's a UC."

Jace looked a little dazed. "You are so cool." He whispered. "Mom is going to be livid."

"Mom isn't going to be anything, because she's not going to find out."

"So you're just never going to tell anyone about this?"

Izzy looked at her feet. "Well, I figured, we'll probably break up at some point, and then there won't be anything to tell."

"Why would you break up?"

"Because she doesn't know I'm an Elite." She whispered.

"Right. Yeah, that is... an obstacle in your relationship. What does she think you do for a living?"

"Alec told her I'm a dancer."

"Alec knows about this?" Jace looked hurt.

"Not exactly. Clary works with Alec at The Times, and obviously, Alec has told her all about me, because, well, it's me. Which is kind of awkward, because he has no idea we've been in a relationship for six months." Izzy let out a tiny laugh.

"So, this Clary, she knows you're Alec's sister, but not that you're an Elite, and doesn't find it suspicious at all that she met you in a UC night-club?"

"Well, I sort-of-maybe told her I'm a UC."

"What?"

"She doesn't know what my powers are. I don't know what hers are either. We decided to leave that part out."

"Oh my god." Jace buried his head in his hands.

"Jace. I love her. And I want to tell her, but..."

"But she's a UC, and there's no guarantee that she'd stay with you if she knew, because everyone hates us."

"Right." Izzy sighed, defeated. What she wouldn't give to have the stupid tracker ripped from her neck, or to have never been born into the Lightwood family in the first place. "Hey, Jace?"

"Yeah?"

"You can't tell Alec."

"No. You have to do that yourself."

She knew he was right.

***

Lightwood's coffee really was as bitter as his soul. Magnus didn't know why he took it- was it out of petty spite, or was it because he just really fancied a coffee?- but the irritated look on Alexander's face had been worth it as he left the office for his interview.

His interview.

Magnus had truly dodged a bullet with that one. When he saw the case they were working on was Camille's, he'd been worried enough. He'd had to work long and hard to detach himself from her claws, to completely rid himself of her, and now he felt like he was walking right back into them.

That whole evening, looking back at it, had been a blur. He'd left work with his mind clouded- the collaboration with Lightwood, the article they were meant to be writing, what the article was about- and then he'd gone and involved himself with the Elites properly for the first time in years. Such a display of power would intimidate the Elites. They'd be after him, Catarina had warned. He had to be careful.

And then his boss had emailed to say that the article would include an interview with Camille herself, and the relief he'd felt when Alec offered to take it was overwhelming.

So maybe he had dodged a bullet- he wouldn't have to see her, or talk to her, and she wouldn't see him or talk to him- but he knew he shouldn't have. Anybody else walking in to that interview would leave Magnus more vulnerable than he ever would have been if he went himself. Camille was one of the only people who knew Magnus as a UC, but also as a mundane, and though she'd kept it a secret since then- Magnus was still trying to figure out why- he had no idea what her plans were now. At least if he went, he would know that she could only speak of his own secrets to Magnus himself; to Alexander, Camille could reveal everything with a sentence.

As he typed up that morning's interview, all he could think of was something Lily had said. He'd asked her, "And if you were a UC, would you fear the Elites?" She had looked at him as if he were a coil or wire to unravel, or an onion to peel, bit by bit, and then she had laughed. "I don't fear people who are so obviously beneath me, Mr Bane."

***

Camille Belcourt was as beautiful, and just as terrifying, as the papers had always said.

Born sometime in the 1700s in France, Camille was one of the only immortal beings still alive, and feared, in the world. Alec had always thought immortality was an awfully depressing thing, even as writers romanticized it. He couldn't imagine falling in love, or making friends, knowing they'd age and die as you never would. Was something really meaningful if it happened again, and again, and again? Was a life really a life if it would never end?

When he entered the room, the Vampire stood in the centre of her cell, arms crossed, as if she'd been expecting him. Alec thought she probably had- the guards had informed him that she'd been told about the interview- but it didn't stop a chill from running its way down his spine, or from his fingers ticking nervously at his sides. Her hair was the palest blonde, the kind that could be confused for white if the lighting was bad- which it was- the blue jumpsuit she'd been given looking like it had just been ironed, not a thread out of place. Her eyes, which were not the bottomless black Alec had imagined, were bottle-green, and glowed into the dull light like lanterns. Her lips, which even in a smile were cruel, were stained red, as if she somehow had access to lipstick thousands of feet below ground.

She inhaled through her nose, twisting a curl of hair around her long fingers, and her eyes narrowed as she smiled.

"Hello, Warden."

***

He supposed he shouldn't have been shocked- he'd known the risks- but being addressed as his alias, without his mask on, or the bow strapped to his back, or the knives to his hips, was so foreign and somehow wrong that for a moment he was at a loss for words.

Camille laughed. "Oh, don't look so surprised. I could tell it was you from a mile away. But oh, am I shocked!" She stepped closer to the glass. "Alexander Lightwood, the journalist crawling his way up through the ranks bit by bit, also the mysterious Warden who so many conspiracists spend their days trying to figure out. How funny." Her voice was smooth and drawling, British but with a vague hint of an accent.

Alec steadied his hands at his sides, trying to keep them from reaching for the only knife he carried during the daytime strapped to the inside of his jacket, and took a deep breath.

"Camille. As you've been told, I've come to ask you some questions regarding your stance on the treatment of UCs and rogues by the Clave. This is for an article that I am working with fellow New York Times journalist Magnus Bane to release."

Camille's eyes flashed. "Aren't you going to ask how I know it's you, Warden?"

"No. Now-"

"See, as I'm sure you know, I also have a very keen sense of hearing. All it took was a little eavesdropping whilst I was still cozied up in that Institute of yours, waiting to be carted off to this lovely little cell of mine. Really, dear, you should hear what they were saying about you- quite rude, actually-"

"Quiet. Do you think your arrest was justified?"

She sniffed, upset at being cut off. "Well, I'm certainly not innocent, Mr Lightwood. But... the terms in which the Elites- the Assassin, I think, along with the Axe- made my arrest were unreasonable, I believe."

"Unreasonable?"

"Yes. It was all rather odd. I confess I'm still not quite sure what happened. I was simply enjoying a nice, peaceful walk outside at around 11pm-"

"A walk at 11pm?"

"Yes, well I am the Vampire, Mr Lightwood. It's not like I can go on any nice morning strolls. Anyway, I was on my walk, when I was suddenly grabbed by some man- never grab a woman, Alexander, it's very rude- and before I had a chance to resist, my hands were bound with these nasty chains. They must have been made of some kind of fancy metal, because I couldn't break out of them."

"Titanium."

"Yes, thanks. Well, I suppose what I'm trying to say is that it was all rather random. I mean, if I'd been stalking some woman and my fangs were out, I would have understood, but I wasn't, and they weren't. I don't recall even wearing my mask. It was quite bizarre."

Alec had to agree. In every Institute in every city, there was a sort of Watchman, just like Hodge- a super with a power that was very useful in surveillance, which were surprisingly common. This meant that it was always very easy to confirm a super's innocence or guilt- if the Watchman had seen something incriminating (and he saw everything) then it would be reason enough for the Elite to arrest the super and send them to the SCU, with no need for a trial. To avoid encouraging a UC revolt, the Clave had set up guidelines- an arrest had to be approved by the city's Watchman for it to go ahead.

But if Camille was telling the truth, then it meant that Hodge had approved her arrest, without a legitimate cause, which would certainly lead to the public's outrage.

This information was great for the article, but looked bad for the Elites.

He asked Camille a few more questions, just for the sake of it: do you think this will encourage a UC revolt? (That would be rather flattering, wouldn't it?) Do you hope to be released from the SCU? (I find I'm quite happy here. I don't even have to hunt for my dinner). But Alec had managed to get everything he really needed with the first question.

He stuffed his notepad and pen into his coat pocket, then looked back at her.

"Thank you, Camille."

"You're welcome, Mr Lightwood."

He began making his way towards the door.

"Oh, Alexander?" She called out, and he paused, turning to look at her before he reached for the doorhandle. She smiled her grotesque smile, and Alec noticed again how red her lips were, the exact shade of fresh blood.

"Yes?"

"Say hello to Magnus for me."

Chapter Text

Magnus had spent the first five minutes after getting home that evening looking for his favourite pen- a rather expensive fountain pen with a sparkly purple lid- which he reckoned must have fallen out of his pencil case as he was being jostled about on the subway. He was in the middle of rummaging through his bag, digging towards the bottom as if searching for buried treasure, throwing things out of the leather satchel in quick-fire succession onto his dining table, when, upon reaching the bottom, his fingers had closed around a rather squished, rather torn, and rather sad-looking newspaper.

He'd almost forgotten about the blood-stained photograph printed across its front page, but not quite.

He didn't even need to question who had done it- an Elite supporter, or an Elite themselves, of course. But he'd written countless articles vocalising his support for UCs- why now?

He looked out of his window. It was raining, the neon lights from the restaurants streaking the puddles with yellow and orange, like someone had squeezed their acrylic paints onto the streets. A cat streaked across the road, narrowly missing a taxi, which shrieked at it with its horn before continuing on to its destination. Sometimes, when Magnus felt particularly lonely, he'd torment himself by watching people walk by, listening to the cab drivers bellow at each-other out of their windows, and he'd wonder where they were all going. You never knew in New York; everybody went everywhere.

He wondered if the Elites' fancy Watchman did that too. Probably not, he thought. He's too busy getting everyone arrested.

Whenever Magnus came home, he'd illusion himself invisible before putting the key in the door.

He knew he ought to be more thankful for his powers, really. They played a huge part in keeping him alive, and in making his life easier, too. When Magnus had asked how the other UCs managed to keep the Watchman's many eyes looking the other way, Catarina had told him that every other UC she knew had a mixture of mundane and combat outfits stored in various places across the city. There were even safehouses specifically for this, down secluded alleyways and twittens, inconspicuous enough to remain unbothered by the Watchman's birds. Sometimes Magnus thought that the only places that were really safe, in the entire city, were indoors.

Anyway, this meant that UCs could go in, change out of their combat-wear or into it, and leave transformed. The Watchman wouldn't be paying too close attention to anyone that resembled a mundane, so that wasn't a problem, but there wasn't 100% surety that he wouldn't suspect anything if he'd been keeping an eye on a UC and they'd vanished into a darkened corner only to leave as someone completely different. Still, it made it much more difficult for the Warden to keep track of everyone, especially if they kept changing their appearances. The UCs would change into their mundane selves and would be able to walk home without worrying about being tracked.

Magnus drew his curtains shut and turned off the living room's lights, then went to run himself a bath.

The Elites didn't know where the Kestrel lived, not exactly. They knew it was somewhere in Brooklyn, but that didn't really narrow anything down. Sometimes, it was much more effective to give the seeker a clue, just to confuse them, just to make them believe they were headed in the right direction even if they weren't, than to give them nothing. And that's what Magnus had always done. The Elites had found him the other day; whether they'd been actively looking for him or if they'd just decided to check on the apartment that was making so much noise, he didn't know. It didn't happen often, because parties weren't a rarity in New York, but when it did, Magnus made sure he was inventive.

The other night, the Elites must have been bored enough to abandon their duties and join the party. Magnus had made sure that they'd had plenty to drink (and that they'd turned off their earpieces), had asked his friend Tessa (who had the uncanny ability to mess around with people's minds) to make sure they'd forget the whole night and drive them to the Institute (making sure he wrapped an illusion-bubble securely around them before they left, so Tessa'd resemble the usual rowdy driver and the car would resemble a taxi) and leave them to stagger up the steps, reeking of alcohol. All the New York Elites would see were two idiots who'd had the sudden desire to let loose.

Some nights, Magnus'd simply surround his apartment with a thick bubble of calm, and quiet, so that even if Elites did get too close, they'd hear nothing, see nothing, and assume nobody was home. There were plenty of other ways Magnus had evaded the Elites- making them hear imaginary screams from just around the corner and having them rush off to fulfil their heroic duties before they could knock, to actually opening the door himself (As Magnus, of course) in his bathrobe, telling them to go away after illusioning the party invisible, then when they had gone, discarding the robe to reveal a three-piece suit underneath.

But he'd run out of ways to avoid the Elites, soon, and once he had to start repeating his tricks, the Watchman would get suspicious. Hell, he's been suspicious for months, Magnus thought. And he'd have to be even more cautious now- the Elites were looking for him. There'd been no public announcements, of course, but Magnus had been in the job long enough to know that if a UC who had never seemed to be a threat before (that they remembered) suddenly displayed a daunting amount of power, the Elites would either want them gone, or they'd want them for themselves. Neither option was very appealing to Magnus.

No parties for a while, then, he thought as he poured bubble bath into the tub. Better to be safe than sorry.

***

That night on patrol, Alec felt overwhelmed. Too much had happened and too much was happening all at once.

Before this week, the only peace he'd been able to find was in routine. Waking up after a maximum of four hours of sleep at the Institute, going to work, getting the subway home, going out on patrol, going to bed, repeat. There had never been room for anything else, no surprises, which had bored Alec as much as it had comforted him.

But now the routine was broken. The collaboration with Magnus meant he had to be at work earlier than usual and stay later, but unfortunately for Alec, this coincided with his mother's demands. How was he meant to find the Kestrel on one hour of sleep per night?

And then there was the Camille situation. Alec knew that she'd be in the SCU forever, so it wasn't as if she could go around the city spray painting billboards with: Fun fact! Alec Lightwood is the Warden, but what if one of the security guards had heard? What if she decided to tell one?

This was the kind of thing he was meant to tell Maryse- anything that would put the Elites in jeopardy- but he couldn't bring himself to do it. She didn't know about the collaboration, but she would by the end of tomorrow. She'd find out about his interview with Camille then, and would probably have a fit over that and everything else in the article, but then it'd be over, because although she'd be livid, she'd know that there was nothing that could be done about it.

Knowing his mother, if he said anything now, she'd find a way to persuade his boss to stop the press entirely.

What she didn't know wouldn't hurt her, and if it- if Camille- decided to come back to bite him further down the road, that was his own problem.

Now Alec perched at the very edge of a rather tall crane. He and his comrades had split up- he, Izzy, Jace, Aline, and her friend Helen- and had each settled themselves waiting in the shadows, each above places the Watchman had told them were the Kestrel's frequented hang-outs. (To put it shortly, they'd all picked a night-club or bar, waiting for the Kestrel to enter or leave any of them.)

It really was a blessing that Alec was not afraid of heights. He could feel the crane swaying in the wind beneath him, and he gripped the metal bar he was supporting himself on tighter with one of his hands, the other on his belt, ready to pull out a zipline to send himself down to the ground and give chase. The air was slightly warmer than recent nights, but the wind still ushered against Alec's cheeks in a cool breeze, and he yearned to let go of the steel bars to breathe warmth into his hands; they'd begun to turn numb, even with gloves on.

At first, Alec had thought the whole plan was pointless- the Kestrel could have turned himself invisible and entered any one of the places they were watching by then. But then they'd been told that they had been granted a team of Detectors for their ongoing mission by the Clave, and he'd stopped scowling. Detectors were a specific branch of Elites who had either joined the organisation or had been recruited for their abilities to detect the energy signals of any super-powered being. Some people called their powers mediocre. Alec called them useful.

Zachariah- Alec knew that that wasn't his birth name, but a Detector's name was changed when they were recruited for confidentiality- clung to a lower rung of the crane, just below Alec. He reckoned the Detectors must be pretty well-versed in following the Elites around. "Zachariah," he shouted down to him, and the wind, beginning to pick up, seemed to whisk away his voice. "Are you okay down there?"

"Perfectly fine," Zachariah replied with a grin, the breeze ruffling the black and white strands of his hair. "Nothing I haven't done before!" Alec, who had always liked Zachariah, smiled back, remembering what he'd said as Alec started to climb the side of the crane a few hours earlier: "Really? Another one?"

He looked below him. From this high, the people seemed to scurry around like ants, tiny black dots going about their business, but Alec knew if he were to focus his stupidly enhanced eyesight would let him pick out every detail, every sequin in someone's dress, every pin in someone's hair. Neon lights flickered on and off, restaurants and grocery stores closing for the night, night-clubs and 24 hour bars only just opening. Billboards on the sides of office buildings flapped in the wind, models' faces from perfume advertisements rumpled and torn.

It began to rain, fat droplets spattering the rim of Alec's mask. He looked down to call out to Zachariah, tell him to start making his way down (metal was difficult to cling on to when it was raining) but he didn't appear to have noticed the rain at all. Zachariah stared, his ethereal-looking silver eyes unblinking, at something in the distance, over the tops of buildings, expressionless.

"Zachariah?" Alec shouted. Nothing. His gloved fingers, already sodden, began to slip on the metal. "Zachariah?" Desperately, Alec reached into his holster, clumsily knotting one end of his zip-line around a particular type of arrow with a loop at the end and a head wicked enough to cut straight into wood. He shimmied down a set of rungs quickly, using his feet to hook himself into place just above Zachariah, leaving his hands free. He fastened the other end of the line tightly around a pole, then scrambled to clip the metal part of his belt onto the wire. The rain was harder now, streaming into his eyes, making his hands slippery. His hands shook, before the carabiner locked into place with a click.

Without pausing to think, he grabbed his bow and aimed, letting the arrow fly. He watched it lodge itself into a particularly sturdy looking tree at a long, downhill stretch from the height of the crane.

With one arm, he held onto the line, then with another, he grabbed hold of Zachariah, who had began to mumble incoherently, his gaze still fixed on the city's skyline. 

It was time. Angel, he murmured, squeezing his eyes shut in concentration, reaching for the quiet hum inside his chest for the first time in months, picturing his fist closing around it. Give me strength.

His grip on his companion remained weak- stronger than any mundane's, but not strong enough. Please. Steeling himself, Alec inhaled, his knuckles white round Zachariah's arm, his feet straining to keep their purchase on the crane's rungs. He opened his eyes and looked to the sky, ignoring the rain that blurred his vision.

Raziel.

Just as Alec's feet slipped from the metal, his veins ran with silver, and he and Zachariah plummetted downwards.

Chapter Text

It really was a huge relief to Alec that he wasn't afraid of heights.

They barrelled down the line, one of Alec's hands grasping Zachariah's arm as he dangled below him, the other clutching the cord which would tighten the metal clip's grip on the wire. The wind and rain stung his eyes, but whereas before the city's lights had blurred together in their wake, the buildings distorted in shape, edges an undefined gauze, now Alec could see everything. His vision had been impeccable before- the angel's presence had always made sure of that- but now it was as if his eyes pierced through the rain, to the shadows in the alleyways, to every crack in the pavement, to the scatterings of stray bags of chips and bird's feathers in the streets.

To the tree they hurtled towards.

Alec pulled on the cord, the metal sparking with the strain of them both. The tree became nearer and nearer, a bulking, withered growth of mangled roots digging firmly into the tarmac streets, branches spiked like sabers.

The angel was strong enough to carry twenty men, more, but the brakes were not enough to stop two. The metal groaned. Gritting his teeth, Alec looked down at Zachariah, who hung limply in the air, then back forwards. Steeling himself, he placed a gloved hand on the wire, feeling the heat of the friction beneath his fingers.

He clenched his fist 10 metres from the tree.

The momentum propelled them upwards, and with a last, screeching wail, the brakes buckled and snapped.

They flew.

Alec landed and rolled, steadying himself in a crouch, then stood. His gloves (which were supposed to be immune to rope-burn) were run through with holes. Zachariah, still completely blissed out, clattered against the tree, sliding down it to rest at the stump, head lolled to the side.

"Zachariah!" Alec shouted, his voice muffled in the wind, worriedly pushing the hair out of his eyes as he raced towards him. He shook his friend's shoulder desperately, tapping him lightly on the face. "Zachariah?"

For a moment there was silence, save for the distant scream of police sirens.

Zachariah groaned, his eyes sliding open, their odd silver colouring bright in the city's lights. He looked at Alec, his dark hair dripping water, in stark contrast to the colourless of his face. His bottom lip trembled, and Alec realised that his eyes were glazed with tears.

"The hospital," he said, voice quivering, "there's been a break in."

***

There was blood everywhere.

Last time, it had been on the streets- splattered on the glass, smattered across the streets. Now it ran down the walls.

It reminded Alec of the aftermath of his mother's powers. The Leech rarely went on patrol nowadays- she left that to her children- but Alec had seen videos, and they were difficult to forget. Blood gushing from victims' mouths like water from a tap, streaming across the walls and being smeared across the floors, her victims grasping at their throats as if to squeeze them shut.

The hospital's walls had been white before. Alec had even passed it on his way to work earlier that day; a great building of white brick and glass and metal. Now the bricks were dyed crimson, like someone had grabbed a thick brush and dripped red paint across them.

Alec stared. Blood on the floor. Blood on his hands.

There was so much blood.

"Warden, come in." Hodge buzzed in his ear.

"There's been an attack at the hospital. I need backup." Alec replied, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

"I know. I just notified your comrades. They'll be there shortly." There was a silence. If Hodge knew about the attack already, he must have seen it- why didn't he notify Alec?

But Alec didn't have time to doubt someone he'd never had to doubt before. "Alright," he said before signing off, "I'll wait."

***

Izzy, Aline, and Helen arrived first.

Apparently their Detectors had fallen into the same kind of stupor Zachariah had. The only difference was that unsurprisingly, they'd managed to wake up much more quickly, probably because they hadn't been dangled off a crane hundreds of metres in the air, or thrown into a tree.

Alec watched them from an alleyway perpendicular to the hospital, leaning against a wall, one foot crossed over the other. There was a strange buzz humming through his muscles, which most people would have excused for adrenaline or nerves, but Alec knew it was the angel. He'd already checked himself over twice to make sure he wasn't glowing- believe it or not, that had happened before, and it didn't help with subtlety.

Aline and Helen stood very closely, their hands brushing against each other deliberately. Alec ignored the ache in his chest at the sight of them and turned towards his sister, who was staring at the hospital in a mixture of awe and disgust.

"Where's the Warden?" Helen asked, her blonde hair like a beacon in the darkness. Like Alec, Helen favoured the bow as a weapon, but her powers were equally dangerous- alias the Pixie, Helen could control the emotions of those around her, turning vicious attackers into cowering fools in seconds. She shared this power with her twin brother Mark, the Elf, who preferred to fight with these strange, clawed gloves he'd dug out of the weapons storage when he was still in training. Mark was a little odd- he talked as if he'd grown up as royalty, but fought ruthlessly and unceremoniously. Apart, Helen and Mark could weaken an enemy's knees, but together, they were absolutely formidable.

Still. Helen seemed to work perfectly fine with Aline instead.

"I'm here," Alec said, as he melted from the shadows. "Where's Jace?"

Izzy opened her mouth to reply, but before she could say anything, their brother dropped from the sky, landing with a sidewalk-cracking pose, feathers ruffled in disarray. "Sorry, he panted, "Flew into a billboard."

Jace had been dropped onto the Institute's steps when he was barely a day old, in what Simon had said when he found out was a "true Harry Potter moment." Curled in his fist had been a note: Look after him. He's special. And he was. Four-year-old Alec was instantly enthralled, refusing to leave Jace's side for a second, and so when one day his little brother had randomly begun to sprout wings, Alec had been the first to notice.

Generally, a super first began showing signs of powers at age three, so by then, Alec was seven. His parents had been particularly disappointed when they learned that their only son's powers were as uninteresting as they were- Alec could hit a few targets, open lids of jam jars with ease, hear a few conversations through walls- so when Jace had showed up and suddenly began to fly around with wings like a bird's, and could do everything Alec could do, they'd been ecstatic.

As Jace and his wings grew, their parents decided to take him to the Specialist- a super with the ability to accurately determine another super's powers- and she'd taken one look at him, closed her eyes and said, "There's not really a specific word for it, but it's rare. Your son has been gifted the characteristics of a falcon- enhanced eyesight, hearing, an unusually fast heartbeat, agility, and, of course, wings." The Specialist had smiled. "He's quite something."

For a while, the pressure on Alec had eased, and he'd been content- Alec didn't have wings, or talons that he could make appear and then retract, couldn't hear a person's heartbeat from a mile away, let along pinpoint the differences between them- so in his parents' eyes, he was incomparable. Then came an afternoon a few years later after a particularly bad morning- Alec had missed the bullzeye of a target twice during his training session- and his father had taken hold of one of his spindly arms and dragged him down the hall into a blindingly bright white room, commanded him to sit, and then introduced him to a dark-haired woman who Alec knew instantly was the Specialist.

He had been quietly dreading that day since Jace had returned ecstatic after large bouts of praise from their parents three years ago. Now Jace was seven, and their parents had had enough. The truth was, Alec was more terrified of seeing the disappointment on their faces when the Specialist told them that they'd been right after all, that Alec wasn't special save for a few measly enhancements, than being told the real depth of his powers (if there was any at all).

As soon as the Specialist laid her bare hand on Alec's forarm, her eyes rolled back in her head and she froze, as if caught between consciousness and unconsciousness. Robert's head snapped to Alec. "What did you do to her?"

Alec would never forget the look in his father's eyes as he smiled at his son gleefully, thinking that Alec'd finally done something that could hurt.

Then the Specialist opened her eyes. "It's his powers, Mr Lightwood. I've never seen anything like it."

Robert's grin was the largest Alec had ever seen, so wide that it contorted the features of his face, and the crinkle of his eyes was hungry. "Well? What is it?"

The Specialist pursed her lips, then shut her eyes calmly. "Angelic Prowess," she said after a moment.

"What?"

"To put it shortly, your son has been born with an empathic link to an angel. This link will permanently enhance his every ability, from his eyesight to his strength. And-" she paused, choosing her words carefully, "Alexander is able to pull on this link at any time; whether it's simply asking for more strength in his muscles, or asking for wings, or for healing-"

"Are you saying my son can allow himself to be possessed by an angel in battle?"

"Yes, Mr Lightwood, that is essentially what I'm saying." She turned her gaze to Alec, and gave him a kind smile. "There are always drawbacks to this amount of power. Be careful, young man."

His father turned to look at him, and there was no pride in his eyes, no sympathy, just that cold, dark hunger, that deep yearning for power.

"I knew you weren't useless," he said.

***

"I still think they should have named you The Pigeon, or The Seagull, not The Angel. Angels dont bump into billboards, do they, Alec?" Izzy sniped.

Alec fixed her with a look, ignored Jace's pout, then nodded his head towards the entrance of the hospital. "Let's go."

***

The moonlight spilled into the lobby, making the blood pooled on the marble shine like mercury. The Elites spread out, cautiously searching the room for any sign of life, the building eerily silent.

"It's too quiet." Helen whispered. Alec agreed. His shoulders were taught with anticipation. The hospital was large, a maze of corridors and waiting rooms and offices, and unless they split up, the search'd take hours. "Meet back here," Alec ordered, "if you find anything, tell Hodge."

For a while, Alec stalked down hallways aimlessly, pausing to check rooms for blood, or bodies, half expecting to be ambushed. Hell, he'd take a fight over silence any day. But in the end, there was nothing, and he returned to the lobby to wait for his comrades, a mere sillouette leaning against the desk in the dark. He could have been anyone. Sometimes, Alec thought that if nobody saw him, he ceased to exist, and, well, wouldn't that have been nice? But someone always came, disrupted his imaginings like wind batting away the clouds. This time it was Jace.

"Raziel with you?"

Alec gave Jace a grunt.

"I'll take that as a yes. Say hi to him from me."

"No."

There were times that Alec wished his brother had never found out about the angel.

They sat comfortably in silence, Jace grinning into the darkness like the cheshire cat. Idiot.

Once their friends had returned and they'd established that there was nothing on the ground floor besides blood in the lobby, the Elites made their way up the stairs. At the top, there was a set of doors which Alec knew would open up into some kind of common room, or reception area. The cheap plastic floors squeaked beneath his boots. He pushed the doors open.

They were met with death.

***

The police radio on the Kestrel's table buzzed. Break in at hospital, Brooklyn, all units to report to street 426.

The pen he'd been twirling in his hands as he lay on the couch, feet propped up lazily on the armrest, fell from his fingers, landing with a metallic clatter on the hardwood floor.

Magnus sat up, that strange, numbing feeling prickling its way across his chest.

Catarina.

Chapter Text

Alec knew he'd never forget it.

He knew he'd never forget the hot, metallic scent of tacky blood as it cooled, filling the room as the wind gushed through the open windows.

He knew he'd never forget the strangled noise Helen had made- unfeasable, ruthless Helen, who like Alec had grown up around death.

He knew he'd never forget the sight of at least fifty bodies piled atop one another like cars in a junkyard, knew their faces- eyes open, mouths still gaping- would be stuck to the back of his mind like posters taped to somebody's bedroom walls forever, and that his dreams would be plagued by them for months.

He vowed never to forget it; after all, are people really real if nobody remembers them?

***

The night was unforgiving in more days than one. Whilst the Elites had been inside, the wind had only picked up, and it screeched and howled around them, tearing at their clothes and whipping at their faces. Alec watched his sister wrap her arms around herself, her gold whip coiled around her wrist, saw a muscle bulge in Jace's jaw as he strained against the cold.

Alec couldn't feel it. He wished he could.

"Warden," Izzy said, reaching to touch his arm, and Alec realised he'd lost himself in thought again. That had been happening a lot recently. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Are you?"

"Yeah. I'm okay." She smiled, but her eyes didn't crinkle in the ways they usually did. This was a ritual of theirs: Izzy would ask him something, and he'd lie, and she'd know he was lying, and take it as permission to lie back. They'd never really talked about it, but they both knew what it meant; it was a way of telling each-other the things they were too reluctant to say out loud. It was a strange, warped kind of honesty, but honesty all the same.

"I've already called Dispatch. Police are on the way. And ambulances." His sister looked at the ground, an unusual gesture for a girl who was never afraid to look someone in the eyes. "The Clave wants some of the bodies for the morgue," she said, quietly.

Alec frowned. "I figured."

Izzy looked back up, her eyes now level with his. (They were the same height when she was wearing heels. She was always wearing heels.) She gave him a small, reassuring smile. Alec tried to smile back, knowing it would come out more like a grimace, and looked behind her at the rest of their group. Jace was talking to a bewildered Aline and Helen, throwing his hands about in dramatic gestures, no doubt acting out his many conspiracies for what had happened inside the hospital. That was one of Jace's tells- when he was upset, or confused, he tried to justify what he'd seen with his own imagination, and his imagination tended to be rather wild.

Police and ambulance sirens blared in the distance.

"Come on, Alec. We'll leave them to deal with this. Let's go home." Izzy patted his arm. "Guys! Come on, let's clear out before the cops get here. I'm not in the mood for an interrogation tonight. We'll get one from mom anyway." The others looked up at Izzy's voice, and began to walk towards them both.

"Agreed. Let's get outta here." Jace grinned, spreading his wings readily.

Helen rolled her eyes. "Only two of five people here can fly, Jace. Walking is a thing."

Aline squeezed her hand. "I'll walk with you." Helen looked at her like she was the only good thing left in the world. Maybe to her, she was. Alec's chest spiked.

"Actually, guys, I'm gonna stay out a while longer, make sure nothing else happens..." he trailed off.

Izzy said nothing- she'd expected it- but Jace furrowed his eyebrows. "You okay, Alec? Want some company?"

"It's fine, Jace. Go home."

"Alright, Warden. If you say so." Jace never took much convincing.

"Bye, Alec," Aline waved, and Helen gave him a friendly, but somehow forced, grin. Jace disappeared with a mighty beat of his wings.

Izzy raised her eyebrows at him. "I'll keep my coms turned on. You need anything, you tell Hodge to send me out."

"I know." Alec said. It was ritual, after all.

***

The Kestrel was not, of course, exempt to rage, and tonight, he shook with it.

Catarina, he thought, where have you gone?

"Magnus," Zachariah said from beside him, "Kestrel, she's not dead."

Magnus turned to look at his friend. The lights streaked in his hair, colouring the white strands green, and his pale eyes were tinged with blue, purple, and sorrow. "I know," he murmured. He was afraid that if he spoke above a whisper he would scream.

But this was Catarina. This was his adviser, his right hand, his shop assistant, his friend. And she had disappeared, vanished, the first night the Kestrel stayed off the streets. Coincidence was a cruel thing.

"I'm going to get her back."

"I know," Zachariah replied, then frowned. "I wish I could help."

"Jem," Magnus said, softly, much too calmly, "knowing she is alive is enough."

Zachariah turned towards him. "Sometimes," he said carefully, "knowing someone is there, but also knowing that you can't ha-"

The Detector straightened, squeezing his eyes shut for a split second before opening them again. He paled. "I have to go," he whispered, then turned from the alleyway and darted around the corner, nimble as a cat. Magnus ran into the road, trying to catch a flash of silver-stranded hair in the shadows. "Wait!" He surged forwards, his eyes frantically searching for his friend, his boots stamping loudly into the silence of the street, the scrape of rain-wettened cement beneath the rubber soles the only sound-

He collided with something so well-disguised it had melted into the shadows of the building. The Kestrel stumbled backwards, but quickly regained his footing as he fell back into the light of the streetlamps. He squinted into the darkness, looking for what- or who- he'd hit. Slowly, the shadows moved, and a figure emerged into the light. An arrow had been notched, pulled back to aim directly at Magnus' chest. 

Ah. The Kestrel realised, noticing the sleek dimensions of the bow, the hard leather of the suit, the soldier-like stance. An Elite. That's why Zachariah ran. The figure inched a foot further, and yellow light spilled onto his face. A hood and a mask obscured most of his face, but nothing, Magnus was beginning to realise, would dim that liquified dusk, that striking blue.

He blinked, then let the mask- the figurative one- slide over his features. His mouth fell into its rehearsed grin, and he leaned against a telephone pole, placing one ankle over the other. "Hello, little shadow. Come to get me?"

***

The Kestrel's smirk was coy, but guarded, and Alec's grip on his arrow tightened. All those hours of waiting, and in the end, the Kestrel had found him.

But there was a different air to him tonight. During the break-in, he hadn't seemed relaxed, per say- but he'd moved with ease, confidence, his walk a smooth gliding motion, not the terse stride Alec had adopted long ago with his shoulders bunched to his ears. Then, his eyes had shone with excitement, and thrill. Now, they glittered threateningly in the ochre light of the streetlamps like topaz gemstones, edges sharp as knives. His jaw was set. The Kestrel was angry, and he was only barely concealing it. It made Alec nervous.

"Kestrel."

"Warden, isn't it?" I believe we're already acquainted."

"If you can call it that," Alec replied, curtly.

The Kestrel only widened his smile. "I assume you've come to drag me back to those headquarters of yours." He pushed himself upright and strode towards Alec swiftly. Alec inhaled, taking a step backwards into the shadows, keeping his bow trained on the centre of the Kestrel's chest.

The UC stopped right in front of him, barely a centimetre away from the point of the arrow. Not the first time, Alec realised the height difference- it wasn't large, but it meant Alec had to very slightly crane his neck to look him in the eye, which irritated him as much as it unnerved him.

The Kestrel must have noticed his scowl, because he laughed humourlessly, a dry huff escaping his lips. "So, have you? Or... are you out here for something else?"

"That's none of your business."

"I thought we'd already established that everything is my business."

"I don't think you've emphasised it enough." Alec managed to choke out. A brief flash of surprise crossed the Kestrel's face, and his lips opened minutely before closing again.

"So the shadow can speak for himself after all."

Alec didn't reply.

"Aren't you going to try and put me in handcuffs?" The Kestrel resumed his smirk. "Not that I'd usually object-"

"Quiet."

"I like it when men tell me what to-"

Alec released the arrow, adjusting his aim at the last minute. It whizzed downwards, the shaft tearing through the Kestrel's expensive-looking dress pants, pinning his leg to the concrete.

The UC's smirk dropped. He narrowed his eyes, and the anger tightened the corner of his mouth. "I see," he said, and his voice was lower. "Should've gone for the hands."

The air changed immediately, the silence suddenly a deafening buzz of energy, and Alec felt as if his head had been wrenched underwater. He tensed himself and waited for the illusion to come, waited for his senses to be completely impaired, waited for his eyes to decieve him.

They didn't.

Alec blinked, startled. There was a pressure building before his eyes, and his ears felt as if they'd been filled with hot wax. His arms felt heavier, but his vision remained vivid- he could still see the fluorescent signs down the road, the glow of office lights peeking out from top floors of brownstones, the firefly-gold flecks of the Kestrel's eyes as they, too, widened in a confused rage.

"Impossible," he said.

***

The Kestrel was clever. It was partially how he had earned his name in the UC ring. Only three people knew about his late-night patrols across the city- Raphael and Catarina, and earlier, Ragnor- but everybody knew about his parties, and equally many were astounded that he'd managed to keep them away from the Elites' eyes for so long. In truth, it was all an extremely elaborate game; Magnus seeking out the most interesting people at clubs, draping them in invisibility, and sending them off to his Brooklyn apartment to join him in his late-night celebrations, never visiting the same haunt more than once a week, keeping the Elites at bay the way people bait sharks, drawing their attention to the blood and the gore and then throwing it out into the ocean, where they'd turn their backs just a moment long enough for you to disappear.

So despite his anger, Magnus surveyed the Warden carefully, calculatingly, and saw not only the threat, but the opportunity.

"You can resist my illusions."

The Warden said nothing, but went to reach for an arrow out of the holster strapped to his back. His fingers were shaking.

"You weren't able to resist them before."

Magnus was observational enough to notice the miniscule purse of the Elite's lips before he narrowed his eyes. "Maybe you should try a little harder."

The Kestrel almost laughed at that. "And tire myself out? I don't think so."

"So there's a limit to the amount of power you can use at once." The Warden shifted, clenching his fist tighter around his bow, as if trying to steady the tremors sifting through his limbs. "Good to know."

The Elite was trying to faze him, trying to bait him into giving something away. Magnus knew this game; he had played it before, he had mastered it, but tonight was not the night to pull out the board and the whisky and argue about who got the tiny dog, or the thimble, or the boot. Catarina was gone, and it was up to him to find her.

Thankfully, the Kestrel had always been resourceful. "I have a proposition for you."

Magnus couldn't see behind the hood or the mask, but he knew the Warden's eyebrows were raised. "A proposition. For me."

"Not that kind of propsition, darling." The Kestrel grinned, but then dropped his features back into seriousness, the way that always gave people whiplash. "I need you to help me find someone. I trust you already know about the attack at the hospital?"

Magnus watched as the Elites eyes glazed over before he blinked. "Yes."

"I think whoever orchestrated the attack took her with them. And I think it's likely that whoever it was is also behind the attack at the office building, and the one before that."

"And why should I help you?"

"Don't you want to find all those missing mundanes, Warden? That's what being an Elite is all about, isn't it? I'd wager that they can't be far from wherever my friend has been taken."

The Warden frowned. "Right."

The Kestrel sighed. "If you help me, I'll walk myself right into that dreary old Institute and tell the Leech anything she wants to hear." He wouldn't, of course, but nobody had to know that. He'd find a way around it- he had a few tricks up his sleeve.

"And why would you do that?"

"Why, is there something else you want? Anything I can do for you?"

The Elite coughed. "No."

"Listen. I don't know what your powers are, exactly, but if they can resist mine, they're an asset. And," Magnus crossed his arms, "I hate to be the one to tell you this, little shadow, but I'm a a bit of a pain to track down once I've disappeared."

There was silence, but Magnus could practically hear the Elite's thoughts whirring, most likely planning how to turn the situation into the Clave's favour, how to get everything they wanted: the mundanes, the villain behind the attacks, and Magnus, leaving him with nothing but a lovely set of titanium handcuffs and a prison cell. He knew this would be dangerous, that he was leaning too far over one side of the knife's edge, but he also knew that without Catarina, he was almost completely alone in this city, no matter how much company he had. Raphael had been captured, Zachariah was bound to the other side by contracts far more constricting than any pair of handcuffs, and Ragnor... Ragnor was dead.

So if he had to secure a flimsy bargain with a mysterious Elite to find her, he would. He would be content knowing he could lose everything, as long as he didn't lose her. 

The Warden looked at him, suddenly, decisively, with those unforgiving eyes, and they flickered like blue flame. "Deal."

Chapter Text

Magnus had begun to regret his decisions long before he stepped into his Brooklyn apartment that morning at about 4pm, sodden to the bone, dripping unfortunate splats of rainwater onto his extremely expensive (and not at all practical) carpet.

If he was to be completely honest, he wasn't sure what had come over him when he'd thought of the idea; had he suffered a blow to the head without realising? Had a ghost possessed him? Ragnor? He felt the top and sides of his head, his long fingers searching for gashes or bruises, but there was nothing. Huh, he thought, maybe I really was possessed.

But he knew that that was just his mind making excuses for what he'd just done, what he'd just offered an Elite, how vulnerable he had made himself. He'd just placed himself in the enemies' hands- why?

Desperation.

Magnus had often found that the best bargains were composed around desperation. There the Warden was, most likely despairing over the impossible tasks his commander had (Magnus assumed) handed to him- tracking the Kestrel down, and bringing him in for 'questioning', just as Magnus assumed they'd done to Raphael. He didn't know what kinds of punishments were given out to Elites who came back empty-handed- and if their target was Magnus, they always would- but if the rumours were true and it was anything like a military training camp, they wouldn't be forgiving. And so Magnus would have betted that the Warden needed the Kestrel, needed him to fulfil his supposed 'debt' to the Elites after stealing their precious arrests.

That had been a gamble, and Magnus had won. The Warden needed the Kestrel, but the Kestrel needed the Warden too.

He wouldn't pretend that it'd been his plan all along- he was a little modest-but after brushing away the humbling feeling of vulnerability after the Warden had resisted his illusions like a wasp near his ears in the summer (buzzing, angry, and much too close for comfort) the thought had occurred to him: what if I can use this to my advantage?

And he could. He didn't know exactly what the Warden's powers were, and suspected he never would, but if he could resist the Kestrel's illusions, what else could he resist? Magnus' nearest friend was in LA, and was never particularly present, and Hypatia Vex was somewhere in London but impossible to find in the little time he knew he had- a matter of weeks? Days?

So the Warden was his best bet- another reminder that he was truly alone in this city- and if Magnus could find a way to get the Elites off his back during this fragile alliance, then, well, it'd be one less thing on his mind.

That evening, though, he blinked, realising he'd lost himself in thought, one hand still grasping at his hair. Around him had formed an almost perfect circle of rainwater, as it trickled down his back from the neck of his coat, and fell from the long strands of hair that flopped onto his forehead, probably completely ruining his eyeshadow.

"Fuck," he muttered, wondering for the first time why his powers couldn't have been more useful, like, for example, being storm-proofed.

***

When Alec Lightwood left a trail of rainwater on the floor of the Institute's halls that night, nobody said anything, because the Institute was always damp and cold anyway.

It was late enough that he'd managed to evade his mother's interrogations, and therefore, a very ideal time. He practically flung himself into the shower the minute he'd unlocked the door to his bedroom, leaving his suit on the floor in a sad, wet heap, turning the water onto the highest setting, and wincing as the practically boiling water hit the countless number of gashes on his arms, the bruises on his back and his legs, and the aches in his bones. It was nights like this that whenever Alec finally returned home and actually had the energy to crawl into the bathroom and twist on the taps, the very act of stepping into the shower felt as if he was a towel being wrung dry, or an onion being peeled. It was in these moments that the superhero, the Warden, seeped from his body, stripped him to the bone, and he felt he was Alec again.

Of course, they were the same person in more ways that one: they shared the same face, the same bow-string calloused hands, the same sharp clench of the jaw, the same eyes, yes. But other than that there was the stubborn sense of justice, the determination, the fidelity, the bitter sarcasm, the mask (figurative and not).

Now there was another similarity to add to the list: making stupid decisions that involved partnerships with people he disliked.

Alec hadn't expected the Kestrel to want to start searching for his friend immediately, thought that he'd at least let him go home to get some rest first, let him wrap around what he'd just done- it was already 2am by then- but as soon as the word "deal" left the Warden's mouth, the Kestrel had launched into an elaborate itinerary, the smooth flow of his voice vanished, replaced with a halting, firm urgency. "We need an account of what happened during the break-in," he'd said, then tilted his head. "Think your Elites'll have one yet?"

Alec had blinked. It somehow felt wrong talking about the Elites to a UC, an odd sense of betrayal, although he kept reminding himself that all of this was to their benefit. Even so, he knew he had to tread lightly; the Kestrel was obviously desperate, but that didn't mean Alec had room to slip up. Anything could be used against him in the future- he wasn't so stupid to believe the Kestrel would uphold his end of the bargain willingly. The deal was simply a way of keeping him close until the Elites could strike. Besides, wherever the Kestrel's friend was, was likely where the missing mundanes were, and maybe even the orchestrators of the recent attacks. This was a bargain in the Elites' favour.

He chose his words carefully. "It's possible that the Elites on-site after or during the attack might know a little about what happened."

"Fabulous." The Kestrel had said. "Then, it won't be very difficult for you to find out, will it, darling?"

Alec had fixed him with a stare that equalled his mother's in loathing and gritted his teeth. "I suppose not."

"Brilliant. Now, what do you say we go and have a little look at the sewers near the hospital, hmm? The perfect place to put things that are particularly unpleasant."

Alec just looked at him.

"I knew you'd be excited." He turned, the glittery eyeshadow beneath his mask shining a metallic midnight-blue in the moonlight, and began to stride in the direction of the hospital. When Alec didn't follow him, he turned back, and looked at him expectantly, as if it was perfectly acceptable to ask someone you'd only just struck an extremely flimsy bargain with to go and wade through New York City's sewers at 2am in the morning. He clapped his hands together. "Chop chop! We haven't got all day."

It had begun to rain, but Alec followed, albeit with a hand stayed cautiously to his side, to the hilt of his knife.

***

The next day, Alec sat at his desk with an unironed shirt, crumpled slacks, and a loosened tie. It was not outside his nature to look as if he'd just been dragged through a hurricane- Alec was not known for being a fashionista- but combined with his bloodshot eyes and the shadows beneath them, the whole look screamed "don't even look at me until I've had at least six coffees." He'd already had four. It wasn't nearly enough.

His boss had emailed him just after he'd arrived at work to say- completely without warning, he might add- that the article needed to be completed and sent to the editors by 5pm that afternoon. It would go to press in the morning.

Now it was 3 o'clock, Alec had been sat at his desk for almost 7 hours, his back was stiff and aching, his head was pounding, he desperately wanted more coffee, and he was suffering from writer's block. He ran his hands through his hair with a groan, ignoring (as usual) how it was beginning to get much too long, flopping into his eyes in dark, thick strands. He pressed his forehead into the cold, plastic-like wooden desk, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. He sighed.

A loud bang jolted his desk. Startled, Alec looked up, not stopping to dwell on the fact that he hadn't heard anyone coming. He already knew he was exhausted- he didn't need his powers (or the angel) to tell him. Pausing for a moment to rub at his eyes, Alec blinked. "Mr Bane." He said when he saw who it was, disdain already creeping into his voice.

"Mr Lightwood." Magnus greeted, a smug grin already turning up the corner of his mouth. "I had just come to see how you were getting along."

Alec raised his eyebrows in disebelief, looking to his desk where a large mug of black coffee had been slammed onto his coaster. Drips of it ran down the sides and pooled at the bottom. "And you decided to be a nice person for once and make me a coffee on the way?"

"No. But I saw you slumped across your desk like you'd had too much to drink on a night out, and-"

"Yes, I'm sure you'd know all about that." 

Magnus ignored him. "I was just concerned that the right amount of effort wasn't being put into my article."

As Magnus said this, Alec glared at him, taking a moment to survey the man's features- the ever so slightly smudged eye-makeup, the concealer so carefully concealing the bags under his eyes (not many people would have noticed, but Alec did. You picked up on these kinds of things when, firstly, you had extremely enhanced eyesight, and, secondly, three younger siblings.). So Magnus was tired too. 

But Alec was relentless. "Your article?" If it was possible for his jaw to tighten any further or for his eyebrows to resign themselves further into his forehead, they would've.

Magnus just grinned lazily. "Sorry. The article."

Alec huffed. "I've nearly finished. You don't have to worry," he said, rolling his eyes in exasperation.

For a moment, Magnus just stared at him. There was something about a 'Magnus Bane' stare. His eyes were brown, but they were deep, like a bottomless bit, but somehow not empty. Not empty at all.

Alec stared back.

"Good," Magnus said, then turned on his heel and left.

Alec took a tentative sip of his coffee after making sure he was gone. He looked down at it. Huh, he thought. Just how I like it.

***

The main difference between the Warden and the journalist, Alec supposed, was reservation.

When he pulled on his suit and his hood and strapped the quiver to his back and the leather mask to his face, he was anonymous. The mundanes didn't bother distinguishing between Elites and UCs- most of them were just thankful that they were there to help them, although others just hated them all regardless of whether they worked for the Clave or for themselves. On the streets, Alec was just another super trying to help the city, regardless of what pretty, glittery UCs told him during break-ins. Despite the layers he wrapped around himself for protection- the straight-backed, soldier-like posture and walk he resumed, the practiced lowering of his voice, the carefully-fitted mask- despite the blood that bound him to the Clave, the Warden was free.

But when Alec was Alec, there had to be restraint. He had always been careful not to take cases that involved UCs (yet there he was, writing an article in support of the UCs) because he knew that the Clave letting him work outside the institution at all was like being suspended over a cliff by a very thin thread- he had to keep hanging on, even though he knew it would snap. Although he was writing these articles as Alec, not as an Elite, showing support for a group of people that the Elites were against (however informally) was the act of a traitor. An act of betrayal.

Alec was playing a very dangerous game. But now he had leverage.

The alarm on his phone blared 5pm.

He scanned his part of the article quickly, reading and re-reading to check for errors he knew he never made, looking for things to add, to take away. He stared, lastly, at the conclusion, a short paragraph that had taken him hours to get right.

He thought of Camille, of her blood-stained lips and her white teeth and her white hair and her green eyes. She was someone who had killed, killed for fun, but she was still someone. She was a super, just like Alec, and as much as the mundane protestors tried to say otherwise, every super had at least a little bit of humanity left inside them.

Then Alec thought of Raphael, the Crow, who had made a living looking after people- albeit UCs- who needed help. Who had been arrested by the Elites for, what Alec understood, little reason.

He attached the article to the email.

He bit his lip. It felt wrong to be going against the Clave like this when it could lose him his job. Possibly both of them. But that didn't mean it wasn't right.

Alec hit send.

***

Just as the sun began to go down that evening, and Alec started packing up to go home, Magnus reappeared.

That was strange in itself. Usually, the two journalists tried as hard as possible to not have to interact more than once in a day, and there Magnus was, doing it on purpose. He stood in front of Alec's desk, a bag strapped over one shoulder, and Alec stood behind it after shrugging on his coat. "Did you get the article in on time?" Magnus asked.

Ah. He should have known. "No, I decided to go and take a yoga class instead."

"Good for you. Your shoulders are awfully tensed. You need to find your inner zen."

Alec ignored him. "Yes, I got the article in on time. Is that all?"

Magnus said nothing and looked out of the window. The sun was shining its last bold rays before it blinked out of existence, and it washed Magnus' face in light, colouring his irises gold. He looked ethereal. Alec felt himself step towards him, felt the warmth of the sun on his face and the coolness of the city's air ruffle his hair as it breezed through the open window. Without turning back to look at him, Magnus spoke. "What do you think of UCs, Mr Lightwood?" His voice was soft, uncharacteristically so. Alec was taken aback, speechless. Thankfully, Magnus continued. "I saw the news on TV this morning. About the hospital break-in. It said, 'An assumed band of UCs break into hospital and slaughter fifty hospital patients. Over 100 other patients, doctors and nurses have been declared missing.'" Magnus paused. "Did you watch it?"

Alec didn't, but of course, he knew what Magnus was talking about. He shifted uncomfortably. "What's this about, Magnus?"

He watched as Magnus' head turned towards him at the use of his name, then smiled. It wasn't one of his usual smiles. It wasn't coy, it wasn't smug. It was sad. But for once, it was real. "If someone does something bad, does that make them a bad person?"

If someone does something bad, does that make them a bad person?

Alec swallowed. "No. And if someone does something good, once, it doesn't mean they're a good person. But-" why was nervous? "How do you define a good person, anyway? or a bad one?"

Magnus looked down at him, and the light in his eyes began to fall with the sun. "You can't."

For a few seconds, Alec was completely lost. Then Magnus took a small step back, brought out a mirror to check his eyeshadow and his hair, snapped it shut, and returned it to his coat pocket. "Goodnight, Alexander."

***

The only thing, Magnus thought, that was more beautiful than silver, was silver bathed in gold.

Chapter Text

The warehouse below them swayed in the wind, its steel supports groaning, its walls covered in rust and oil, blue paint peeling. Words had been hastily painted in white across the front, and even with his eyesight, Alec could only just make them out: M.S.SUPPLIERS.

The air felt angry tonight. The vigorous thrum of power in his veins had long since fizzed out, leaving Alec's muscles taut and aching, his movements heavy like lead. His skin tingled, as if it had been rubbed raw with sandpaper. The cold bit into it like the chilled metal of a knife, needling into his eyes and creeping underneath his sleeves to his arms, ruffling the thick material of his hood.

Alec shivered, and fidgeted with the hem of his gloves.

"We've been here for two hours." He told the Kestrel, trying to keep the impatience from his voice. The Kestrel, who had been staring unblinkingly at the warehouse on the street across from them, pulling absent-mindedly at one of his earlobes, rolled his eyes.

"I'm aware." The Kestrel replied, turning himself just enough to be able to alternate between looking at the Warden and keeping his focus on the warehouse. "You didn't strike me as the impatient kind, pumpkin." The green glow from the fire escape beside them flashes in his eyes, turning their gold emerald.

Alec grimaced at the Kestrel's irritating use of endearments. "I'm not." He shifted the quiver on his shoulder. "But surely something would've happened by n-"

The warehouse collapsed.

There was no explosion- no searing heat, no cloud of smoke, no ringing in Alec's ears. One moment, the warehouse had been intact- intact enough- and in between blinks, its very foundations had toppled to the ground, its thin, tarpaulin-covered walls caved in as if hit like a pinata, its steel bars sent plummetting to the ground with a fulminating crash, old glass windows shattered, tiny fragments of glass fizzling from the air like raindrops.

Then, silence.

The hollow sound of a metal pole rolling along amongst the wreckage twinkled in the harsh wind.

The Kestrel turned to the Warden with a wide grin, his eyebrows raised teasingly, twisting his fingers together subconsciously. "You were saying?"

***

Whatever- whoever- had caused the explosion was long gone.

The two supers stood at the edge of the wreckage. Paper lay crumpled and torn in the dirt, and splintered wooden boxes were scattered amongst the rubble. Glass crunched beneath Alec's boots. "We need to be quick," he said. "Someone will have heard the noise. Police'll be here soon."

The Kestrel only nodded.

They made their way across the site, rummaging through broken boxes, sifting through overturned filing cabinets and crushed desks, scanning old papers. It wasn't until Alec heard the Kestrel's sharp intake of breath that they found anything at all. "Here," he huffed, grasping at a nailed-down lid of a box. "Help me with this." Alec picked his way over to him, careful where he placed his feet. On the box, in tiny red lettering, wrote: IDRIS. Alec frowned, but said nothing, prising the hammered-in nails from their sockets with ease. He ignored the Kestrel's speculating glance and reached inside.

His fingers closed on something soft but curved, light but durable. Familiar.

It was a mask.

An Elite mask.

Alec swallowed, biting the inside of his cheek in confusion, shoulders tensed. Beside him, the Kestrel frowned, leaning forward to take a closer look. "Isn't that-"

He broke off as the tell-tale sound of police sirens screamed in the distance. "Let's go."

***

One of Magnus' number one rules was to never turn your back on the enemy, even if you were allied with them. Especially if you were allied with them. (His second most important rule was to never wear the same outfit twice.)

He'd carefully angled himself so that he had a good view of the city below them- the rush of taxis and lorries down the roads even at one o'clock in the morning, the torrents of drunks and clubbers and dancers and strippers surging down the sidewalks one after the other, the shrieks of laughter, the thick, bitter smell of cigarette smoke and the too-sweet smell of the fumes from somebody's vape- and the Warden, who sat opposite him, crouched precariously on the edge of the roof, cradling his quiver gingerly as he counted his arrows.

Magnus had always found it all too easy to lose himself when he watched the city like this. Sometimes, certain people would catch his eye- a woman with vibrant fuchsia hair and a gloriously green tuxedo; a man with a full Victorian England styled ballgown and magnificently long hair; someone dressed as Iron Man (real only in the comics); someone with a feather-covered catsuit. Then, just as suddenly as they'd appeared, they'd vanish in the thrum of the crowds, and Magnus' eyes would catch on someone even more interesting, someone with lobsters for shoes, or gold implants protruding from their skulls.

This was New York City. It changed with the seasons; it changed with the direction of the wind in the most violent of tornados.

But tonight, Magnus was wary. Aside from the brief glances below when a drunk shouted a little too loudly, or one of the hen party's giggles turned a little too forced, he kept his focus trained on the Warden. Even if you have to avert your gaze, Ragnor had told Magnus once, never divert your attention.

"You haven't told me why we were there in the first place." The Warden kept his eyes on his quiver, inspecting the feathers of an arrow closely, running his fingers- now gloved- up the shaft. "You must have had a lead."

The Kestrel hummed, thought for a second, then shook his head. "More of a hunch."

The Warden looked up at him. Below his hood, dark, rumpled strands of dark hair shifted in the oncoming breeze. "A hunch?"

Magnus nodded. "We checked the sewers near the hospital last night and found nothing, but we didn't go as far as to see where any of them lead."

"Probably because by then it was about 4am." The Warden muttered. Magnus ignored him.

"So, I had a look at some maps-"

"Yes, because everyone keeps random maps of the New York City sewer system lying about their apartments-"

"And a handful of them diverge to one place: a group of warehouses."

"A group of warehouses right next to the harbour because that's how sewers work."

"Well, one of them exploded, so I was right."

"It didn't explode, it collapsed."

"Details, sweetness."

The Warden sentenced him with a glare. "None of that explains the masks."

"I was rather hoping you'd tell me."

A brief silence, then a tired sigh. "I don't know. Really, I don't. In hindsight, I would have thought nothing of it. IDRIS, the Elites' gear department, has hundreds of suppliers over the world. Keeps us from relying on one company. But seeing as the warehouse collapsed... it doesn't make any sense. It could be someone trying to get rid of evidence, but surely burning it down would have been better? I don't know.." The Warden trailed off.

"Evidence?"

The Elite nodded. "The rogues at The Forum had been equipped with Elite gear."

Magnus thought for a moment. If someone had been trying to destroy evidence, then it meant... M.S.SUPPLIERS. That was the name of the company.

"Muffin," he said with a smile, "I think we have ourselves a lead."

***

When Alec entered his room that night, chilled to the bone, ready to crawl into bed, the lights were already on.

His sister sat at his desk.

Her head was buried in her arms, which she'd crossed beneath her chin on the desk. She stared raptly at a spot on the carpet, unblinking. Alec's desklamp, bright and clinically white, flooded her face, shadows streaking the stubborn set of her jaw. The window was open, the curtains flapping to and fro in a frenzy, sending gusts of cool air across the room. She didn't flinch.

"Izzy?" Her head snapped upwards, and she blinked, looking around dazedly for a few seconds before settling her gaze on her brother.

"Alec," she spoke. Her voice shook, quiet and faint. Her shoulders were tensed. She looked down at his desk, an unusually vulnerable expression on her face. She ran a finger distractedly over the grooves in the wood.

Alec stepped towards her, unstrapping the bow and quiver from his back, tossing a selection of knives and throwing stars onto his bed. "What's wrong?"

She didn't meet his eyes, chewing nervously at the inside of her cheek. "They..." she sighed. "They found a-"

His bedroom door flew open with such a force that the hinges groaned in protest, the metal handle colliding with the wall beside it with a hollow thump. Jace leaned heavily in the doorframe, pausing to catch his breath. His tawny hair had been pushed back from his forehead so that only small strands of it fell into his eyes, and he wiped at his brow before speaking in short, desperate gasps.

"A body's been found in an alleyway," he panted, his eyes darting between his siblings, "a super." He wiped his hands nervously on his jeans. "Two blocks away from the hospital."

***

The smell of blood was a familiar one.

It hung thick in the darkened alleyway, cloying and metallic, like the tang of petroleum, or the choking haze of smoke. Alec could taste it on his tongue; sour, bitter, relentless.

He tightened his grip on his bow. This had not been a mercy kill.

What remained of the victim's clothing was so torn that it was barely held together by its threads. The shirt was completely punctured with holes, stained crimson with crusted knots of blood, and deep, gaping wounds wept from the victim's chest. His hair was streaked with red, and his face had been clawed so violently that brilliant white flashes of bone peeked out from gashes criss-crossed over one of his temples. The left side of his mouth had been so abused that the skin had ripped open, as if splitting at the seams, revealing a set of bloodied teeth stretching up the side of his jaw, caught in an endless grimace.

His eyes were open, and one of his hands still rested at what was left of his throat- a mess of glistening red muscle and sinew and the occasional flash of jagged bone.

This was a man who had struggled for his life when he was already dead.

This was the work of the Beast.

***

When the Elites had gone, leaving the police to play clean-up, Magnus went to inspect the body himself.

He crouched beside it, completely unaffected by the gore- he'd seen far too much to be even slightly pertubed by corpses now- and let out a sigh. Nobody had bothered to close his eyes.

Leaning forward, Magnus reached out a hand.

He froze.

Whilst one of the victim's hands was pressed bloodily to his throat, the other was trapped beneath him, no doubt from where he'd tried to pull himself backwards. But it wasn't the hand Magnus noticed, it was what was held in it: a mask. Gingerly, he leant forwards on his haunches, tentatively prizing it from his hand. It was soft beneath his fingers, supple, curved just enough to fit comfortably on somebody's face, durable enough to keep away the wind and rain. Identical to the ones he and the Warden had found in the warehouse. He flipped it over, and his fingertips grazed something tacky. They came away a blackish red.

Blood.

Carefully, Magnus placed the mask back in the victim's limp grasp, unwilling to properly disturb any evidence, then brushed a hand down the man's bloodied forehead, gently easing his eyes from their petrified stare. He stood, swept his palms over his leather pants, then turned to leave.

Something caught his eye first.

Abandoned in the muddied shadows of the alleyway, thrown haphazardly to the ground, pages creased and torn, was a newspaper.

Chapter Text

Five articles sat on the table Alec and his team huddled around, all written by different people, all reeking of death, each one worse than the last.

The first was about a bank, which had been broken into 6 months ago via a not-so-subtle show of strength; Hodge had reported seeing a masked super punch straight through the glass exterior, sneak inside, then never re-emerge. The four security guards on the night shift at the time had disappeared into thin air, and by the time the Elites had arrived, the building was empty. Not 12 hours later, a super had been found dead in a skip two blocks away, her lungs completely collapsed. Three Detectors called in to investigate the case confirmed that her energy signal matched that left by the super's break in. The four guards had never been found.

The second was four months ago at New York University, and sent shivers down Alec's spine.

Though most Elites were content with the education provided by their Institute's tutors, Alec was one of the rare exceptions who decided to go to university with special grants made by the Clave. The closest was NYU, where he'd studied English and Politics, refused to speak to any other students under strict Clave orders, communicating only when necessary with his professors, and graduated with two shining degrees.

When he'd first seen the article four months ago, he'd forced himself to read it, only breathing once he'd read every last word. He hadn't realised, then, how relieved he'd been to see none of his old teachers mauled to death, or shot in the head. Instead, a super, weighed down with guns, had threatened his way into a lecturing hall. The woman in reception had called 911, and Hodge had alerted the day patrol under the "suspicious persons" protocol, but sure enough, when backup arrived, the students- and the professor- in the hall had disappeared.

That evening, a drunk college student stumbled across a body strung by its feet, hanging upside down from a tree on campus. The face and body had been so harshly mutilated that it had been unrecognisable, incomparable to the figure caught on the building's security cameras, but just like the last, the corpse's energy signal perfectly matched the one that emanated from the university's campus. Except, this time, another unidentified signal was found; faint, weak, but there all the same.

Then there was the break in just a month before The Forum, the first time blood was found at the scene. It had been the brink of morning, the odd two hours between three and six when even the birds slept, the city finally quiet and dark. Supposedly, a secretary had opened the building as per usual, ready to start her shift, and shortly afterwards, the steady stream of early businessmen began to trickle into their offices, coffee machines whirring, computers blinking, keyboards tapping. Then, shown only blurrily from the camera in a shadowed corner of the reception, a figure stole, predator-like, into the building. The next roll of footage showed only a mess of unconscious- or dead- bodies. In the next, they were gone.

When the building was finally searched, the only indication of a struggle that remained was a smashed mug. The shards of china, some ground to dust, some still intact, were tipped with blood. The mug was bagged as evidence. Then, to nobody's shock, a body was found in an alleyway one block away from the building, blackened and charred to a crisp, but somehow still dripping with energy, and that was all the evidence they needed.

Then there was The Forum. The gap.

"It doesn't make any sense," Izzy ranted, pacing back and forth behind Alec, who hunched over the table. "They're all so similar. Too similar. And yet... and yet, we're stumped. Every time. We have no leads. The only indication that there's someone else involved is the energy signal from the university, and neither of the Detectors recognised it."

There was a silence, then faintly, someone spoke. "There was another energy signal at The Forum, too. More than one, actually." Alec spun. Zachariah leaned quietly against the wall, staring at the newspaper articles with sad, grey eyes- the same colour as the clouds on a particularly rainy day, the same swirling melancholy as their reflection in water. "One of them was... electric. Like lightning."

Alec frowned, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "You were there?"

Zachariah nodded, and even that gesture, small as it was, seemed wilted and sad, like an unwatered flower. "Yes."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"It's on the database, isn't it? I reported it to Hodge," Zachariah frowned.

"Not that I've seen. He must have... he must have forgotten."

"Right." Izzy coughed. "So, you're saying there was an energy signal at The Forum that could possibly match the one found at the university?"

"Possibly."

"Then... we have a lead?"

"Maybe, maybe not." Zachariah looked at his hands, where he fiddled with a ring on his indez finger. "A Detector can somewhat decipher which energy signal is which, and to which energy core it belongs to, but not, then, who the energy core belongs to. See, an energy core," he took a marble from his back pocket and held it to the light, "is inside us, yes, but it is not like a heart, or a lung. It is not a machine that works to keep us alive. It is simply a store, one we can draw from as and when we please." He spoke softly, gazing at the marble like it contained his soul. "Some argue that our energy cores are part of us, but any Detector would argue that they are simply another weapon on our belts." He paused for a moment, and looked at the group, who were listening attentively. "A Detector can feel any energy signal from remarkable distances- up to 5 miles away from the source- but all we ever feel is the energy being released from the body, not the characteristics of the body it is released from. To do so is like trying to find a purchase on a mountain that simply... isn't there.

"Of course, if an energy signal is being released from a certain person and we can see that person, like the bodies we've been finding as of late, we already have our answer. But any energy still lingering from where it's been released, with nobody there to claim it, is just that: energy. It's the same when we sense it from a distance."

Izzy hummed. "What else did you feel at The Forum?"

"It's hard to explain. Heat, which usually comes with strength powers-"

"That'd explain the hole in the wall." Jace muttered.

"But, mostly, the Kestrel's energy signature."

Alec narrowed his eyes. "You're familiar with the-"

A cough came from the corner of the room. Alec turned. His mother stood in the doorway, arms folded, one hand's nails perfectly manicured talons tapping, the other hand gripping an newspaper. "Alec," Maryse said, and her voice was cold, void of any emotion whatsoever, "I'd like to speak with you."

***

Somewhere deep underground, the Beast howled.

It was cold, the metal walls chilled, a non-existent draft whistling through the room in a freezing torrent. The floor, which was a dirty grey linoleum, was cool against his skin as he sat and waited.

The lights, a dim white, flickered. Shadows carved into the bones of his face and darkened the grey of his eyes, like storm clouds in the depths of winter. His throat was raw from his screams.

The door- and there was only a door, no windows, no furniture- flung open, a numbing flurry of icy air slicing into his skin. He barely flinched. In the doorway stood a figure, hooded, the dark shine of his eyes flickering in the light like black gemstones. The corner of his lips, the only part of his face not bathed in shadow, pulled up at the corners in a humourless smirk. "Lucian," he said, his voice the seductive chant of a snake's hiss, "I believe it's time we had another chat."

***

Maryse didn't waste any time. She slammed the article on the table so hard that its screws rattled uncertainly. Aline jumped. Alec looked at it. It was his, of course. His and Magnus'. (He had been trying not to think of Magnus that evening a few nights ago, how his eyes were the colour of molten gold. He had been failing.)

His mother whirled. "What were you thinking?"

"Mother-"

"This is- the Clave are livid, Alec! They're threatening exile!"

"Mom-"

"And don't even get me started on your father-" she continued, clawing her hands through her hair, pacing back and forth like a tiger in a cage, fists opening and closing.

"Mom, I have to-"

"My son," she seemed stuck in an endless cycle of picking up the article, scanning it, throwing it back onto the table, then harshly rubbing her face with her hands, pinching at the bridge of her nose, and waving her handa about desperately. The others stood still and silent, afraid to intervene. "My son, writing a front-page article declaring his support for UCs- I can't believe- I-"

"I made a bargain," Alec shouted loudly, desperately, and his mother finally stilled. "I made a bargain," he repeated, gently. "With the Kestrel."

Maryse's head snapped towards him. His siblings, Aline, and Zachariah were utterly still, staring at him in a mixture of awe and shock. "A bargain?" Maryse whispered. "With the Kestrel?"

"Yes, mother. He wants my help. Angel knows why." His mother cringed.

"Your help?"

"His friend was taken. From the hospital. We... ran into each-other, and he decided he wants my help getting her back. So I figured, wherever she is... well, it might help us in our investigation. And it means that we have the Kestrel at arm's length, at least for a time."

Maryse, who had been gaping at her son like a child at a pantomime in a rather out-of-character manner, began to smile. "It's leverage." She breathed, reaching out a hand to brush the hair from Alec's eyes. "Well done, my son." She looked at the article on the table. "Even the Clave is capable of forgiveness. I'll let them know. As for your father," her smile faltered, "I'll do what I can."

Alec didn't let himself think too much about what that meant.

"Alright, mom." He looked at Zachariah. Their eyes met, and the Detector flinched. "If you'll excuse me, I have to go find the Kestrel. I have some questions to ask."

***

The Kestrel found him first. When he did, the air changed.

It came alive, dancing and swirling, fizzing, buzzing, humming, an invisible fog that was palpable, almost tangible, like if the Warden reached out to touch it, it'd bite back. 

This was what the Kestrel's power felt like without the angel to protect him. Raw. Frightening. Familiar.

Alec brushed off thoughts of blood and guilt, then turned around to meet his ally.

Tonight, the Kestrel wore his usual long, black, Sherlock Holmes-styled coat, but underneath, he wore a gaping shirt of maroon red, threaded with strands of gold and silver. His pants were leather, slit down the sides, and his boots, platformed and bright red, made him even taller. Beneath his feathered mask, his cat eyes flashed yellow, lined with black and a molten red. He glowed.

"Warden," he mused, "Fancy seeing you here."

Alec rolled his eyes. "I need to talk to you."

The Kestrel waved a hand, and a stream of blue butterflies flitted into the air. The UC saw Alec follow them with his eyes. "So my illusions work on you now?"

"Maybe your power is just temperamental."

The Kestrel scoffed. "I don't think so."

"Enough stalling. I need to know why you were at The Forum that night."

His cat eyes narrowed. "And why's that?"

"A body has been found not one mile from the crime scene of every break-in in the last six months, except the one where you were present. I need to know what was different."

"Are you that desperate to see me dead, darling?"

"Answer my question."

The Kestrel sighed, and waved a hand. "I was passing by at the time." He wouldn't meet Alec's eyes.

The Warden stepped forwards. "You're lying, Kestrel." Another step forwards. "Tell me the truth."

"Why should I?"

"Because the more information I can get on this case, the closer we are to a lead, and the closer we are to Catarina."

"We already have a lead."

"A weak one, at best." Another step. "I need something more solid." Another.

They were barely a foot from each-other now. The Kestrel's back was to the wall of the fire escape, and though he was taller than Alec, he looked uneasy. "I have nothing else to tell you. Would you like a detailed account of my evening? I believe I ran myself a bath- filled it with rose petals, of course- had a glass of champagne, began reading a rather scandalous book on-"

The Warden surged forwards, quick as a bullet, fists closing around the silken material of the Kestrel's shirt, pinning him to the wall as an arrow to its target. "The truth. Now."

That Cheshire Cat grin. "No."

The Blank hit him with the force of a double-decker bus. All he could see was white, a bright but empty kind of white, the white of the moon just before an eclipse. He felt simultaneously like he was falling through a chasm he knew was endless and like if he moved an inch, he would collide with something solid and brutal.

He blinked, and he was himself again.

The Kestrel was gone.

***

As the Warden walked home that night, he was not alone.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and he could hear footsteps trailing behind him quietly on the rooftops above. He kept walking. It was always better to make them believe you didn't know they were there. They were more cautious if they knew you expected them.

He kept to the wider streets, knowing that if he had to fight, it was better to do so in an open, less confined space. He quickened his pace.

He was nearing the Institute now. Two more blocks. He tightened his grip on his bow, checking his belt for knives, keeping his head low.

One more block. Maybe he'd make it without having to waste any arrows.

A throwing knife flitted past his face, just catching his cheek. Silence. Blood trickled warmly from the wound, its metallic taste staining his lips.

His attacker emerged, sleek as a panther, from the shadows of an adjoining alleyway. The figure was swathed in black, a dark cloak wrapping them in darkness, a mask completely obscuring their features. Knives flashes beneath the material.

Alec struck, a flurry of knives flying in practiced succession from his hands. The figure disappeared with a flash of blue, and before Alec had time to move, a punch was aimed at his head. He staggered backwards, pain exploding through his temples. He twisted in the air, stabilising himself, then pulled a dagger from the heel of his boot. He stilled. He listened.

When the torrent of throwing stars came from his left, he was ready, dodging in the spinning, dancing way he'd rehearsed for years, surging towards his opponent, the figure melting into shadow, his dagger reaching towards them, one meter away, a half... and meeting nothing.

A well-placed kick to the square of his back flung Alec to the ground. He crawled backwards on his hands, and the figure drifted toward him, a mess of darkness, an all-consuming black, inky tendrils enveloping them, a dark, knived hand flying forwards, the familiar burst of panic thrumming in Alec's chest like a caged bird, scrabbling for an arrow in a last, desperate attempt to survive, to live-

The air hummed. The figure halted, froze, then disappeared with a pounding bolt of electricity.

A golden hand offered him solstice in the dark. Alec took it.

***

They stood quietly in an alleyway, leaning on opposite sides, stealing wary glances at one and other. The air was calmer now, less thick with tension. The blood on Alec's cheek was beginning to dry. He fidgeted with his hands.

"You saved me," he said, quietly. "Why?"

The Kestrel looked at him. "You're my ally, aren't you?"

Alec looked at his boots. "I'm sorry about earlier."

"Don't worry about it, sweetheart. I don't usually object to pretty men pinning me to walls."

"I'm being serious."

"So am I," the Kestrel grinned, then sighed, the smile faltering. "I was at The Forum that night because of a tip. I heard that there'd been talk of a break-in."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Alec asked. He shifted from one foot to the other.

"Because now you want to know who tipped me, right, darling? And I don't blame you for it, but I can't- I can't tell you that."

"Even if it could mean getting Catarina back?"

The Kestrel chewed on his lip. "Yes, even then."

The Warden said nothing, then turned and leant his forehead on the wall. "This is all so confusing." He groaned. "Why would someone attack me?"

"I think we should see it as a good thing. They know you're looking into the case. That means there's something to hide."

"I'll keep that in mind next time I feel the need to be grateful for something." Alec replied, his sarcastic tone back in full-swing.

"Please do."

Alec looked upwards. The sun had just crested the horizon, brilliant shades of orange filling the early morning sky. "I should head back."

He slid his bow onto its holster, patted his sides to check for weapons, then turned to look at the Kestrel. The morning light caught the shine of the feathers on his mask, a slick of gold, and for a moment Alec was reminded of something he couldn't place.

"Be careful, Kestrel." Alec said softly. He turned to leave, stepping out into the street, and the sun hit him for the first time that morning, the warmth of it sliding over his face and neck, calming the tension in his fingers. Lorries began to shriek in the distance, accompanied by the blare of traffic as the city woke.

The Kestrel stepped out beside him. Splashes of pink and yellow coloured his lips, orangey sunlight making his eyeshadow shine like a handful of tiny red gemstones. He faced Alec, and his eyes, usually relentless, softened, like plasticine left out on the windowsill on a hot day. "And you, little shadow."

He disappeared with the sun as it hid beneath a cloud, a dull flash of grey in a city dripping with colour.

Chapter Text

By the time Monday swung around, Alec was already exhausted.

A weekend of scouring newspapers, being thoroughly interrogated by his mother, late night patrols with his siblings, early morning patrols with the Kestrel, and being talked into training with Simon, had not, in fact, done him good. If he was awake enough to notice, he would've seen that his shirt was inside out, the label flapping out beneath his blazer, the buttons turned in, ink stains thumbed onto his collar. He would've noticed that his shoelaces were untied, and that his hair, which needed a good comb anyway, was practically defying gravity. He would've noticed that a certain someone had been standing, arms crossed, glittered, brown eyes lazy, eyebrows raised, in front of his desk for the past ten minutes.

But he wasn't. So he didn't.

A cough sent him flying out of his daze, and out of his seat. He realised he'd been staring at his computer screen after writing three words in three hours. Then he rubbed his eyes, yawned, looked up, blearily, and was met with a rather unimpressed looking Magnus Bane.

He sat up straighter. "Magn- Mr Bane." He said.

Magnus looked him up and down, a smirk forming at the corner of his lips at the sight of Alec's unironed blazer, pants that were just a little too long, the stubble on his cheeks, the confused widening of his eyes and small opening of his mouth. Alec fiddled with the knot of his tie and looked down at his lap. He suddenly felt uncomfortably warm.

"Are you alright, Mr Lightwood? You look a little pale. Paler than usual. Like a vampire. With anemia."

Alec, who seemed to have lost himself in a permanent state of tired confusion, jolted, shaking his head slightly, blinking tenfold. He coughed. "Right. Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Great. Perfectly..." he trailed off. "What did you need?"

Magnus was grinning now. "Boss wants to see us."

Finally gaining his bearings, Alec stood up, fiddling with the cuffs of his blazer. "Then we'd better go."

"Indeed." Magnus turned to leave, then paused, swivelling to face him, eyes twinkling, glossy brown irises flecked gold in the light. "Oh, and darling? There's coffee on your tie."

***

When they entered their boss' office, they found him pacing furiously back and forth, waving his other hand in angered gestures, muttering violently into his telephone. At the sound of the door opening, he stopped, grumbled something at the phone that sounded, to Alec's ears, a lot like "give me a fucking second", and slammed it down on the reciever. "Gentlemen," he said, clapping his hands together as he turned towards them, "Apologies. Everyone always seems to want us to publish everything." He walked over to his desk, pulling open a drawer, thumbing through what looked like a number of folders before finding the right one. He handed it to Alec. "You know the drill. The last article was great. We've had thousands of emails praising us across the country. I expect the same, if not more, from this."

Alec narrowed his eyes. "Just how many cases are there going to be?"

Their boss had already walked back over to the telephone, and was fiercely punching in numbers with a series of beeps. He held the phone to his ear as it rang, and looked out at the city, withdrawn. "As many as it takes."

***

They leaned in the hallway, a slice of the building's side with doors leading to different offices, cupboards and meeting rooms on one side, a set of descending stairs at the end, and a huge spread of the glass exterior serving as the other. It reminded Magnus of the ramps inside airports which lead to the planes, sleek and modern. Beside him, leaning against the railing, Alec poured over the contents of the manila file, eyebrows knitted together. "What's up, dumpling? Magnus asked, a playful smile pulling at his lips.

He was met with a petulant glare. "Don't call me that."

"Honey badger?"

"No."

"Butter cup?" Magnus teased, batting his eyelashes.

"Absolutely not."

"Love bug?"

"Shut up, before I make you." Alec shot, rolling his eyes for the 100th time that day.

Magnus smirked. "Don't mind if I do."

"You're infuriating."

"Infuriatingly handsome? I know. Unlike you, I do own a mirror. Gold-rimmed. Floor length. My pride and j-"

Alec shoved the file into Magnus' chest, just as Magnus had done last time. He raised his eyebrows. "Read it."

Magnus took the file. Across it, in bold, black lettering, were printed two words: THE CROW. Inside was a file detailing Raphael Santiago's background, alias, powers, and an account of what had happened that night (supposedly). It was short, four pages in total, and there were three eyewitnesses, all completely different. 

The first was a man, a John Williams, who had heard someone, presumably the victim (a man named Chris Watts), screaming. Not five minutes before that, four blocks away, a woman had reported seeing Raphael "walk quickly into an alleyway, checking behind him, as if he was being followed." Lastly, a woman named Amelie Gates said: "I heard the screams just around the corner. I'd just done my weekly shopping and I was walking home. He was standing over the body, holding a knife. I called the police, but the Elites got there first. Seconds after I first saw him. It was like I'd conjured them up."

"This doesn't make sense," he said, biting the inside of his cheek. "How did the Elites get there so quickly? And how would Raph- how would the Crow get there so quickly? Even he can't be somewhere one minute and somewhere else the next." Magnus froze. Somewhere one minute and somewhere else the next. A flash of electricity. A bolt of light, a figure vanished. The Warden clutching his bow in the dark.

Alec had gone still, statuesque, as if time had stopped. His hands, ever steady, shook at his sides. His eyelashes fluttered, his breathing irregular. He looked up at Magnus, and those crushing blue eyes, blue as the sky, deep as the sea, temperamental as the clouds, bore into his. "I need to go."

Then, without waiting for a response, he left Magnus standing in the hallway, file pressed tightly to his chest, and ran with an almost inhuman speed towards the stairs. Then he was gone.

Magnus looked out at the city, at the infinite stream of cars hurrying their way down the sreets, at the everlasting flow of people bustling down the sidewalks.

Watery blue light cast his cat eyes green.

***

For once, when Alec arrived at the Institute, the sun was still shining; as he flew down the stained-glassed laid corridors, heading to the training room and towards his siblings, his shadow flitted across multi-coloured beams criss-crossing over the glossy wooden floors. He hadn't even broken a sweat.

He reached the door, a familiar door of strong, elaborately-carved wood, detailed markings curving across the surface in arches and swirls, the words Training Room feathered carefully into the middle. This was the door that lead to a room in which he'd spent countless days, nights, and the strange fog in between throwing punches and kicks at imaginary opponents, arrows and knives at splintered targets. A room where he'd endured long, painful hours being sliced through with throwing stars and daggers, torn open and humbled with biting words and harsh curses.

He turned the handle.

Inside, stood his sister, Jace, Simon, and Robert Lightwood.

The words died on his tongue.

***

That afternoon, Izzy arrived at her girlfriend's front door shaking, tears falling in streams down her cheeks. The first thing Clary mentioned was her eyeliner. Izzy touched a hand to her face. Her fingers came away black. "It's supposed to be waterproof," she sobbed, burying her face in Clary's shoulder. "Damn you, Maybelline."

"Come on," the redhead soothed. "Let's get you some tea."

***

Tea, it turned out, solved almost everything. Izzy had been wrapped tightly in a thick blanket, and she sat, still trembling, on Clary's velvety green couch, hands wound gratefully around a steaming mug. The walls were crammed so thickly with paintings and framed photographs that she couldn't tell what colour the wallpaper was, and dreamcatchers hung in the windows. The carpet was plush and grey, the coffee table round and homely. A tattered orange rug sat like a ginger cat on the floor beside it. Lit candles flickered, filling the room with wafts of cinammon, and buttery yellow-coloured fairy lights dangled across the bookshelves.

It was nothing like the Institute. Izzy loved it.

Clary sat beside her, grazing a small, warm, freckled hand up and down Izzy's forearm comfortingly. She knew not to ask what had happened. Knew she wouldn't get an answer.

"Sorry," Izzy said, quietly. "I've never been inside before. I feel like I barged in."

"Nonsense," Clary replied, frowning, "I have Mondays off. Besides, you've dropped me off at the corner of the street enough times. I know... I know you have secrets. So do I. But if you're trying to keep me safe, don't. I'd rather have a target on my back than not have you with me for as long as I can get you." She took one of Izzy's hands, warm from the mug, and held it to her lips. "I love you," she murmured.

Izzy sighed, moving a hand to caress Clary's cheek. "I don't like that we have secrets from each-other, but, you're right. It is to keep you safe. I have lots of enemies." Whenever they met, it was at a bar, UC and not, or a random restaurant, or a lonely cafe downtown. Although Izzy could be stealthy when she wanted to be, slipping out of the Institute through the back where nobody ever bothered to look, shimmying down the dodgy, trash-filled alleyways, keeping her hood pulled low and weaving in and out of party-goers, she was always conscious of the fact that Hodge was watching. So she'd wear different outfits each time, never the same shoes, never the same gloves, never the same dress. She'd leave her whip behind, her wrist bare. Clary's name on Izzy's phone was Collin, the same as a boy from Alec's university who had pestered him into helping him with his homework.

When they first started dating, she had warned Clary that they'd have to be careful. And although it was for Clary's own safety- she had no idea how her mother (or father) would react if she knew Izzy had been dabbling with a girl she'd met at a renowned UC bar, and she hadn't been lying when she said she had handfuls of enemies that would love to exploit any weakness of Izzy's they could find- it was also for herself. She loved the thrill of having something to hide, for once, something to sneak out for, something to spend her nights lying awake thinking about. It was an anomoly on her strict Elite regime. It was a small draft of fresh air inside a concrete prison cell.

So every time they met, it would be at a different bar, a different restaurant, a different sad little cafe. And every time they parted, it would be from the corner of Clary's street, a chaste kiss before Izzy hurried back to the Institute just in case, even though they had entered the Safe hours, that short period when Hodge slept.

Izzy loved Clary, and she wanted to keep her away from the Clave. She'd heard stories of Elites who had mingled too deeply with the UCs, something the Clave saw as the worst betrayal. They never ended well.

But that afternoon had been too much. If Hodge saw through her disguise- she'd borrowed some of Alec's horrific pants and sweaters- she'd let him think she was sneaking off to do drugs, or participate in cult activities. Today, she'd risk it all to sit in her girlfriend's sitting room and drink tea and tell her she loved her.

"You forget I have powers too. I can hold my own, babe," Clary grinned, brushing her vibrant hair out of her face with painter's hands, her fingertips chewed and cracked.

"Well, I'm sorry!" Izzy whined, a pout forming on her face. "For all I know, your powers could be... plant-growing, or something." She gestured to the overflowing plant pots on the windowsill.

Clary laughed. "They’re a little more useful than that."

Izzy leaned closer, brushing a thumb over Clary's cheek. Her hair fell forwards over her shoulders, black and shining like ink. She planted a kiss on her girlfriend's lips, her beautiful, grinning girlfriend, for whom she would raise the forgotten treasures of Hell's rivers if it meant having her happy like this forever. "I'm sure you're absolutely formidable," she whispered.

***

When Alec finally crawled into bed that evening, bruised, bleeding, and exhausted, every muscle throbbing, limbs heavy, he counted the minutes until his siblings would prize the door open (they never bothered to knock) and comfort him as they always did. The room was dark, the only light from a dimly shining lamp in the corner, and shadows danced fleetingly across the walls as the sun lowered itself in the sky. Amber-coloured light from the streetlamps cast the ceiling in a soft glow.

1. 2. 3.

His throat was dry from shouting. There was a glass of water on his bedside table, but he was afraid he'd re-open the wounds he could feel beginning to close if he moved even an inch.

4. 5. 6.

He was too warm, the thickness of his blankets suffocating, stifling.

7. 8. 9.

He was too cold, the howl of wind through his open window needling into his tender skin.

10.

The door creaked quietly open.

"Alec?" His brother's voice called, soft and unusually timid.

"I'm here," he croaked. His brother rushed toward him, kneeling at his side, and Alec managed to crane his neck gingerly sideways to meet his gaze. "Water?"

"Of course." Gently, Jace brought the glass to his lips, the feeling of it sliding coolly down his throat heavenly. "I'm sorry, Alec. I'm sorry." Jace bowed his head, resting it on the side of the old wooden frame, golden hair limp, reaching to clutch Alec's hand like a lifeline. Over his brother's shoulder, Alec stared at Izzy, who had perched herself carefully at the foot of the bed. She stared back at him, her dark eyes half-filled with remorse, the other half anger, jagged and sharp. No light could soften them. "I know," he said. "Me too."

Chapter Text

Simon Lewis was getting really sick of being left in the dark.

With an abrupt tug of the wrist, he'd been pulled from the training room, Jace's grip strong and strangely desperate, nails digging into his skin. The door had slummed shut behind them with a forceful sense of finality, plunging them into silence. Simon had turned to his friend, quirking an eyebrow at him questioningly. "What was that? He asked.

The sunlight streamed through the windows, the dust particulates reminding Simon of the Upside Down from Stranger Things, and Jace's hair shone like a lick of flame. He gave Simon an exceedingly fake yet apologetic smile, rubbing the nape of his neck with his palm. His foot tapped nervously on the floor. "Nothing," he replied. "Don't worry." Jace looked behind Simon, watching Isabelle disappear hurriedly around the corner. He sighed, his lips pressed into a frown. "Listen, I have to go. I'll see you later."

Then Jace had left Simon to his own devices and strode off in the opposite direction, shoulders tensed, the slap of his shoes against the smooth floors loud in the abrasive silence. Simon had wandered back to his room, sent a few texts to Clary- all of them ignored- then played around, drowning in his sorrows, with his guitar. The last hours of afternoon had passed slowly. Simon realised he had gotten used to being busy.

Now he made his way towards the kitchen. The lights flickered above him, the ancient yellow bulbs swaying in the constant draft that pierced through the Institute's corridors, dull and dying. Strips of moonlight from various windows illuminated the polished floorboards silver, and the shadows creeping up the walls seemed alive, black and angular, reaching in jagged shapes across the ceiling like a skeletal hand. One flash of steady light flashed through the dark, a door cracked minutely open. A rumble of muttering hummed quietly through the walls.

"We can't keep letting this happen," someone hissed, their voice too quiet for Simon to properly make out.

"We don't even know what happens," came another voice, lower this time. Then, softly: "Mom said she'd stop him."

Someone sighed. "She said she would do what she could."

"Then it wasn't enough."

"No," came the reply. "It never is."

As Simon crept closer, treading softly on the heels of his feet, he caught a glimpse inside the room, the light inside warm and buttery. A flash of gold; a whip, curled around a pale wrist, then the bright mane of someone's hair, tangled and messy. A streak of black; ivory curls and a large, sleek bow propped against an armchair.

A touch of red, a pair of torn, bloodied leather gloves lying forgotten on the rug.

***

"Useless," the father said as he strode loudly towards the target. He wrenched the arrow from the wood so violently that a handful of splinters rushed from the hole like blood streaming from a gash, scattering messily onto the floor with a cloud of dust. He turned towards his son, the shaft of the arrow bending in his fist. "If that was aimed at somebody's head, it would have missed."

The boy looked back at the target. The arrow had not, admittedly, hit the bullseye, but had instead lodged itself a few inches away from it. Perhaps it would've missed someone's head, but it wouldn't have missed someone's chest. He had thought it was a decent shot.

He should've known better. Decent wasn't perfect.

"I'll do better."

There was a pause. The father watched his son. Outside, the sun had long since disappeared, a candle snuffed out by the howling wind. Shadows turned the man's eyes a glittering black, sharpened his clenched jaw. This time, when he spoke, his voice- one which never asked, only commanded- struck through the air, a cobra to its prey, sending almost material waves through the room like the push and pull of the sea. Power bolted through the boy's chest and eddied around his fingertips, buzzing and tangible, biting at the cracked, bleeding beds of his nails, stabbing at the deep-cut notches in his skin from the string of his bow. "Again," the father said, and the son had no choice but to obey.

***

Alec sat on the subway, absent-mindedly rubbing at a thick scar on his hand, the skin pink and raised in a jagged slice across his wrist and palm. That morning, he'd woken up alone, eyes bleary and head pounding from a fitful sleep, blankets twisted in knots around his legs. His body felt like it'd been pummelled with a brick, and when he'd stepped tentatively into the shower, the shiny new skin webbing over last night's cuts had stung, the yellowing bruises peppering his chest and upperarms aching under the pressure of the water.

Alec eyed the scar, tracing the fragile skin beneath his blazer up the inside of his wrist where it peeked just slightly from underneath his sleeve, ending at the beginnings of his palm. He smiled. His father had missed.

As the train drew closer and closer towards the city centre, it grew more and more packed. People flooded in and out of the doors, chatting loudly down their mobile phones, nodding along to music through their headphones. Some read the newspaper sitting down, legs crossed, hunched over in their seats between elbows. Some read it standing up, their other hand gripping tightly to the handrail. Somewhere along from Alec, a dog yapped, a tiny chihuahua in someone's handbag. A toddler began to wail.

The train jerked to a halt, the doors sliding open, and, like a broken dam, a mass of people spilled out onto the platform, an assault of heavy work bags and suitcases and high heels and sneakers, all cramming up the stairs and through the ticket barriers, heaving towards the exit. Alec had always been the archer, the one to stand back and observe, watching as his brother dipped and swerved in and out of chaos, grinning all the way. Even after a year, Alec wasn't used to entering the chaos himself. He breathed a deep sigh of relief as he emerged from the station, the warm July sky spread above him in patches of blue and white.

Street vendors hollered at the crowds, frantically waving about pamphlets and leaflets, wrapped in high-vis jackets as if they weren't noticeable enough. The rush of people over zebra crossings left the drivers of cars and lorries slumped, bored, over their steering wheels, and hurried tourists dashed erratically across the roads, weaving in and out of vehicles, a string of beeps and angered shouts left in their wake. Cyclists danced their way around passers-by, expertly navigating torrents of people crawling to and fro, beginning their commute to work.

A hand reached out and clutched Alec's forearm, and he gritted his teeth in a wince, the remnants of a particularly nasty bruise throbbing under the person's grip. He turned. A street vendor- a pretty woman in her early twenties with light brown skin, curled brown hair, and earnest brown eyes- smiled up at him. Her grip was warm. She thrust a magazine article from The Telegraph into his chest, winked, then turned, already armed with another, prodding it forcefully into someone's face.

Alec frowned, peering suspiciously at the cover, then frowned some more. Inked onto the front, in bold white letters, wrote: THREAT OF UC PROTESTS RISING AFTER ELITES ARREST THE DOLL, UNMASKED AS THE FASHION ICON LILY CHEN.

***

It had been almost a week since Luke had disappeared, and Maia was worried. Between handling her job at The Telegraph, managing Luke's shifts at the restaurant, and planning with the other Wolves, she was beginning to panic. Whilst Luke had always been the one with the plan, and a backup plan, and then, of course, a backup plan for the backup plan, Maia only had one: what to do when Luke got back. She hadn't let herself think about what would happen if he didn't.

It was simple. Stage a protest. Force the Elites to cooperate. Get Bat back, even if they didn't.

The Wolves, founded by Luke 20 years ago, were one of the multiple UC groups dotted around New York who focused not only on protecting mundanes, but each-other, too. In desperate attempts to keep themselves safe, the surviving UCs of the Circle's attack collected into groups. Eventually, though still somewhat informally, these groups started to become known as Teams; as the treatment of UCs only got worse, more and more sought refuge, and the Teams began to grow. Each Team had a leader, who served as an ambassador in UC events. Each member of each Team swore to protect their groups with their lives, and in return, they were offered accommodation, food, and in Maia's case, a family she'd never really had.

Some UCs said that the Wolves had been named as such because of their leader, the Werewolf, a UC who had been worshipped in the papers as a hero in the years before the Uprising, until he vanished from the public's eye. Maia had always liked to think it was because they were feared.

But now their leader was gone, and Maia was scared. She paced around the room, running both hands through her hair. Clary watched from the sofa, a concerned frown on her face. "Maia, we'll be okay. I'm sure Luke is fine."

Maia shook her head, throwing herself frustratedly onto the couch. A glass of water on the table began to ripple. The redhead watched it silently, then reached for Maia's hands, taking them from where she rubbed at her face, holding them tightly. "Maia," she said, slowly, "let's think about this logically." Maia reluctantly twisted to look at her friend, the faux leather creaking. She nibbled anxiously at her lip. "I haven't felt anyone enter my wards," Clary continued, "but I haven't felt anyone leave them, either. That means Luke's still in the city."

"Can't you... pinpoint wherever he is? The city's massive, Clary. We live in New York."

Clary laughed. "It doesn't work like that, Maia. I know when someone enters or leaves a field, but if the warding is permanent, I can't tell which, because my power's finished supplying their energy. It's like I'm a ball of wool, and the fields are the end of the string. Once the string is cut, there's nothing connecting them, apart from the fact that they're made of the same thing." Clary tilted her head. "Does that make sense?"

Maia nodded, then looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "This place is permanently warded, right?"

Clary smiled sheepishly. "Yes. Most of New York is. Just in case."

"Doesn't that... that must have used a lot of energy. Didn't it attract the Detectors?"

Clary shook her head. "I can do a lot of things with my wards. The ones over New York are tracking wards. The wards around us right now are protective wards. I can use silencing wards, trapping wards, destructive wards-"

"Destructive wards?" Maia asked.

Clary grinned. "If I put one over a building, it'll most likely collapse," she said, matter-of-factly.

"What about a person?"

Clary just raised her eyebrows, fixing Maia with a look. "Anyway, my tracking wards are untraceable. They've been up for so long that the energy used to make them has dissipated." Clary held up a hand as Maia opened her mouth. "Trust me. I've had it checked."

The other girl decided not to ask. There was a moment of quiet. Outside, birds screamed at each-other from across telephone wires, and drivers yelled profanities through their windows. Maia imagined their fists waving angrily at each-other, their faces red with rage. Clary squeezed her hand. "We'll find him," she promised. "We'll get them back."

Maia looked at the table. The glass had turned itself over, water spilling over the thick pages of newspaper articles strewn messily across the wooden surface, the ink blackening further and the paper turning a transparent grey, every word a reminder of who the UCs had lost, and who they had lost them to. "Yeah," she swore, "we will."

***

The Kestrel found the Warden, as he always did, in the shadows. He perched precariously on the edge of a building, peering solemnly down at the streets below, bow clutched tightly in his hand. Magnus coughed, and the Elite barely flinched.

"Kestrel," he greeted. He looked at Magnus warily out of the corner of his eye.

"Warden. Fancy seeing you here."

The Warden scoffed. "Have anything useful to say?"

"Well, aren't you a perfect little sugar cube today." The Kestrel replied cheerfully.

The Elite turned to face him. "Get on with it."

Magnus sighed, stepping closer to rest his arms on the wall. He looked at the Warden. "I couldn't find you last night."

The Warden shifted, eyes refusing to meet Magnus' gaze. "I wasn't on patrol."

"Ah." The Kestrel paused to pull himself onto the wall, settling his legs over the other side, where far below, the city thrummed. "Researching?"

"Something like that."

Magnus raised his eyebrows. "Right. Anyway, darling, I believe I've had an epiphany."

"Realised you're not funny, did you?" The Warden muttered. Magnus pretended not to hear.

"Teleportation, Warden!" He exclaimed, swinging his legs from where they hung off the wall.

The Warden swallowed. "Yes?"

"Keep up, dear cherub. This is important." Magnus paused. "The person that attacked you the other day-"

"Was a teleporter. Obviously."

"Quite. But I was looking at some newspaper articles, you know, searching for any links, and-"

"Raphael Santiago's case most likely involves a teleporter."

Magnus' smug smile, which hadn't faltered the entire time he'd been talking, dropped. "You just stole my moment, Warden."

The Elite sighed. He fiddled with the string of his bow, lips pursed. "I managed to put two and two together." He looked back at Magnus, frowning. "But this doesn't solve anything. We don't know who the teleporter is. There were no Detectors at the Crow's scene, and obviously not at the fight scene, so we have no energy signals to find matches to. We-"

"You make it sound like a dating app." The Kestrel interrupted, a grin back on his lips.

"We don't know why they attacked me, or if they're even the same person."

"Easy. I was correct. We're on the right track, that's why."

"Then why would they attack me, and not you?"

The Kestrel rolled his eyes. "Haven't I told you enough times, sweetness? I'm incredibly hard to find."

"They could've attacked us when we were together."

Magnus shook his head. "I'm not an amateur. I know better than to assume nobody's listening. Or watching," Magnus said, looking at the Elite pointedly. "I always make sure our little sessions are nice and private."

"You're using your powers the whole time?"

"Yep." Silence. It was true- the Watchman, in the Kestrel's words, was a sneaky little bastard (screeched to Cat over the phone at a particularly close call at one of his parties) and was more trouble than he was worth. He knew the Watchman was onto him, but Magnus had resolved to keep him away as long as he possibly could, thank you very much. It wasn't that he disliked being on the run- in fact, he found the idea rather exciting- but it'd mean having to leave his Brooklyn apartment, the only place he'd ever managed to keep for so long, and Magnus wasn't quite ready to leave it. Besides, Chairman Meow wasn't really fugitive material.

"There's one thing, though." The Warden finally spoke. "At some of the recent break-ins, the Detector employed at the scene noticed that along with the convicted UC's energy signal, there was another. It was described as electricity-like."

Magnus faked a look of surprise- Zachariah had already told him- and smiled. "That could be our teleporter."

"It's possible."

The Kestrel pushed himself off the wall to pace around the roof. "Listen. You're right, this doesn't give us much, but it does tell us that there's something else going on. All of this is linked- the break-ins, the warehouse, the murders. Everything. I'm sure of it."

"I think that's the first time you've admitted that I'm right."

Magnus shot the Warden a look.

Another silence, if you could call it that. It was a loud silence, the kind of silence that happened when everyone was thinking much too hard. Besides, it was New York City. It was never really quiet.

"We'll get her back, you know. Catarina." The Warden said, looking over at him from where he'd settled himself, in the shaded corner between the wall he was sitting on and the wall of the fire exit.

"I know." Magnus replied. The two stared at one and other for a moment, the Kestrel standing stock-still on the middle of the building's roof, the breeze ruffling his hair, eyes glowing topaz in the dark. The Warden's features were dark beneath his hood as he crouched, silent and sure as a cat, on the wall. Neither moved; neither blinked. For a few seconds, they were lost.

The Kestrel clapped his hands together abruptly, and the stillness of the air was broken, like a cord snapped in two. "What do you say we go double-check those sewers?"

Chapter Text

After 5 days of extensive researching, all Alec managed to find under M.S.SUPPLIERS was the name Matt Smith.

The Institute contained 2 computers. One was in Hodge's office, and one was used, albeit extremely rarely, for tracking and monitoring Elites. A smattering of dust covered the top of the monitor and crammed between the keys, and the mouse, plastic stiff with age, squealed when it was clicked.

It was old. It was long forgotten.

It was incredibly useful.

Despite the Elite's uber-strict rules and regulations and the Clave's iron-clad governing policies, the software-security measures were not, in gentle terms, particularly up to date. Alec had been raised with feather quills and elaborate scrawls, with chalkboards and ginormous copies of books, all so old that they smelled faintly of mildew, the pages yellowed with age. He'd been taught by Elite mentors who spewed random bouts of passages from Hamlet and Othello, who praised Tennyson and largely slated Oscar Wilde. He'd been trained to play the violin, the piano, by straight-backed musicians; had lessons on table etiquette, knew which fork to use for camembert and which to use for short-crust pastry; hell, he lived in New York City, and he'd still been forced to suffer through horse-riding lessons until he was 15.

The Clave, founded in 17th century England, with monarchies rife with bloody murder, never forgot its traditions. It held onto the past like it held on to its hate, passing it down generation to generation, a plague of mindless prejudice, black and crawling, spewing and gurgling, spread by rats.

The Clave's traditions were just like its regulations, its rules, just like its prejudice: upheld by its own superiority complex. It looked down at the modern world, at its growing acceptance of UCs, and clung to the past like it was the last raft at sea, regardless of the splinters digging deep into its skin, despite the torn nails and mangled fingertips.

But there were advantages to these setbacks. Like the fact that nobody knew a goddamn thing about computers, except the odd few who had lives outside the Institute, and the ones who'd installed them in the first place.

There wasn't even a password.

Alec had spent the past few days clicking away at random PDFs- of which there were a lot, none of them titled anything decipherable- searching for any records on the IDRIS gear manufacturers. There were hundreds of documents, none of them filed separately, all named in an obscure format, like hfecdojnrcs.#dekd. He had slumped over at his uncomfortable wooden desk chair, the arms digging sharply into his ribs. He peered blearily up at the screen, chin resting on his forearms. Just a few more, he thought. Then I'm stopping. He clicked lazily over a file titled hvrdodne.3re, the monitor blinking sluggishly for a moment before flashing black, then back to white. At the top of the screen wrote: IDRIS' MANUFACTURING AND DEALERSHIPS. Below was a lengthy file, detailing the names of the vast number of IDRIS' manufacturers, their owners, and their warehouse addresses.

Alec sat up quickly in his chair.

Suddenly thrumming with energy, Alec blinked the sleep from his eyes, hurriedly scrolling down the pages. Thankfully, the names had been meticulously placed in precise alphabetical order. He quickly found M. M.S.SUPPLIERS. The very last one.

He read over the information 4 or 5 times, committing it to memory. The supplier owned a series of warehouses on the outskirts of New York, where the crush of traffic and the shadows of tall buildings ebbed, giving way to a still quiet. They'd started supplying for IDRIS just over 9 years ago.

The owner's name was Matt Smith. Alec buried his head in his hands.

The lights flickered. The small office's only window glowed dimly, a muted yellow from the streetlamps outside. When he'd sat down, the sun had still been up. Alec checked the time on his phone. 10pm. Technically speaking, the Elites didn't have to patrol every day- they were allowed two breaks a week- but seeing as Alec worked elsewhere in sunlight, he didn't like to miss nightly patrols.

Resolving to grieve over the name later, Alec turned back to the screen, noting the name of the file down on a scrap of paper. He tucked it into his blazer pocket. He closed the file explorer with a click, and was met with the home screen- a map of New York City, covered in tiny red blinking dots. Apparently, years ago, when computers and spyware and whatnot had been introduced, the Clave had hired a handful of IT professionals to install computers in the Institutes across the world. These new computers had included a tracking system, displayed permanently on each monitor.

Whoever had created the monitoring system hadn't done a very good job. The map was distorted and pixelated, like an old Space Invaders game, or like Pacman in an arcade. The dots moved in jerking motions, sometimes pausing for a number of sections and then re-appearing suddenly 4 blocks away, scrambling to catch up. It was like the files, which had all been lumped in disordered chaos into one section- Alec could tell it was done lazily. It was only the Clave's need to have everything everyone else had and more that lead to them installing it all in the first place. Alec was sure his mother still did most of her work on paper.

Alec rubbed the back of his neck absent-mindedly, above where his tracker was buried deep in sinew and muscle tissue.

Just before he turned the computer off, a blinking red dot on the screen caught his eye. It was set apart from the others, which gathered mostly in the centre of the city, and was instead on the outskirts of Brooklyn, stopped over a row of houses. He hovered the mouse over it curiously.

THE SERPENT- it read in bold, ISABELLE LIGHTWOOD.

***

The air was humid, pressing thickly and warmly over the bottom half of Magnus' face and the uncovered gaps between his eyes and the bridge of his nose. The black feathers of his mask fluttered in the light breeze as it snaked through the silent streets and narrow alleyways, gently swinging store signs and making litter drift like lily pads across the roads.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

The days had passed quickly. At day, Magnus worked himself into the ground on what he'd dubbed in his mind 'The Raphael Article'. In the night, he searched the city for clues. It bothered him to no end; these were his friends, and he felt he was no closer to helping them than he'd been weeks ago. There he was, writing pointless newspaper articles to make himself pointless money, gallivanting at night with irritating, bitter, pretty-eyed Elites, and Raphael was somewhere in a prison cell, Catarina kidnapped, possibly dead.

It had been 5 days. Magnus was getting impatient. He leant against a lamppost, humming along to the chorus to Shake it Off by Taylor Swift, tapping his fingers agitatedly on his thigh. The breeze was warm and heavy against the back of his neck. A storm was coming.

Finally, a figure appeared at the end of the road, drench in black, hooded, a gloved hand gripping a large, sleek bow. As always, his shoulders were tensed, so slightly that you wouldn't have noticed unless you were wondrously perceptive- and Magnus was. It was his job. The Warden walked towards him, and Magnus saw the pale cut of his jaw in the moonlight, hardened and stern. His eyes were dark and watchful beneath his hood. He hadn't seen him yet. 

Magnus revealed himself with a wave of the hand. "Darling," he said with a grin, "you're late."

The Warden looked unsurprised to see him. "Kestrel," he greeted. "I have information."

The Kestrel raised his eyebrows. "That makes one of us." He pushed himself off the lamppost and walked towards the Warden. "Go on, sweetness. Nobody can hear us."

"Matt Smith."

"Come again?"

"The owner of the warehouse. And the company. Matt Smith."

A moment of silence. Then Magnus began to speak. "You're telling me that our lead is a man with the most generic-"

A knife cut his words short, slicing past Magnus' head, clipping his ear with a sharp sting of pain and heat. It embedded itself in a wall, inches from the Warden's face. "Cupcake," Magnus murmured, quietly, a smirk still playing at his lips, "it seems we have a visitor."

Magnus knew without turning around that it was the teleporter again. He could feel the buzz of electricity in the air, humming with power, crackling at his skin. But his power had worked on them then- how could they have seen through the illusions now?

There was no time to dwell on it. Magnus turned. The teleporter approached, draped in a cloak of black material, wrapped in shadow as if they had been made from it. A glint of knives shone from their belt. The Warden stood stock still, an arrow aimed and ready. Magnus couldn't see his face through the dark, but he had the odd feeling that the teleporter was smiling. There was a pause. Magnus readied his power at his fingertips.

Then the figure struck.

The Warden instantly started firing, somehow throwing knives with one hand and notching arrows with the other, a flurry of steel and leather whirling around their attacker, the figure an explosion of blue electricity. Magnus quickly joined him, aiming kicks where his ally aimed steel, feet twisting gracefully to right himself whenever his foot connected with nothing. As always, the fight was like a dance; a series of planned steps put into an elaborate sequence. Magnus found he didn't have to dodge the Warden's arrows and knives- they were all meticulously aimed towards the enemy, always missing Magnus by just the right amount. When Magnus aimed a punch to the back of the head, Alec swept a kick at the figure's legs. They fought together perfectly, as if they were performing a piece of choreography they'd eased into over years of practice.

The figure was slowly retreating, disappearing and reappearing less and less. Their power had limits, just like everyone else's. Still, they were vicious; the slice at Magnus' ear was jagged and deep, and he reckoned he'd have bruises underneath his clothes from the aggression of their kicks. Their power was tiring, that was true- but their body wasn't. Magnus flexed his hands. Maybe he could try...

With a flick of his wrist, Magnus pushed a flash of power at the figure whilst they were distracted, jumping away from a torrent of the Warden's knives. Perhaps the Blank would sort them out.

Nothing.

The Kestrel was getting irritated. The Warden began to push the figure back towards the wall with a series of punches and kicks to the stomach, only hesitating when the figure reappeared behind him. The blue flashes had dimmed, Magnus realised. Instead of a blinding shock of electricity, the teleporter disappeared and returned with a faint blue hue, which dissipated softly into the air, as if carried away by the wind. Thunder rumbled overhead.

Their enemy was cornered now, backed against the wall, dodging the brutal swipes of the Warden's knives, sending desperate punches at his face.

Now was Magnus' chance. He gripped a long, pointed knife from the thick lining of his coat and aimed.

It whistled quietly through the air, the newly-sharpened tip targeted directly at the figure's hood, where Magnus hoped it would embed itself tightly into the brick, trapping the teleporter long enough for them to be handcuffed. Just before it hit, a set of onyx-black eyes caught Magnus' focused gaze, and a snow-pale, curved grin smiled at him smugly through the dark.

The figure disappeared with a puff of blue smoke, leaving only a scrap of dark fabric behind. It fluttered like a flag in the breeze, pinned to the wall by the knife.

The heavens opened, and it began to rain.

***

Later, when the Kestrel and the Warden had steadied their breaths, they looked around for anything the teleporter might have left. It was hard to see through the rain, falling thickly in massive droplets, leaving Magnus' hair uncharacteristically flat. He hoped the purple colouring he'd applied to the strands earlier that evening was water-resistant (it wasn't).

"What's that?" The Warden asked, and Magnus had to follow his finger closely, to where he pointed at the sidewalk a few feet away. A small gleam of silver flashed up at him, lit by the streetlamp hovering nearby. He walked closer and picked it up, wiping his eyes of rain with the back of his hand. In his palm sat a pendant, silver, a midnight-blue gemstone glittering innocently through the downpour.

"This is Catarina's," he breathed, turning towards the Warden, who stared back at him, eyes calculating. "Perhaps we're closer than we thought."

***

That night, out of the unforgiving rain, a group of UCs huddled around a table, the old walls of the DuMort creaking in the wind. On the table was a newspaper, the front page inked with a picture of the Vampire, the words, typed thickly in bold, above it: RENOWNED ROGUE-SUPER THE VAMPIRE WRONGLY ARRESTED BY MISCALUCATING ELITES. "Alright everyone," someone shouted, "think it's time we start fighting back?"

The storm drowned out their roars of agreement as the Vampires of New York City prepared for what was to come.

Chapter Text

The previous night had Magnus uneasy.

His desk was so stacked with paper that you couldn't see the wood, crammed with binders and files, scattered with ink-stained wads of crumpled paper. In the middle of it all, balanced precariously on a stack of documents, was Magnus' laptop. The room was quiet save for the ticking of the clock and the rapid, angry tapping of Magnus' keyboard as he punched in letter after letter, engrossed. Three empty mugs collected beside him, all dripping rings of coffee onto elaborate pads of notes.

"Magnus," someone said, their voice hard and sharp like flint. "Magnus."

Magnus jumped, and his knees hit the bottom of his desk. His laptop wobbled uncertainly. A handful of pens rolled back and forth across the paper-covered surface. Magnus looked up, brushed the hair out of his eyes, and smirked immediately. "Alexander." He peered around the room, blinking when he saw that other than them, it was entirely empty. "Oh, is it lunch time, darling?"

Alec stared at him, one eyebrow raised. "It's 5 o'clock. Lunch break ended 3 hours ago." Now that Magnus was properly looking, he realised Alec had his coat on, his work bag hanging on his shoulder. He was particularly dashing today, eyes bright, hair extremely messy but not too messy that he looked like he'd been electrocuted, shirt crisp and ironed.

Magnus sniffed. "Apologies. We writers just get so absorbed in our work." He beamed. "Don't worry, dearest, I don't expect you to understand."

Alec just rolled his eyes. Magnus laughed, stretching back in his chair to prop his boots, a patent, cobalt blue, on his desk. Alec eyed them disdainfully. "You'll ruin your work."

"I appreciate the concern, honey-cake, but you needn't worry. I have everything under control." A large stack of files flopped loudly onto the floor in an explosion of paper. Magnus grinned.

Alec sighed. The dim lights in Magnus' office washed the paleness of his face an off-white, softening the intensity of his eyes. Every time Magnus looked at them, he thought of something different- a field of lavender, calm and soft; an ocean, violent and unforgiving; the sky in daylight, rich and solid; the sky at night, endless, infinite, glittering with the unknown, with possibility, with beauty- fuck, Magnus thought, and abruptly went back to typing.

"You've finished the conclusion?" Alec asked. Magnus nodded briefly in response, his smile gone. 

"Great. Send it over when you can and I'll add it to the document. I'll see you tomorrow," Alec replied. There was a moment of quiet, where Alec stood and awaited a response, and Magnus tried his best to ignore him. Then something landed with a jolt on his desk- a bottle of water, a sandwich, and a protein bar. Magnus stared at them, then at Alec, who rubbed the back of his neck nervously with his hand, looking pointedly out the window. "For lunch," he said, haltingly, before he turned on his heel and hurried out the door.

It slammed so hard that it trembled on its hinges.

***

Before he went on patrol that night, Alec was disturbed by a knock on his door.

His sister entered hesitantly, shutting the door quietly before sitting gingerly on the side of his bed, where he'd been staring at the ceiling. It was always like this for a while after one of their father's visits, tiptoeing around each-other, afraid to speak in case they said too much, or too little. Alec always tried to avoid his siblings for as long as he could, hoping that they'd forget, but of course, they never did. "Alec-" Izzy started, cautiously.

"I'm fine, Izzy. You don't have to worry about me."

She was quiet for a moment, then mumbled, "What did he do?"

"Nothing. And everything." Alec replied.

"That's what you always say." Izzy sniped indignantly, crossing her arms with a petulant glare.

"That's because it's true."

"How am I meant to stop worrying if you never tell me anything?"

Alec stared at her incredulously. "And I'm the only one with secrets in this family, Isabelle?"

"You..." Izzy's voice broke off until it was barely a whisper. "What?" Her eyes were wide, glazed over in shock.

"Late night escapades in Brooklyn? Ring any bells?" Alec was sitting up now, wringing his hands in his lap.

"Jace told you."

"Told me what, Isabelle?" He gritted through his teeth.

There was a pause. Izzy took a deep breath. "About Clary. My..." she inhaled. "My girlfriend." She rolled her eyes. "Don't look at me like that, Alec, I was going to tell you. I just hadn't worked out how to do it yet. It's a bit of an awkward situation."

"How long?" Alec asked.

"Six months."

"When Clary started at the Times." All this time, Alec thought. Half of him wondered how he'd been so oblivious, was kicking himself for not realising sooner. The other was shocked, but at the same time, not at all surprised. Part of the reason why he'd introduced them in the first place was because he knew they'd get along.

"Yeah." Izzy was picking at her fingernails. She never risked her perfect manicure unless she was nervous.

"I guess you two really hit it off."

"I love her, Alec."

"Okay. So, why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I hadn't come out to you yet." Isabelle Lightwood was rather tall, even without the heels, and secondly, she could literally bend metal with her fingers. But there in that room, she looked small. Fragile. This was what an indestructible being looked like on the inside. For a moment, she reminded Alec of someone else.

He cast his mind back to an evening almost a fortnight ago, after he and the Kestrel had picked their way through the wreckage of one collapsed warehouse. They'd decided to patrol a few more streets before turning in, and the silence had been so thick that Alec, for once, had been the one to break it.

"Whoever you're looking for," he'd said, "who is she to you?"

There was a lengthy pause before the Kestrel replied, and when he did, he was unusually quiet. "My best friend. My shopping-partner, my safety-pin. She always manages to stop me just before I do something stupid," He laughed. "If she were here now, she'd seriously be questioning my sanity." He smiled, fondly. "Catarina. That's her name."

"She's a mundane?"

The Kestrel nodded. "A nurse. Always helping people, my Cat." There was a soft look in his eyes, and their vibrant colour seemed less harsh in the dull moonlight. It was an undeniable moment of vulnerability; a person Alec thought of as hard as steel, as titanium, melting at the edges, like a candle left too long in the sun. Then the UC turned to look at him, a curl of distaste at the corner of his lips, the moment passed. "I presume mundanes, at least, are exempt from the Elites' wrath. You won't do anything... nefarious with this information, will you, darling?" He said it like a threat, and meant it as one, too.

Alec smiled behind his hood. "No, Kestrel. I won't."

The Kestrel said nothing and continued walking, on and on, until he was lost to the dark.

Alec gathered his sister up in his arms, gingerly cradling her head in his hands, carding his fingers through her hair. "Oh, Izzy."

***

"I bet mom's been onto you for information," Izzy said after a while. "About the Kestrel."

Alec groaned into her hair. "I've been avoiding her, actually," he mumbled.

Izzy sighed. "I'm sure she'll corner you soon enough."

"I'm surprised she hasn't already," Alec laughed. He felt Izzy smile against his shoulder, then pull herself upright to look him in the eye.

"Alec."

"Yes?"

"You know you'll have to turn him in, right?"

"Yeah," he replied, quietly. He looked down at their entwined hands, one smooth, the other calloused and hardened, a silver scar creeping up the palm. "I know."

***

As Alec and Jace manoeuvered their usual route across the tops of buildings and down tight alleyways that night, Alec was buzzing with nervous energy; from his conversation with Izzy, and the sense that something was about to happen.

He'd already checked his belt for knives twice, making sure there were at least two secured in the heel of his boots. Agitatedly, he tightened the knot on his mask, twisting his fingers through his hair. They were approaching a T in the road; right lead further from the city centre, and left would inevitably take them closer and closer towards the busy clubs and bars. His legs itched to go left, where there would be noise and movement, not this still, anticipating quiet.

"Warden, Angel," Hodge buzzed into their earpieces. "Turn right. There's a group of men following a woman on 28th."

Of course, Alec thought. They turned right, the spaces between streetlights growing larger and larger, the shadows longer and darker. Jace strolled casually beside him. Above them, neon signs to closed tattoo parlours and take-outs creaked in the breeze, blinking on and off.

Just ahead of them, where the blackness of the shadows was so dense that even Alec's eyes could not penetrate the dark, a monster slunk into the light. 

A wolf. Its coat was a striking silver, its teeth a set of jagged white knives, its paws the size of Alec's head. Its eyes were black. Hungry.

"Hodge," Alec murmured, "you could've mentioned the ginormous fucking wolf, too."

"I didn't-"

The wolf raced towards them, a snarling blur of silver fur and bared teeth. "Fuck!" Jace yelled, pushing himself with a gust of wind into the air, hovering helplessly as Alec sidestepped, the creature whizzing past him with the speed of a bullet, grinding to a halt with a screech of claws against cement. There was no time to aim his bow; he threw it to the floor and brought out two knives, each one long and wickedly sharp. As it came for him again, Alec moved, ever so slightly, feeling the warmth of its body permeate his skin, the softness of its fur brushing against his legs. He threw the knife hard. It spun through the air, burying itself deep into the wolf's hide. It yelped, but turned yet again, barrelling towards him with frightening speed.

"Jace! Alec shouted. "A little help here?"

A barrage of knives flitted towards the wolf, needling into its fur with astonishing accuracy. It whimpered and slowed to a prowl, but didn't stop. They would need arrows.

The bow had skittered towards the side of a building, a few metres from where Alec stood. "Fucking hate my job," he muttered. "Fucking wolves, fucking Jace, fucking bow can't even stay put." He kept one eye on the wolf, which circled calculatingly around Jace, who hovered a few feet in the air. Alec made his way quietly towards his bow, treading softly as possible.

Ten steps left. Jace threw another knife. Nine. Eight.

Alec's boot crunched noisily over a discarded bottle of beer.

The wolf's head snapped towards him. Alec ran.

Grabbing a handful of arrows from his quiver, Alec fumbled for his bow, new leather gloves unbearably thick, making his movements clumsy. He tore them off with his teeth, fingers slippery over the arrow's shaft. He turned and aimed.

The arrow sailed deep into the beast's side, but it kept coming in a steady prowl, unblinking black eyes focusing on Alec's neck, teeth bared, dripping saliva.

One meter away.

Alec scrambled desperately backwards, notching another, ready to fire-

Too late.

The creature was on top of him, a mass of matted fur and sharp claws. Alec could smell its breath, hot and foul, as it snapped its jaws worryingly close to his head. He kicked frantically at its stomach, protecting his face with his forearms. It snarled. A sharp pain sliced into his shoulder, a heavy weight pressing him into the wall. He could feel the cool stone scraping against the back of his neck. He gritted his teeth, shutting his eyes tightly, kicking out with his boots again and again, thoughts tripping over each-other, a frantic mess of get away, get out, get it off, get up-

The moment he brought his arm up to fling a knife- tucked securely into one of his shoulder pads- at the beast, a paw crushed itself into his chest, pinning him securely to cement floor. He choked on his breath. The knife clattered weakly to the floor. A slow trail of claws cut deep into Alec's skin, cleaving across his collarbone like the scrape of chalk over a chalkboard, of metal against china. He screamed. Thick streams of blood trickled sluggishly down his chest.

The wolf sniffed hungrily at Alec's skin, and he could feel the soft swish of its tail curl playfully up his leg. Its other claw sliced further into his shoulder.

Just before it clamped its teeth around his throat, the animal stopped, staggering sideways until it toppled over, sprawled in a heap a few feet away. Crushing weight gone, Alec's breaths came in heavy pants, his heart flinging itself against his ribs. The Angel smiled cautiously down at him, eyes amber. He gripped a steel cudgel in his hands. "Jesus, Alec," he said, "You like to cut it close, don't you?"

As Jace helped him up, neither of them noticed the wolf retreating into the dark before it was too late.

***

Late that evening, the meeting room was crammed full with Elites.

When he and Jace had returned to the Institute, his brother had demanded they go straight to Maryse. Too tired to disagree, he'd let Jace pull him towards her office. She'd immediately called for a meeting, and the majority of the Elites still out on patrol were summoned home. Even Simon was there, standing nervously next to Izzy, fidgeting with his sleeves. Maryse stood at the head of the table, dressed as always in black, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Her hair was pulled sharply into a knot.

On the table was a collection of mugshots, newspapers, and witness accounts from both mundanes and Elites. There was so much paper that the table- the long, prestigious dinner-party kind- had very little space left for anything else. It looked as if someone was preparing it for a papier-mache, and all the evidence was the tissue paper.

The room was a bustle of noise, a mixture of sleep-disturbed Elites muttering about how they'd been woken up, and a large majority still buzzing from the adrenaline of patrol, chatting nervously to their friends. "Quiet," Maryse ordered, and though she didn't shout, everybody listened. In seconds, the only sound was the ticking of the grandfather's clock. "I've called you here tonight because I believe there is a serial killer on our hands." Alec's breath hitched in his throat. A chorus of gasps echoed through the room.

"In the past several months, there has been a higher number of UC-orchestrated break-ins than there has been in the past several years. The supers behind these break-ins have all been found murdered within two days of the event." She picked up folder and flipped through the contents. She looked up, her gaze piercing the whole room. Her eyes seemed to find everyone at once. "The first was found dead in a skip, vital organs punched through. Her throat had been squeezed so tightly that her spinal cord had snapped." She flipped to another page. "The second's whole body had been mutilated with some kind of blade. His throat had been slit. Slowly." She paused. "The third was burned to death." Someone gagged. "But their throat was not just burned. When the body was moved to the morgue, the whole section between torso and skull crumbled to ash."

A few blocks away, Alec heard the fizz of fireworks exploding into the night, punching painfully through his skull like the bang of a gunshot. His head ached.

"Then, of course, there was the UC found a few blocks from the hospital. Mauled, throat ripped into ribbons. We didn't say anything so as not to alarm you. But tonight was the tipping point." Maryse swallowed. "Tonight, the Warden and the Angel were attacked by a creature, what we believe to have been a werewolf. It aimed solely for the neck." A furtive glance at the hollow of Alec's throat, where a white cotton bandage peeked out from underneath his collar. He could feel it wrapping tightly around his ribs and collarbones. "They were fortunate enough to distract the creature long enough to escape." She gestured to a group of Detectors off to the side. "The whole block has been scanned for energy signatures. No foreign signals were found. No Elite signals, either. After some consultation the Detectors have declared the area warded."

A cool ripple of unease spread through the room. If the Detectors couldn't trace any energy signals, they could make no comparisons. No comparisons meant no confirmations; the specific aura of an energy signal was unique to the type of power it generated. Without any readings, the Elites were left in the dark. But that wasn't the only reason the Elites were unnerved by this information. It was also because, for many of them, it was familiar.

"Every serial killer has a signature," Maryse continued. "The throat is theirs." She sighed and ran a hand over her face. "Some of you have already guessed. All the evidence points to it." She swallowed. "The Beast is back."

Utter silence.

His mother clapped her hands together. "Now. Let's start with the suspects. Number one: the Kestrel."

The grandfather's clock chimed midnight.

Chapter Text

January 1st, 2001

The girl was late.

Sheets of rain fell heavily from the clouds in icy curtains, the sky curling with tendrils of black and grey. Thunder yawned over the horizon, rumbling beneath her feet. Her new white sneakers squelched with puddle water. The sidewalks were flooded rivers of people, an army of umbrellas bustling across the roads. Headlights shone over thick clusters of plastic raincoats, and neon shop signs were a blur of bright colour through her rain-splattered glasses, puddles reflecting back their fluorescent glow. Car horns jeered, desperate to be heard, through the storm.

She hurried onwards, past the cafe she often sat in during free periods, where New Year’s sale shoppers desperate for shelter packed themselves tightly into leather armchairs. Water crept in cold, splintering droplets down the back of her neck, plastering her fringe to her forehead and her clothes to her skin. She checked the time on her watch, rubbing at the misted face with her sleeve: ten minutes late. She'd have to take a shortcut.

As she swerved right down an alleyway, the girl was hit by a sudden shock of quiet. The air stilled. The rain ceased. It was as if the world had stopped moving, as if she'd stepped into a dimension settled in between seconds, an endless, timeless stetch of nothing.

She started forwards. Behind her, the shadows thickened into a cavernous black.

One step. Her feet made no sound as she picked her way over the concrete, littered with discarded take-out containers and cans of soda.

Another. Tattered plastic bags rustled and danced in the silent breeze. At the end of the alleyway, a streetlamp blinked uncertainly beside an empty street.

A sudden rush of wind sent the girl's bag swinging. The flap flung itself open. A flurry of paper slipped into the air like a bird's feathers, a flock of doves flitting over a canopy of darkly-thistled trees. "Sugar," she muttered, crouching down to gather the pieces, her perfect essay now streaked with dirt. She ran a frustrated hand through her hair and didn't stop to realise it was dry.

Just as she stood up, brushing gravel from the knees of her jeans, the streetlamp flickered out. The alleyway plunged itself into darkness, the mouth of a giant swallowing her whole.

She stilled.

Two eyes, ochre and luminous, glowed in the dark, like a pair of fireflies hovering over a moonlit pond in the depths of night.

***

Later, the rain that never really stopped resumed, washing the blood into the gutter, far, far away, until there was nothing left for the girl's body to give.

***

“2 days later another body was found two blocks away from the first.” Maryse read from a heavy binder as the assembly stood in silence. “A rogue. The Magpie, unmasked as Asmodeus Betram, a UC who’d managed to successfully rob 38 banks across New York without detection. His powers revolved around illusion.” She cleared her throat. “His energy signal matched what had already been found smothering the girl’s body.”

“It was him, then,” someone spoke from the outskirts of the room.

“So it was assumed. An Elite task force was deployed to investigate the murder of the Magpie, but nothing ever came of it. The murders continued. Each time, the victim’s body would be found, and the culprit’s almost immediately after. There was never any sign of anyone else being involved. Then, after 11 mundane bodies had been discovered, 22 dead overall, everything stopped. The last body was found on the 12th of December."

***

Lucian Graymark sat in the corner of the room, watching the clock tick. The house groaned, shutters creaking, drapes fluttering gently in the chilling breeze like kites. The table lamp flickered. Frost crept up the window panes.

A figure burst through the door, a shock of blonde hair and eyes like coal stark against the grey walls of the room. “You’re late,” Lucian remarked. “Where were you?”

“Out.” The man replied, his breaths bringing clouds of steam into the air. He shouldered off his scarf and coat and draped them carefully over the back of his chair.

“Out?” Lucian narrowed his eyes.

His companion dropped into the chair opposite him with a heavy sigh. “It’s been a long night, Lucian. Give it a rest.” He ran a hand through his hair, strands the perfect white of freshly fallen snow. “You got any beer?”

“Sure.” Luke said, walking over to the fridge. “Cobra alright?”

“Thanks, man.”

"No problem. Hey, did you hear? There was another murder a few nights ago. The Beast.”

“That so?” Out of the corner of his eye, Luke saw the other man’s shoulders tense.

He hummed. “Crazy, right?”

“Yeah.”

A few blocks away, the sirens began to wail.

“So,” Luke said as he returned to the table and poured two pints of beer. “Want to tell me why there’s blood on your face?”

***

The pieces in Alec’s mind began to slot together. “But it’s happening again,” he muttered to himself.

“Yes, Warden. It’s happening again.”

***

“That doesn’t explain why the Kestrel is a suspect," Alec said as he leant against the table.

Maryse watched him. “There have so far been 5 break-ins. The bank. The university. Two offices and a hospital. In every single one, the body of the rogue super was found almost immediately after the event, matching signatures and all. Except The Forum. The one time the Kestrel showed himself.”

“He helped us, Maryse."

“UCs do not help us, Warden. They only help themselves.” The Leech's tone was bitter. Alec wondered if her bitterness was simply prejudice or from experience.

He scoffed. “He put twenty rogues in handcuffs—”

“Perhaps your father was right, Alec. This business with the Kestrel is only helping you to confuse your priorities.”

A pregnant silence. Alec ground his teeth. "I was at The Forum that night because of a tip. I heard that there’d been talk of a break-in," the Kestrel had said. So far, Alec had kept it to himself. But it was a valuable piece of information, one that would help the investigation immensely, and Maryse’s eyes were goading, dancing with the question of a challenge.

Alec shifted his eyes. The city grew quieter as the clock ticked onwards. “M—"

“As I was saying,” Maryse continued, “at The Forum, two bodies were found. One on the staircase, and one in an alleyway less than five minutes away from it. The results of the autopsy and an examination of the building suggested that the mundane was thrown through the glass, most likely by a super.”

“We have another suspect, then?” Jace interjected.

Maryse shook her head. “No. There were so many supers there that night that by the time the Detectors made it to the scene, the energy signatures were too tangled to differentiate between them. There was no lingering signature on the body.”

“The other body, though. There was a trail. It lead straight to the room where the fight took place," Aline said.

Izzy, who leant against the wall, one heel propped against her ankle, nodded. “And where a ginormous hole opened up one of the walls.”

“Like a trap."

She looked thoughtful for a moment. “When Jace and I entered the room, the rogues were already there. They did look like they were waiting." Izzy hummed, braiding a long strand of hair with her fingers. "And if they knew we were in the building, why else wouldn’t they have left? It wasn’t as if they had no escape route.”

“Have any of the rogues been questioned?” A short, stringy Elite known as the Piper drawled from the corner. His moustache trembled as he spoke.

Maryse coughed. “Not yet.”

The Piper sniffed. “Why?”

Maryse pursed her lips together. “Between the hospital break-in, the murders, and now the fact that my son has just been mauled by a wolf, I haven’t really had the time to authorise, or even think about authorising, any interrogations, Maurice.”

Alec stood up. “Send me. I’ll go.”

“Absolutely not.”

This time, Alec held her gaze, whilst the crowd held their breaths.

The Lightwoods were, of course, an incredibly esteemed family. Everyone knew of Robert Lightwood, the Elite ambassador of Mundane Relationships. Everyone knew Jace, feared him, the Clave’s angel, and Izzy, the deadly snake with a deadlier attitude.

But they feared Maryse more. If she couldn’t hurt you- if she couldn’t tear you apart with her powers, leeching the blood from your body drop by drop, forcing the light from the eyes with a clench of the fist or a flick of the palm- she’d hurt your reputation. Maryse was the New York Institute Head. Her powers could kill you, but her words could crack you open, a spear piercing through the ice of a frozen lake on a winter’s day.

And yet, Alec Lightwood was as mysterious to the Elites as the Warden was to the mundanes. Before an Elite-in-training was granted permission to patrol (whether they were part of an Elite bloodline or were accepted, like Simon, as a recruit) they were, of course, sworn to a very cult-like code of secrecy: the alter-egos of Elite comrades would forever remain unknown to outsiders of the Clave, including close relatives.

In turn, their own aliases would be protected, kept only in the darkest vaults of the Clave’s database (a colossal warehouse of papers documenting every Elite who had ever lived, tracing each bloodline, new and old, down to its oldest existing ancestors and the members alive today). An Elite unmasked was treason. An Elite behind an unmasking was the ultimate betrayal.

The Elites of New York were the only people in the world who had seen face beneath Alec’s mask. The truth beneath the hood- that the Warden, silent protector, and watcher, of the city- was, indeed, Alec Lightwood, the man known to many mundanes as the ruthless Times journalist.

And yet. And yet somehow, they knew nothing about him at all. And if there was one thing that scared people more than pain, or loss, or death, it was the unknown.

As Alec stared at his mother, a hot determination settled in his bones. He knew, at the back of his mind, that this was only a diversion. That doing this would dispel whatever concerns Maryse had about his loyalty after he’d hesitated to tell her about the Kestrel.

He didn’t blink. The hands on the clock clicked away like the song of crickets in a river’s brush. Feet shuffled nervously across the swept wooden floor.

Maryse looked away. “Very well,” she said, a small, disdainful crease beneath the corner of her lips. “You may go to the SCU on grounds for interrogation.” Brandishing a pen, she scrawled a note of approval onto a spare piece of paper, signing her alias’ name, The Leech, with a jagged sort of flourish, the ink bleeding through the page. She held it out to her son without looking him in the eye. Alec took it, folded it, and tucked it into his back pocket.

“I won’t be long.”

Maryse’s eyes cut to Alec. “Let us all hope that this time, the Warden will bring back information,” she said slowly. Alec bit his tongue. She checked her watch: 2am. “Those who are due for the graveyard shift, I want you out for another two hours. Minimum.” She closed her eyes. “Meeting adjourned. We resume at dawn.”

***

The SCU was louder at night.

This time, there were no guards to escort him down to the lower floors. The smell of rusted metal was heavy in the air, the whisper of traffic chattering in the distance. Alec pushed open the large iron door at the corner of the warehouse, adjusting the straps of his mask.

As soon as he stepped into the hallway, Alec was assaulted by a shock of noise. The floor seemed to buzz with energy. A swarm of shouts, crazed laughs, and the pounding of fists thrummed from below, drumming at his feet. Screams echoed through stone.

The elevator shone beckoningly at the end of the corridor, the lights flicking dimly from the ceiling, where cobwebs wove themselves across cracked chunks of plaster and brick. On the right, another corridor stretched into gloom. On the ground, a hastily painted splash of words was dashed over the concrete: Secretary’s Office. A small red arrow pointed Alec in the right direction.

The office was empty. The windowless walls were completely bare, covered in the same yellowing, crumbling plaster as the corridor. A mixture of mildew and coffee threatened Alec’s nostrils. Filing cabinets lined the outskirts of the room, and paper was piled high, and strangely neatly, across every surface. The only light came from a blinking computer screen atop a small desk in the corner.

“There’s nobody here,” Alec muttered. He suspected the guards on duty were down patrolling the corridors. From what he’d been told about the SCU, the guards were almost completely in the dark about who they were watching over. They knew when new rogues were brought in, but unless the rogues had already been unmasked, they were only identified by number. They wouldn’t be much help. Besides, Alec didn't particularly fancy bumping into a certain immortal whilst he was there.

Hesitating slightly, he crossed the room and lowered himself quietly into the chair, careful not to make too much sound, in case the secretary were to return. Thankfully, the computer was already logged into. He quickly found the Files icon and waited for it to load. Almost instantly, the screen lit up with its ‘documents’ page. On it, files were organised meticulously by year, dating back to the 1920s. Every document in each file displayed the super's alias, birth name, occupation, power, and reason for imprisonment.

Jackpot. If only the Clave made it as easy.

Alec clicked onto 2010 and entered June 13th into the search bar. A handful of documents appeared as a result. He clicked on the first, the rogue Victor Alberts, who didn't seem to have an alias.

The page came up empty.

He tried the next, an Adeline Woods. Empty.

Another. Empty. Another.

It was only as he scrolled down the results page that he noticed it. His fingers froze. His muscles tensed. His heart stopped painfully in his chest, an ice-cold hand squeezing it tight.

He stared at the names that titled each document. Names, not aliases.

Victor Alberts.
Adeline Woods.
Lana Renton.
Eric Roberts.
Nina Jones.
Tian Xiao.
Isaac Wallace.
Nathan Sands.
Eve Miller.

“Twenty super-powered beings were captured by the Kestrel on June 13th, 2010, at 11:14pm.” His mother had said.

Matthew Myers.
Oliver Bryant.
Rosalie Thorpe.
Gary Thomas.
Eden Stanleys.
Niamh Hughes.
Stanley Wells.
Tina Young.
Ellis Baker.
Rowan Palmer.
Nia Evans.

January 1st, 1991. An uprising shakes the city, a brand-new year opened with screams and fire and blood.

Alec struggled to breathe.

January 1st, 2001. The first body is found. Many more will follow.

The message was clear.

Valentine Morgenstern had returned.

Chapter Text

A figure slunk gracefully down the hallway, swathed in shadows and black silk. Shoes clacked quietly across the linoleum floors. The lights guttered frantically in their wake, as if in recognition, or welcome. The figure stopped as they approached the secretary's office, a rueful smile spreading over pale features as they realised the door had been left open.

The smile widened as they entered. On the floor, a hastily scribbled note lay crumpled beside the desk. Patrons of the New York City SCU, it read, On behalf of the Elites, an emissary has been elected to carry out the interrogation of the recently-detained rogues arrested on July 13th 2010 as we continue our fight for justice.

I hereby grant the Warden, commander of the Night Patrol Division, permission to go forth with this request.

Respectfully, the Leech, Head of the New York Institute, NYPD Associate.

The figure reached into their jacket, where burner phone sat old and neglected in one of the pockets. As the computer flashed and blinked, and the moon waned outside, a barbed smile stretched itself over painted lips, touches of light turning a flyaway lock of brown hair silver.

It was July 30^th. Valentine’s newest creations had been cooped up for too long, left to explore their newfound gifts whilst concealed in cells of iron and steel, where only the loudest of sounds could escape, and where miles below them, deeper and deeper into the ground, madmen plotted the revenge they would never exact, just like the daylight they could never again hope to see.

They had made a game of waiting. Now it was time to let them out. 

***

Alec wasted no time with a taxi and sprinted back to the Institute, hurtling over rooftops and scaling fire escapes with adrenaline-fuelled ease. By the time he slammed through the doors of the Institute and threw himself into his mother's office, he was breathing heavily. “Valentine’s back.” He rasped, watching as Maryse's head shot up with enough sharpness to pull a muscle.

"What?" She murmured in disbelief.

"Valentine's back," Alec repeated.

Maryse rose shakily from her chair and picked up the receiver on her desk. "Watchman," she spoke quietly into the phone, "call a meeting."

***

"And why wouldn't the secretary have noticed this before?" The Leech questioned, lips pursed, after Alec had recalled what he'd just seen. The meeting room was almost completely silent, the only sound the squeaking of boots against the floor as the Elites shuffled nervously on their feet.

"It was subtle. Even I didn't notice until I really looked."

"But they must have been entered in that order," an Elite in the corner drawled. "And none of this explains why all the documents were blank."

"A limit of information?"

Maryse shook her head. "It's all too much of a coincidence." She looked at a girl in the corner, one Alec recognised as a friend of Izzy's. "Emma, go to the SCU in place of the Warden. Find out whatever you can; who the rogues are, whether they were selected for the job as bait or if they've been given fake names. The name of the secretary. Anything." The blonde nodded tersely and left.

Then Maryse narrowed her eyes and raised her brows at her son. "Speak," she demanded.

He told them everything.

***

As the Kestrel strode up the cobbled steps of the DuMort, cracked and woven through with sprouts of grass and dying weeds, he wondered, not for the first time, what it had looked like years ago.

Interestingly, one of the first things he’d learned as an illusionist, of sorts, was his own knack for observation. Sometimes, Magnus was in no mood for kindness. Sometimes, he'd found, the best way to fight cruelty was to be equally cruel in return. He thought of that night barely weeks ago at The Forum, of the slightest tense of the Warden's jaw as he looked at the Angel, a whirl of feathers and metal. At the way he had angled himself towards his comrades, keeping up a constant net of arrows slicing through the air in their vicinity, sluicing through material and pinning unfortunate rogues to the floor by their ankles.

That day, The Kestrel had stopped the Warden from making another kill. And perhaps he'd thrown in a little vengeance, too- by the vulnerability he had seen just by a glance.

Now, as he was welcomed inside by a particularly solemn-looking UC, Magnus took in his surroundings. On the outside, the DuMort was a rather majestic-looking building, one of solid stone and spires flying like javelins into the sky. Only if you looked close enough would you see the ruptures in the mortar, the creepers that wound themselves into and out of cracks, the dusted, shattered windowpanes, and the yellowing curtains that flung themselves through them in the wind.

Inside, it was a different story. The hotel wore its centuries in the faded wallpaper, a waxy pale orange that might've once been the richest burgundy, in its 19th century chandeliers, swinging uncertainly in the wind, the candelabras empty and coated with thick cobwebs. In its very floorboards, which wailed so violently as Magnus stepped over them that he was afraid they'd snap beneath his feet. "What brings you here so late, Kestrel?" The UC, Elliot, asked. He wore an emerald green silk robe, bowed neatly in the front, and his eyes, a deep brown, were hard as rocks. He looked over to an old clock in the corner, the rusted hands twitching along in their age. "Or, should I say, so early."

Magnus paced the room, tracing a hand over a painting on the wall. "I need help finding someone."

"Who?"

Magnus eyed a paisley green rug in disgust. "The Augur." Silence. Then Elliot laughed, a deep, halting bark. The Kestrel turned to look at him, his eyebrows raised. "Something funny?"

Elliot shook his head with a smile. "You think you'll find the Augur? Impossible. He shows only when he likes."

"Mm." Magnus mirrored his smile, walking towards the UC, who leaned heavily against a large wooden cabinet. He moved forwards, placing a hand on the wall to steady himself. He stared at Elliot with a relaxed grin. "That's what they say, but you found him, didn't you, darling?" He paused. "Is he close?"

Immediately, Elliot's smiled dropped. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Are you sure, sweet?"

"Yes," Elliot gritted. "I'm sure."

"Hm. Alright. I believe you." He stepped away, watching Elliot exhale. "Except, I'm curious." Magnus snatched up his wrist. "Why is your pulse racing?" Another silence. The only sound was Elliot's heavy breathing. "You say he shows only when he likes," Magnus spoke softly, "so what about now?"

The UC slumped against the wall. "Fine. Fine. You got me. I'm the Augur." He curled his lip, walking away from Magnus with his back adamantly turned. "What do you want?"

The Kestrel dug the necklace from his pocket. "I want you to find Catarina Loss," he said. "And then I'm going to bring her home."

***

Alec was met with silence, the kind that wasn't silent at all; the kind that buzzed, shouts and jeers on the tips of tongues, a quiet of taut shoulders and rigid tension that could break at any moment. The Leech stood at the head of the table, and the assembly had gathered thickly around her. After a while, she spoke. "I suppose my first question is why these matters weren't brought to my attention before. If there is a teleporter in our midst, Warden, I would've liked to have known about it." Mutters from the crowd. When Alec didn't immediately answer, Maryse continued. "Do you know the difference between a teleporter and a getaway driver, Alexander?" Her eyes were fixed downwards as she traced a finger over the wooden notches in the table. "One always gets away. One doesn't." She looked up, unblinking, and stared her son in the face. "They're both cowards, of course."

Anger, sweeping hot and fast through his lungs, gripping his throat. He swallowed. If he was honest, he didn't know, exactly, why he hadn't told anyone about his progress with the Kestrel. He had shared valuable information, information which could quicken the pace of the investigation indefinitely. And yet, something had stopped him. Perhaps it was the fact that he was a UC, and anything Alec told the Clave was an affirmation of the fact that they were fighting on opposite sides of a centuries-long war. Or perhaps it was the teasing, the nicknames he'd slowly gotten used to over the weeks. Maybe it was the smiles exchanged over the sunrise, or the precise ochre-topaz glitter of his eyes, or the shine of glossy feathers tufting from a finely crafted mask in each and every light that flickered upon him.

But what did it matter? It was a temporary alliance, after all.

Alec squared his shoulders, rising to his full height, and looked his mother full in the eye. "As you said, Maryse. It's been a busy few weeks." The crowd regarded him with suspicion, eyes narrowed, lips stretched thin. Internally, Alec scoffed. Let them suspect, he thought. It's nothing new. Maryse held his gaze for a moment, then looked away.

"We need a plan," she said, her voice projecting sharply across the room. "Warden, you are excused from patrol duty. I want you focused on your newly-found allegiance." Alec nodded. He'd expected that. "Finding out who tipped the Kestrel the night of The Forum's break-in is your first objective. Any new or additional information must be reported on entry to the Institute to either the Watchman or myself." She sniffed. "I take it he's been using his powers to conceal your... endeavours."

She turned to Jace, who leant against the large fireplace, spinning a knife through his fingers. Izzy stood firmly beside him. "Along with the Warden, I'd like you both to look into the matter of the sewers. Find out how, and if, they're connected to the warehouse your brother has so responsibly reported collapsed." She looked at Simon, who fidgeted with his hands. "Take your friend with you. We need all hands on deck. Congratulations, Lewis, you're an Elite." Simon looked like he was about to faint. Jace grinned.

Maryse clapped her hands. "Detectors, I want you at each and every crime scene in the last 6 months. Now that we know it's the Beast, and that Valentine is back, we know what we're looking for. Consult the archives for recollections of the types of energy signals found at the scene 9 years ago." The Detectors, Zachariah among them, nodded. "Good." She turned to face two boys, huddled discretely in the corner of the room, chatting quietly in murmured conversation. "Kit," she said. "Ty. Manuscripts. I want you to look into sacrifices and rituals. See what you can find that bares any relation to recent events." The two boys nodded, and darted, heads bowed closely together, from the room. At only 17 years old, both Elites had been proven invaluable over the years, their powers making the two an unstoppable pair of detectives, matched only by Sherlock Holmes and Watson.

"As for the rest of you, I want patrol squadrons out around the clock. Organise your shifts between yourselves and report back to me." Maryse sighed, placing the back of her hand over her forehead wearily. "Protect the city. Protect the people. Protect the Cla-"

Emma burst into the room with a frantic skid of her feet across the mahogany floor. "The rogues," she panted, voice hoarse, "they're gone." A sputtering of coughs. "And so is the secretary."

***

The two supers met, as had become routine, in the dark.

"Fancy seeing you here, darling." The Kestrel smirked from his perch on the corner of the roof. He was particularly vibrant tonight, nails painted a flashing gold, sequined trousers glittering like a disco ball. As he curled a lock of thick, dark hair around his finger, it occurred to Alec for the first time that he was possibly the only Elite to see him like this, armoured with feathers and eyeshadow and leather as he was; authentic in himself, no illusions, features distorted only by the mask pressed across his eyes.

Alec looked away, settling himself against the railing, eyes fixed on the city skyline as lights winked on and off inside offices and apartments alike. "Valentine's back." He said it quietly, tentatively, afraid to say it out loud, yet more afraid not to.

The Kestrel's head snapped towards him. His eyes burned. "What did you say?" He asked, voice barely a whisper.

"You heard me."

The Kestrel stared. "Explain."

Alec did. When he was finished, the Kestrel stared quietly at his hands for a moment, twisting the bands of invisible rings around gloved fingers. "It makes sense," he murmured, then turned to look at Alec. "I went to see the Augur."

"You know who he is?"

The UC shook his head, smiling faintly. "No. But I had my suspicions. And as usual, I was right." He fished the necklace from his pocket. The pendant swung in the breeze, silver shining like a star. "The last person to touch this necklace was not Catarina. Do you know how the Augur described them?"

Alec shook his head.

"Hair like ice. Eyes like black gemstones. A cravat covering the bottom of his face." The Kestrel sighed. "I should have guessed."

"Valentine Morgenstern."

"Indeed."

A silence. "You know I'll have to take the necklace, right?" Alec asked. The Kestrel snatched it back from where he'd been admiring the pendant in the light, shoving it hastily into his coat pocket.

"Why?"

"It's evidence." Alec sighed. "Listen, I know you hate us-"

"And for good reason."

"-But believe it or not, we want to stop Valentine just as much as you do."

The look the Kestrel sent him was scathing, yet somehow sad. He sighed. "You Elites. So self-righteous." He dropped gracefully down from his perch and stalked towards Alec, his footsteps silent, stopping barely inches away. He reached a gloved hand to Alec's chin.

Alec inhaled. The world around him went silent, orange and blue light from billboards smudging into blurred smears of colour. The stars sputtered blearily above them. All of a sudden, he was aware of far too much- the sharp yellow-green of the Kestrel's irises, the sequins flaring like diamonds in the corners of his eyes, the crescents in the corners of his lips as they grinned lazily down at him. The gentle touch of soft leather against his own skin.

"So... angelic," he purred, smiling wider as Alec's eyes widened.

"Listen, I need to ask you-"

"Tell me, sugar. Do you know the difference between an Elite and a UC?" The Kestrel asked.

Alec swallowed. "One is registered, and the other isn't."

"True, true." The Kestrel brushed an escaped lock of soft dark hair from the Warden's eyes. "But there are more differences than one." He hummed. "Do you know the second?" When Alec didn't answer, the Kestrel laughed. "No, of course not. That's alright, pumpkin, I'll tell you." He turned away to face the city. "One is predator." The Kestrel paused. "The other is prey. Of course, the prey is often a predator itself. It has to kill, sometimes, to survive. But not always. What men like Valentine Morgenstern neglect to see are those at the bottom of the barrel, those left to feed on scraps." He looked back at Alec. "No matter how many others they kill, prey is always prey. They will never reach the top. They will always be hunted. UCs are a constant source of energy to you Elites, an ever-replenishing river of power just waiting to be drained. You will do well not to forget it."

He stepped forwards again, with that strange, loping glide, and smiled a strange, melancholy smile. "Rest well, little angel. I suppose I'll be seeing you tomorrow."

The Kestrel was gone before Alec could reply, the colour of his eyes pressed into his mind like lanterns in the dark. Suddenly, as the city around him bled back into sharpness, and its sounds returned to his ears, the Warden realised why he'd been so hesitant to divulge anything of the weeks he'd so far spent with the Kestrel. Theirs was a little piece of the world that was private, hidden from the eyes of the Watchman, hidden from the city. A place the Kestrel could silence with the swipe of his hand, make their own with a morsel of his power. And despite the knowledge, lodged deep into the back of his mind like an anchor to seabed, that anything that was said would have to be reported back to the Institute later, and despite the heavy beating of his heart as it hurtled itself against his ribs, despite the slight shake of his hands as he pulled the hood tighter around his face, despite the summer chill that became him whenever the Kestrel left, Alec was at peace.

When the Warden was with the Kestrel, strange as it was, he thought of little else.

Chapter Text

The days began to pass quickly and quietly, despite the slowing sets and quickening rises of the sun.

The initial panic after the declared return of Valentine Morgenstern had dissipated; the Elites worked with resolve, Detectors out until dusk searching for lingering trails of energy, for lurking tendrils of it hanging over even the darkest places of the city, like hunters looking for tracks in the forest. Patrol units were always close behind. The Manuscripts, a slightly bewildered Kit and Ty, could often be seen huddled over a vast array of books and scrolls spread out across a secluded table in a corner of the library, the odd flicker of candlelight illuminating their conspiring faces. A calm had settled over the institute, precarious, like the thin, fresh layer of morning frost in winter before it was melted away in the sun, or crushed into the dirt beneath someone's feet.

Alec was glad for it. He found he was happy to be able to put a face behind the murders, the puppet behind the kidnappings, to hang a target in his sights. It made walking into the institute after meeting the Kestrel, as they had been doing nightly for the past two weeks, possible. It made betraying him, utterly and completely, this man he was coming to know, manageable.

It just didn't make it easy.

Work, though busy as ever- the Raphael article was due to be published very soon- seemed to drag sluggishly onwards, hot and stifling as the year tipped into July, the air suddenly sweltering. To Alec's surprise, his only relief were the brief 1-hour daily slots he'd been allotted to work with Magnus on the article. Something about the man, vexing as he was, made time flit forwards so quickly Alec suspected someone had tampered with the clocks without him noticing, the air electric. Maybe it was the exhaustion of having to come up with quick-witted retorts to whatever came out of Magnus' mouth that kept Alec from falling asleep, or even the distraction of the smiles that had begun to form unwillingly on Alec's lips more and more often, leaving him to ponder, afterwards, why his cheeks ached from grinning.

Maybe it was the glitter. As Magnus said himself, glitter made everything infinitely more exciting.

Today, Magnus was laden in it: his eyelids speckled in gold, hair shimmering with sequins, fingers thick with sparkling gemstone rings, shining silver necklaces dripping heavily from his neck. Magnus, it seemed, was not one to under-accessorize. Across the desk, he sprawled comfortably in his chair like a lion in the sun. "Alexander, darling. I know I must look absolutely exquisite this fine summer morning," he drawled, without looking up from the report he held in his jewelled hands. "Or simply every morning." He grinned, that disarming smile that Alec knew had people equally entranced in its beauty and jarred by its wild spontaneity. "But the act of staring is not quite the same as asking me to dinner, sweet." In one sudden movement Magnus had set the paper neatly on the table, leant forwards on his elbows, and was now staring at Alec with focused intent. A coy smile crept over his lips as he narrowed his eyes. "Surely, you must know that."

Alec blinked, still fixed on the embarrassment that he'd been caught staring. "What?"

Magnus cocked his head. "Well, you must've had a fair share of being asked on dates, no?" His eyes twinkled. "And stares. I'm sure you've had a lot of those."

Alec looked back at his computer, rolling his eyes as he frowned. "Not really," he said simply, and didn't dare to look in Magnus' direction.

Silence.

Magnus sat back in his seat. "You can't possibly mean that you've never been on a date."

"That's what I said, isn't it?" Alec rubbed his face with his hands.

"The mysterious blue-eyed beauty Alexander Lightwood, the shadow of the New York Times, with his dashing looks and his brutal honesty, never been on a date? Darling-" Magnus threw his hands in the air as he paced the room- "this simply won't do!"

Alec grimaced. "What was I thinking, telling you that?" he muttered quietly, distracting himself from Magnus's pacing by scrolling through a document. The words smeared together on the page.

Magnus slammed his hands down on the desk. Alec jumped, and vaguely wondered why he hadn't heard his approach before Magnus started talking and all thoughts flew to the back of his mind. "Aurora," he said. "7 o'clock. Tonight. I'll text you the address."

Before Alec could even think of a response, the door opened and Clary rushed in, cheeks red as her hair. "Magnus, boss wants you."

"Doesn't everyone?" Magnus said with a grin, then, fluidly, swept his work from the desk with one hand and took the coat from the back of his chair with the other. Just as he was about to leave, he paused, then turned. "You're wrong, by the way. You get plenty of stares." He said quietly. The office was still for a moment as the two looked each-other. Then Magnus winked, face eased into a smile, swivelled on his heel, and continued, "See you later, darling!" He waved a ring-covered hand over his shoulder in goodbye. "Don't be late."

Then the door shut with a slam, echoing through the room with a likeness to the quick beating of Alec's pulse.

***

Simon and Clary sat cross-legged on the latter's couch, knees touching as they watched Tobey Maguire's Spiderman dodge a volley of bullets whilst he weaved effortlessly between shining buildings and skimmed the tops of lamp posts. It was one they'd watched many, many times together, but now that Simon was an Elite- a super- himself, now that he'd gone through over six months of painful drills and lectures on the importance of control and countless lessons on, for example, what to do in a gun fight-all he could see were mistakes. "You can't just dodge bullets like that," he muttered, sipping sprite through a straw. "It's unrealistic." His knee bounced up and down against the armrest.

"Simon," Clary sighed, "he's a superhero in a movie. Of course he can dodge bullets."

"I mean, if they were just, I don't know, pistols, or glocks, then I'd get it. But they literally have machine guns. Call it what you want, spidey-sense or whatever, but if that was real life he'd be fucked."

Clary stared at him. She'd been painting before he arrived, and her hair was pulled back into a messy knot on the top of her head. A few streaks of white and yellow paint decorated her cheek and a smear of green had made its way onto one of her sleeves. "Simon-"

"Really fucked."

"Simon."

The boy in question refused to look at her, fiddling with the paper straw. "Like, Gwen Stacy level fucked."

"Simon." Clary said loudly. Simon stopped. She looked at him, and Simon had to force himself to hold her gaze, where her green eyes were strikingly bright but equally soft, and so, so difficult to lie to. "What's wrong?" she asked, her voice gentle.

Simon almost laughed. Everything, he thought. Everything is wrong because I have powers and I don't know why. Everything is wrong because I'm an Elite. Everything is wrong because I'm an Elite and I'm supposed to be brave, and yet I can't look my best friend in the eye for more than five seconds.

Everything is wrong because I still flinch at the sound of a gunshot.

Instead he said, "Nothing. Nothing's wrong."

Clary stared at him for a second, then her eyes sharpened and she turned back to the TV. "Okay."

Simon closed his eyes. When he'd sworn the oath of secrecy at the beginning of his Elite training, he hadn't imagined it'd be so hard. He didn't like keeping secrets from Clary. Usually it was impossible- they'd known each other too long for secrets. But this was different; this was a jinx. Clary knew Simon was keeping something from her, but she didn't know what- and she wouldn't demand him to tell it, because that would mean she had to tell her secrets in return.

This was a stalemate, Simon knew. It was only a matter of who broke first.

A knock at the door. Three smart raps. Simon felt Clary tense beside him. "One second," she said, stiffly, and went to answer it. A series of mutterings. A laugh. The Elites had taught Simon how to control his powers, and not for the first time, it occurred to him how he might use them; he could amplify sound waves across a space or focus them into one particular item. What if that item was one of his ears? But the talking had already stopped, and two sets of footsteps made their way into the living room. Clary entered first, looking pointedly at the rug on the floor, followed closely by a tall, white-blonde figure with eyes like coals and a smile that could only be described as wicked.

"This is Simon," Clary mumbled at the ground.

Simon stared at her, then at the figure. "Hello," he said.

The figure extended a hand gloved in soft black leather, despite the fact that it was July. "It's nice to meet you, Simon. I'm Sebastian," he replied. His voice was cool, but had the unsettling calmness of a beast barely contained. "Sebastian Verlac."

***

Alec had been telling the truth when he said he'd never been on a date, and so he truly had no idea what to wear. In the end, he begrudgingly pulled on a pair of old, dark jeans from the corner of his wardrobe, and inspected his selection of identical sweaters until he found one which was sufficiently hole-less. After some deliberation, he even allowed himself a spritz of the cologne Isabelle had bought him for his birthday that year- unused, as it was strictly forbidden for Elites to wear any kind of perfume when they had work out of risk of identification. And most Elites always has work.

As he set the bottle back down on his desk, Alec's eyes caught on the police radio lying discarded over a stack of papers. He'd almost forgotten it was there. It had been oddly quiet recently.

He checked the time on his watch. 6 o'clock. Magnus had been true to his word and texted him the address of the restaurant, regardless of the fact that he could've used Google maps, which was somewhere in Brooklyn. As the Warden, it would take him 30 minutes, between running and skipping traffic altogether by keeping to the tops of roofs, but as Alec, it would take longer. He laced up his boots, shrugged on a stiff leather jacket that had been hanging on the back of his bedroom door since the last time Maryse had summoned a family dinner, and slipped quietly into the hallway.

It wasn't dark yet, and through the huge windows, the lowering sun glowed a vibrant orange, illuminating silvery pieces of dust that stirred through the corridor. He trod softly, careful to step over the bits of floorboard he knew creaked. He didn't need anyone hearing him and wondering why he was leaving the institute in the evening without his weapons (he did, actually, have at least three knives tucked into the heels of his boots). He held his breath as he passed his sister's door. Nothing. He exhaled in relief.

Just as Alec made it into the entrance hall, padded quietly across the marble floor, and silently congratulated himself on his own stealth, Simon, in the way that he always did, popped up out of nowhere. "Alec!" He said loudly from the entrance way. Alec cringed. "Good to see you, man. Feels like I barely see you anymore. It's so busy, you know?" He smiled as he passed. "Good luck with your date, bro!" Then Simon skipped up the stairs- skipped- and was gone before Alec could utter a word.

Fuck, he thought as he stepped into the sun, and peered up at the sky in frustration. Is it really that obvious?

***

"You're sure?" Sebastian perched on the arm of the sofa, twirling a knife as if it was a pencil in his hands.

Clary rolled her eyes at him from the corner of the room, where she sat in one of her armchairs and fiddled with her phone. "Yes, Sebastian. I'm sure. All the wards over New York were created years ago. They're stable. All the energy I released when I made them has dissipated. If he had left the city, I would know."

"Well, has he moved recently?"

Clary nodded, solemnly. "Yes. I can't tell which ward he's in. I had to make hundreds to cover the city. But he's definitely moved between them in the past few days. He's there. Somewhere."

"So what you're saying is that your tracking wards are completely useless."

"They'd probably be better if I hadn't made them when I was ten years old." Clary sniffed. "And don't you dare tell me to remake them. The Elites are suspicious enough after his stunt with the SCU without their Detectors noticing huge spouts of energy being released into the city."

Sebastian smiled. "And, the wolf?"

Clary looked away. "The wards over the area he... appeared in are stable. They absorb energy signals. I won't risk taking them down until the Elites lose interest. As for the wolf... still here."

Her brother hummed. "A shame." He'd pulled out another knife now, and spun them both around his fingers distractedly. "Say, Clary," he started, his voice overly curious, "why didn't you tell me your friend has superpowers?"

***

By the time Alec arrived, the sun had fizzled out behind the clouds, plunging the street into darkness. Aurora, the restaurant, emitted a warm and inviting glow from the windows, and as he stepped from the thick, humid night into the entryway, a refreshing gust of air conditioner floated past his face. "I... believe there's a reservation for seven o'clock under Magnus Bane?" He asked the server, hesitating slightly. She nodded with a smile and guided him through the restaurant, where the ceilings were hung with creeping ivy and strung with twinkling lights. He didn't even have time to regret his decision in showing up before the waitress had deposited him at a table in the corner of the room and the ceiling lights bore down on him in fuzzy shades of yellow and Magnus was staring smugly up at him with behind a large glass of wine, long fingers curled nimbly around the flute. "Hello, darling." He drawled. "Care to join me?"

Alec blinked, then sat. Magnus pushed another wine glass towards him, but Alec made no move to drink it. Contrary to popular belief, angels hated wine. Why did I agree to this? He thought, followed by, Oh, wait. I didn't. Magnus was already talking, something about the wine he'd ordered for them, but Alec was only half listening. This was a mistake, he said to himself. This was a mistake and I should go before it gets any worse. He didn't know why he was nervous, exactly- only that he was. Perhaps it was that he'd never been on date. Yes. That was it. Most definitely. He forced himself back into the present, gripping the armrests of the chair with his hands, where Magnus was still talking. He hadn't seemed to have noticed that Alec had barely been listening to a word he said, and if he had, he didn't show it. "My cat, Chairman Meow, doesn't approve of my taste in alcohol," he was saying with a roll of the eyes, "I think he's a hard liquor kind of guy. Whiskey and all that. Me, I like my spirits."

At that, Alec had to laugh. "Chairman Meow?"

"Yes. He's a pretentious hipster, that one." Alec didn't fail to notice how Magnus's eyes had brightened, though he couldn't fathom why. Maybe he just enjoyed talking about his cat.

"When did you get him?" As they found the easy flow of conversation they'd grown accustomed to over the last few weeks, and they ordered, and they ate, Alec began to relax. His shoulders, which had at first been pulled up to his ears, dropped. His iron grip on the armrests of the chair loosened. And little by little, his confidence built.

"So, how did you even get my phone number?" He asked later.

Magnus gave him a coy smile. "I have... connections, dumpling." He winked.

"Was it Clary?"

"Yes." Alec smiled, and Magnus sipped his wine. "Boss called me earlier to confirm the article's release date."

Alec tensed. "When?"

A pause. "Tomorrow."

Anxiety clawed at Alec's chest, at his throat. "Listen, I need to talk to you about that." He hesitated. "When the article is published, I don't want my name on it."

A moment of silence. "Why?" Magnus asked, his voice soft. Alec said nothing, risking a brief glance at his hand. The skin had healed, but the cut had been deep, leaving a thick white scar curling up his wrist and towards the centre of his palm. Magnus surprised him by gripping the hand in his. For a second Alec completely forgot about the scar, and how it came to be there, and thought only of the softness of Magnus' skin, the coolness of his silver rings against the base of his wrist. "I... I don't.." I'm not good with words, Alec thought, and even if I was, what reason could I give you other than my own fear?

But Magnus just squeezed his hand, and Alec looked up, and there he was, with eyes so brown and beautiful and all of a sudden so gentle, so unlike the sharpness that came with his usual teasing, that something deep inside Alec's chest twisted. Magnus had always carried himself with such confidence, such an air of invincibility, so ready to brush everything off with a laugh or a blunt retort or a wave of a jewelled hand, that when you looked at him and saw something so genuine, it was like watching a butterfly open its wings. "It's alright, Alexander. You don't have to explain yourself to me."

Alec turned his gaze back to the table. His hand trembled beneath Magnus' grip.

"Alexander. Darling, look at me." Another hand reached over the table, long fingers tilting his chin upwards. The gesture was strangely familiar. "It's alright." As Magnus said it, his voice velvet smooth, Alec thought over the tentative alliance they'd built over the course of recent weeks, how the detestful glares and the scathing remarks and the fights over coffee during breaktimes had dwindled, softened into laughs, teasing, and offers to get the other's coffee because they knew how they liked it (Alec's black with no sugar, Magnus's with six spoons of sugar and a fair amount of milk). 

Alec smiled, and as waitress came over to serve them the bill, asked, "So, you're paying, right?"

His companion only laughed, and dug around for his wallet, and so began the complicated friendship of Alec Lightwood and Magnus Bane, and a match had been struck, bright and smouldering, a pinprick of flame in a forest of fallen trees.

***

Alec watched Magnus go, swallowed by the mob of people spilling into and out of restaurants, of cafes and hair salons and alleyways, just catching the last flash of his glittery hair before he disappeared.

He had just turned in the opposite direction, a smile still etched across his face, when the shop window exploded.

Chapter Text

The Warden knew bombs.

Like most things, the Elites had drilled their young regularly on weaponry. Knives, bows, guns, grenades- anything that was possible for the rogues to get their hands on, they knew. They knew well. And so it was with years of experience, of being taught how to disassemble mines and the best way to protect yourself on impact and what to do during a fire hazard and even how to create a bomb yourself that Alec watched the shop, a neglected off license, erupt in a fountain of dark smoke and lightning blue flames. And he had never seen anything like it before.

Even across the road, the heat was so searing it seemed to hiss through the air, so palpable that Alec suspected if he reached his hand out towards the flames, he'd feel the air around them smother his fingers in crackling daggers of searing pain. The smoke was a creature in itself, a heaving mass of suffocating pitch black fumes. The street was plunged into darkness. Choked screams echoed around him, and distantly, Alec thought he heard a familiar voice telling people the police were on their way. He swallowed. The smoke was an uncomfortable pressure at his nose and ears, and stung bitterly at his throat, but he could breathe. He muttered an unenthusiastic thanks to the angel before making his way towards the building. Then stopped.

He didn't have his mask. Nor did he have his bow. 

We both know you can deal more than enough damage with a handful of knives in your shoes, Alec, Raziel said inside his head. It was always a shock when the voice game, resonating inside his mind and his chest as if he'd held a set of amps to his ears.

It's not just that, Alec replied. If I don't have my mask, I risk identification. The world around him blurred, the pressure on his ears dampening the clarity of the sound around him. The acrid smell of sulfur burned his nostrils. His only semi-reliable sense was his sight. Through the smoke, a dim blue flickering glow emanated from the building. As he stood tensely in the haze, surrounded by silhouettes of panicking mundanes, some calling 911, others crowding into shops away from the smoke, he briefly wondered where the police cars and ambulances were, and why there were no tell-tale songs of sirens rolling through the chaos. Hopefully the Elites had been alerted of the explosion.

They're mundanes. Other than the fact that the smoke is most likely making them all completely blind, they're probably too concerned with staying alive to pay very close attention to your facial features at this point. I assure you, it's unlikely that you'll make The Sun's front page article any time soon. Don't look too upset, Alec. You can dream. Alec thought he could hear a trace of humour in Raziel's voice. He looked around. Colours merged together, lights from neon signs blots of pink and purple in the darkness. Shadows of people and buildings blurred into one squalling mass of black through the blanket of smoke. Alec teetered hesitantly on the balls of his feet. He knew Raziel was right, that there was low risk of any mundane he encountered seeing his face clearly enough to identify him later, that the longer he waited, deliberating, the more the flames would spread, the more time the assumed rogue would have for their escape, and, incidentally, the more bodies that would be left in their wake.

And so, with a sigh of frustration, the Warden headed towards the flames, with no mask, no hood, and no bow to protect him.

***

Whilst his children and his minions wreaked havoc on his city, Valentine Morgenstern went to speak with the wolf. They were in the room again, where the lights were too bright and it was constantly cold. The only colour was from the smears of old, brown blood staining the floor, dripping in caked rust-coloured lines from the wolf's temple, from his ribs, hardening the cotton of his clothes. Still he glared at Valentine in contempt. "You haven't changed a bit," he sneered.

Valentine only smiled. "You're right. I'm still handsome as ever." He circled the bleeding man with the grace of a predator. "You know, I would have thought you'd be grateful."

"I almost killed that Elite, Valentine. I was seconds away. And you forced me to try. Why in the world would I be grateful?"

"Well, it gives you a break from that little group of yours, does it not?"

Luke gritted his teeth. "Why did you do it?"

Valentine was silent for a moment. "Because that Elite you almost killed was the Warden. And I want his power."

***

As he manoeuvered himself through the blown-out window of the shop, boots crunching quietly over glowing blue shards of glass, the smoke thickened, black and viscous. This close to the flames, it poured through the air with the thickness of tar, bitterness congealing in the back of his throat like a fist. His eyes began to sting. His side caught on a dagger of glass still protruding from its frame, still searing hot from the explosion. It sliced at his ribs, opening his skin like a knife through butter. "Fuck," Alec hissed. "What kind of bomb does this?"

A strangled yell from further into the shop. Alec's head snapped towards it. As he crept forwards, careful to avoid the blackened remains of candy wrappers and empty bottles, the alcohol burned out of them, he kept his eyes fixed on the back of the shop. Small sprites of blue flame flitted around him, a newspaper clipping smouldering on the floor here, the charred skeleton of a coke can there, dying blue embers flickering desperately in the dark. It reminded Alec of Magnus' hair, the cobalt and silver sequins winking at him in the restaurant's candle light earlier. He brushed the thought away.

Up ahead, the flames were bigger, raging viciously in an almost ghostly cerise bonfire. Alec stepped closer. Closer still. Where his face had been sweating from the flames' warmth sweltered. His eyes blurred with needling tears as the smoke grew so thick, Alec could imagine tendrils of it reaching out and grabbing him. He could just make out a crater-sized hole in a wall that must have separated the two halves of the shop. Burnt frames of storage shelves lined the walls. The flames, spread across every surface, towered each a metre high. To the right of the room was another door, flung open on melting hinges. Through it, the distant noise of traffic filtered into the shop, only just hearable over the fire's roar.

Whoever had screamed was through that door. Alec knew it. And perhaps the only way to get there was through a room of alien blue flames. He took a knife from his boot, gripped the handle steadily. Angel, he said in his mind, give me five minutes.

There was no hesitation. Granted, Raziel replied, his voice a whisper, a flicker of wings deep in Alec's chest. Immediately, the burning in his throat eased, the tears in his eyes dissolving into nothing. He felt his skin tighten around his bones, harden until it was solid as marble. Then he inhaled, slowly, and walked into the fire.

***

"Not even you can command the dead, Valentine."

Valentine waved a hand in dismissal. "Oh, I never would have let you actually kill him."

Lucian looked at him through blood shot eyes. "Then why?"

"Seeing as you're so very important to me, Lucian, it just so happens that I've got you here for a number of reasons. The first was to have the Elite merely incapacitated, so that my dear friend the Bolt could come to... collect him. Their powers have been very useful recently, very useful indeed. But everyone has their limitations. It just so happens that my lovely teleporter cannot transport people who have no idea where they're going. Something about intention." Valentine shrugged. "Anyway, the Bolt needs the person unconscious."

"And you decided the best way to knock this Elite unconscious was to unleash on him a rabid beast," Luke replied, unconvinced.

Valentine grinned. "Blood loss usually does the trick, yes."

Luke narrowed his eyes. Nothing here added up. If the teleporter needed the Elite unconscious, couldn't they have done it themselves? "And what's the second reason I'm here?"

There was a hesitation, a short moment of silence. "All in due time," Valentine said. The silence resumed.

You're not telling me something."

The blonde man sighed, smile dropping as quickly as it appeared. "You never did let me have my secrets, did you, Lucian?" Luke just stared. Valentine rolled his eyes. "Very well. I can't tell you the second reason you're here yet, my dear friend, but I confess I did make a mistake."

Luke laughed, an empty, brittle sound. There was no amusement in his eyes. "Valentine Morgenstern, making a mistake? Surely not," he muttered. His head hammered painfully at his skull from dehydration and his eyelids strained to stay open. The knife wounds hadn't bothered the wolf, but they bothered the human. With nothing to attend to them, little food, and little water, the blood that had wepy from his wounds had congealed, stiffening and pulling at the skin around them, as if they'd been tacked together with a staple gun. They made no sign of beginning to heal.

"After I commanded you to turn, I gave you a target."

"The Warden."

Valentine smiled, amused. "No. Do you know what I said? I said, "Kill the Angel." Do you know of him?"

"The Warden's partner. The flashy one. With wings. Always in the papers for accidentally using buildings as shortcuts. Cudgelled me in the head a few weeks ago." The memory was blurred by that animal, blood obsessed stupor that always came with one of Luke's transformations, even after 10 years without touching his power once. The anger most would feel at being bested by a supposed enemy had long since dissipated. 20 years later, Luke found he couldn't hate the Elites, no matter how deeply he had resented them at first. They'd all been raised in the same way, after all. For some, like Luke, prejudice was something that, with experience, they'd learned to discard. For others, like Valentine, it had burrowed, buried deep inside their minds, like an anchor at the very bottom of the ocean, holding them forever in place.

Luke had been lucky to meet the people that he did. Valentine hadn't.

"Indeed. Very reckless. Very powerful. Too powerful. And at the Warden's side more often than not, like a sore thumb. I needed him gone."

"Then why did I go for the Warden instead?"

"Because apparently wolves take everything literally."

It took a moment for Luke to understand. He blamed it on the headache. Squinting up at Valentine, he frowned. "You don't mean..."

"Yes, Lucian. The Warden has an angel rooted inside his soul, and I intend to drag it out."

A chill swept through the room, burrowing deep into Luke's weary bones, and filled his chest with dread.

***

Alec was disappointed when the fire didn't part in his wake.

Instead, when it touched him, all he felt was a pressure at his skin, like an invisible force field beneath his palms. No pain. He couldn't even feel any warmth. As he reached the door, the breeze that swept over his face felt cool. He stepped outside. In the shadows, he noticed the faint silver glow emanating from his skin, trailing his movements like the light from a sparkler. A small side effect of being flooded with so much power all at once. Alec looked around. As he has anticipated, the door had opened to an alleyway, heavy with smoke and shadow. To the right of him, a tall metal fence divided the alley and the street beyond it. He could still hear people's frantic cries, calling out to each other through the smoke. Alec hoped it was the Kestrel that he'd heard earlier.

There were still no police sirens.

A laugh, high and gleeful, sliced through the air behind him. Alec turned. Immediately, he knew it was the teleporter- the smoke was so thick here it might as well have been solid, but his eyes were sharper now. He could still make out the cloaked, hooded figure, the way they stood so casually, mockingly, as they leaned comfortably against the wall. He froze. Alec was suddenly hit by the possibility that this could be Valentine Morgenstern- they'd dropped Catarina's necklace, after all. But then the figure turned its head. "Sorry. It's not every day you meet someone who glows." And the voice was undeniably a woman's, sharp and cutting, each word pronounced carefully. Alec risked a glance down at his skin. The glow, as the teleporter had called it, was still there- but dimming, and dimming fast. 

She pushed herself off the wall and stepped toward him. "Who are you, then, darling? I can't see you through the smoke."

Something about her calling him darling irked him enough to snap him out of his stupor. He curled his fingers around the knife in his pocket. The angel's strength was dwindling. Soon, he'd be back to normal. Fast, but not fast enough. Powerful, but not powerful enough. Not, at least, for a teleporter. And certainly not for the room of fire blocking his only escape. And this could be his only chance. This teleporter had bested him twice, but wouldn't let it happen again. "Really, sweetheart, I only want to-"

Alec threw. The knife shot through the air at the speed of a bullet. And if there was one thing he'd learned over the years, it was that nobody could dodge a bullet.

It embedded itself deep in the teleporter's side, and Alec just made out the words "fuck you", strangled and rasping, before she crumpled to the ground, and the angel's power ran out, throwing him into darkness.

***

After Valentine left, Luke was left to dwell alone in his cell. He thought back to that first week he'd been taken, when Valentine had waltzed in one night and told him that they needed to talk. What was it that he'd said? Luke's mind was the sea during a storm, chopping and churning, exhausted but frantic. Two enemies, working together to overcome evil, he'd laughed. We're going to raze this city, you and I.

Two enemies, working together.

Two enemies.

Raze this city, you and I.

Raze this city.

Raze this-

Luke slept.

Chapter Text

For a moment, everything was still. There was no movement in the dark, no light. The only sounds were screams.

Then Alec's eyes adjusted, and he inhaled. And choked. The smoke clawed at his throat, the wrenching hands of a demon blocking his airways, bitter and sharp, as if he'd swallowed ash. His eyes saw only pinpricks of blue light before blurring completely, and everything was a deadly swirl of black and grey and flame and tears, and Alec stumbled, colliding harshly with a rough brick wall. He winced. The deep cut at his side had begun to knit together at an alarming rate under the angel's influence, but now it re opened, blood gushing down his side. He grappled unsteadily at the wall. Just move forwards, he said to himself, just move forwards and you'll get out.

He shuffled forwards in stiff movements, his breathing strangled. One foot in front of the other. One step. His breaths came smaller and smaller, quicker and quicker. Two steps. Another. But his next step hit something, something soft under his boot yet also hard, and his last surprised intake of breath sent him into a fit of coughs, each one sending thunder rolling through his head, and knives through his wound, and hammers through his knees, desperate in-between breaths filling his lungs with smoke, and he lost his precarious grip on the wall, falling lifeless to the floor. He only just had time to hope the birds saw him before his mind clouded over with rolling plumes of smoke, and the screams cut out.

***

The Kestrel hadn't seen the explosion when it came, but he saw the smoke, and he heard the screams. In situations like these, Magnus found that there was little he could do to help. He couldn't lift cars over his head, couldn't levitate things with his mind, couldn't fly, like some could. He certainly wasn't flame resistant. But he'd planned to go straight from his date with Alexander to patrol, so he hid in a back alley, changed his shirt- his pants would have to stay as they were- and pulled out a midnight blue trench coat, shoving his old clothes in the rucksack and waving his hand so that it'd turn invisible. He'd come back for it later. Lastly, he pulled the mask out of his pocket, and slipped it onto his face. And instead, he dedicated himself to crowd control. He sifted through the smoke for parents' lost children, lost prams. Directed people to the nearest safe place, the nearest cafe or restaurant or bar that wasn't already bursting with people. Passed around water bottles, showed people how to douse the necks of their shirts to cover their faces, so that they didn't inhale a mouthful of smoke. 

But the burning building, just visible through the smoke, a vibrant blue smudge of flame, drew him in like a moth to the light. And as an hour passed and the streets cleared and the flames began to recede, the smoke started to lift, curling away into the night sky. As the Kestrel approached the shop, where the smog was still a haze in the air, he stopped. Shards of glass circled the blown-out frame of the shop's front window like the jagged teeth of a creature's mouth, edges charred and blackened. But in the light, Magnus could just make out the crimson splatter of blood dried brightly at the tip of an especially wicked-looking spike of glass, a snag of blue wool wound tightly around it, wisps fluttering in the stifling breeze. Blue wool. A blue sweater, with a hole in the neck, and threads unwinding at the sleeves. The person wearing it, with dark his messy hair and tentative smile and straight-forward remarks.

Alexander.

Suddenly Magnus was running, tearing over fallen drinks cans and swerving down aisles, barrelling across a blazing used-to-be storage room at the back, fast enough that he didn't even feel the warmth. The door shrieked on its melted hinges. As he whirled into the alleyway, where the only light battling the haze came from a single streetlamp standing alone at the very end, he halted. Scattered across the alley were three bodies. One of them, with long limbs and jeans and a mop of scruffy hair, was, unmistakeably, Alec.

Magnus' stomach dropped. Sure, they hadn't been friends long. They weren't exactly close. Half the time, they acted like they hated each-other. And Magnus was not exactly lacking in friends- in fact, he was loaded with them. But the truth about having so many friendships was that almost none of them were genuine. If you could truly say that you trusted so many people with your secrets, with your innermost feelings, doubts, fears, then you trusted too easily. And trust gained easily was not really trust at all.

But Magnus trusted Alec. So when he pressed his fingers to his throat and felt a pulse, he almost collapsed with relief. "Alec," he whispered, gently tapping his cheek with his palm. "Alexander, wake up." When that didn't work, he shook his shoulder. "Come on," he muttered. "Come on." Then blue eyes snapped open, and their cobalt colour was so similar to that of the flames dwindling inside, so crushing, that Magnus was momentarily frozen. A look of panic crossed Alec's features. Magnus came back to life. "It's alright. I'm the Kestrel. You're Alec, right?" Magnus pulled him into a sitting position, one arm wrapped cautiously around Alec's back. He nodded, panic turning abruptly to confusion. "How do you know that?"

Magnus swallowed. "Your friend was worried. Said he came back when he heard the explosion, but couldn't find you. Very handsome guy, spiky hair, lots of glitter... anyway, I said I'd look out for you. And here you are."

Alec hummed. "Here I am," he muttered, dazedly. He seemed to realise something in that moment, and his head snapped around, to where a woman lay sprawled across the concrete, head lulled against the wall, coppery brown hair framing her masked face. Her side ran heavy with blood. Alec relaxed. "Is that your friend?" Magnus asked.

"No," Alec murmured, "Not a friend."

Magnus looked at him questioningly for a moment. "Alec, what happened here?"

Alec sighed, and waved a hand in the air. "I... I heard someone yelling. So I entered the building."

The Kestrel raised his eyebrows. "You, a mundane, decided to enter a burning building, because you heard someone screaming."

"Yes?" Alec looked incredulous. Magnus stared. "Anyway," Alec continued, "I somehow managed to get out here-"

"Through a room full of fire? Blue fire?"

"You managed it, didn't you?" Alec coughed. "As I was saying, I made it out here. I couldn't see properly through the smoke, but there was this glow- an outlining of a person, almost. I heard a woman talking. Then the next thing I know, she stops. I go forwards to try and get closer, see what's happening, but the smoke was getting steadily thicker, and it was hard to breathe, and I ended up tripping over something. I must have hit my head." He nodded at the woman's body. "Apparently that something was her."

"And... the glow?"

Alec shrugged. "Disappeared."

The Kestrel looked more closely at the woman now, at the white paleness of her face, the sputter of her fragile breaths, the black hood that drooped across her shoulder, the dark cloak that swathed the rest of her body. His eyes widened in recognition.

The teleporter.

***

Alec shifted against the Kestrel's arm, a quiet wince escaping his lips. The Kestrel, who had been staring at the unconscious teleporter with an indecipherable look on his face, looked towards him abruptly. Behind his mask, his eyes widened in concern. "You're hurt," he said. "Where?"

Alec shook his head. "It's fine," he gritted through his teeth. "It's just my side. I'm fine."

"Well, if you're fine, then get up. Let's go." Silence. Alec made no effort to move. Using the angel had sapped his strength, and his limbs felt weighed down by invisible iron shackles. Black spots sent his vision tumbling in and out of darkness. Sounds were merely distant hums in his ears. He looked at the Kestrel. Should I be trusting him? He thought vaguely to himself as the UC stared at him. The Kestrel knows the Warden, but he doesn't know Alec. But then he thought of his desperation to find Catarina, a mundane nurse, and how he was out, every night, without fail, watching over the city with his luminous eyes. He relaxed against the UC's chest, and the worry flitted away like paper in the wind, and there was only the steady beat of the Kestrel's heart and the warmth of his arm around Alec's back. He sighed. "Come on. I'll carry you."

Alec looked at him sceptically. "Sure you're strong enough?"

The Kestrel scoffed. "These muscles aren't just for show, Alec. No matter how much people like to look at them."

Alec laughed, a small, slow, rasped exhale. "Fine," he said quietly. He felt the ground lift away as his eyelids drifted closed. He blinked them open again. His height, which as the Warden he had noticed was lesser than the Kestrel's by two or three inches, though still considerably tall, made carrying Alec difficult, a tangle of long limbs drooping from his arms at uncomfortable-looking angles. Alec's head banged against the Kestrel's shoulder. "Where to?" The UC asked him. Alec's eyes closed, opened, then closed again heavily. "The subway," he replied, voice soft and low. They reached the end of the alleyway, and the Kestrel was careful to avoid the third body, draped on its back across the floor. Alec surveyed it before they turned away. A man. His eyes, once again, drifted shut. This time they didn't re-open.

Thump. Thump. Thump, went the Kestrel's heart.

Alec fell asleep just as the police sirens began to scream.

***

"Alec. Alec, wake up."

The Warden woke with a jolt, and blinked at his surroundings. The street outside the station was quiet, or quieter than usual. A small trickle of people streamed slowly in and out, travelling wearily home from work, ties undone and hair unclipped and work bags swinging. Already, Alec felt stronger, his hearing cleared, his muscles lighter. The colours were sharp, shapes defined. He looked up at the Kestrel, who peered down at him cautiously. "You okay to stand?"

Alec smiled inwardly. Yes, he thought, I'm fine. The angel living in my soul fixed me right up. He nodded. The UC lowered him carefully to the ground. Alec pretended to stumble, then flashed the Kestrel a purposely innocent look as if to say, Oh, silly me. "Thanks for... dropping me off," he said, looking at the floor in mock embarrassment. "My sister would have worried if I didn't make it home tonight."

The Kestrel regarded him with his hands in the pockets of his coat. His dark attire blended in with the night, the only colour his bright eyes. "Are you sure you'll be alright, darling?" He asked. An almost imperceptible flicker crossed his face as he said it.

"I'll be fine." Alec checked the time on his watch. "The train's in five. I have to go." He took a few steps backwards. "I'll... see you later."

The Kestrel smiled. "See you later, Alexander."

Alec walked into the station with an exaggerated limp, clutching stiffly at his bloodied, already mostly healed side, waited for five minutes inside the ticket office, then hurtled back out the door and ran. 

***

By the time Alec got there, the institute was a flurry of noise, Elites bustling down the halls in patrol gear, Detectors comparing notes, people filling their belts with weapons. Alec burst through the door to Maryse's office after fighting his way through the crowd. The woman in question stood in the centre of the room, arms crossed in her usual fashion, with Alec's team- Jace, Izzy, the new addition of Simon, and Zachariah- scattered around her. "- bodies have been found. One man and one woman. One dead, the other alive," she was saying.

Alec stepped across the threshold. "It's the teleporter," he said.

All five heads turned to face him. Maryse raised her eyebrows at him. "The corpse?"

"No, only the one with the stab wound."

She ignored the comment. "I take it you used your power on her."

Alec nodded. Maryse turned to Jem. "Zachariah, there's a team of Detectors already en route. I need you to go instead. I'll tell Hodge to call them back. Confirm the teleporter's energy signal. Report any others you find. Except Alec's. Leave that out." Zachariah regarded her for a moment, nodded, and left.

Alec furrowed his eyebrows. "Wait-"

"Warden, we have more important things to talk about." She paused, her eyes bright. "Sherlock and Watson found a pattern," she said, her voice the most emotional it would ever be. "And a lead."

Chapter Text

For the first time in years, the Elites were gathered around the computer.

Alec stood like a wraith at the side of the room, leaning against a wooden beam with his arms and ankles crossed. He watched the screen carefully as Ty punched letters into the keyboard, pulling up hundreds of files and apps and picture boxes so that they crawled across the screen like colourful insects.

When it seemed like the screen would burst if any more files were opened, Ty stopped typing. He looked sideways at Kit, and Alec caught the way the steel of his eyes softened as the blonde gave him a smile. Kit turned to the rest of the group. "So far, we've been looking into the murders, trying to find patterns, motives, anything." He paused, ran a hand through his hair. It looked grey as ash in the dim, windowless light of the room. "Other than a bunch of demon angel-type shit, we didn't get very far. So we decided to start looking into your guy Matt Smith. We managed to narrow down about 50 who live in New York by their age- apparently Matt was an incredibly popular name three years ago, and I doubt one of our supposed weapons manufacturers happens to still be in preschool- and scanned the security footage from around each area." Kit shoved his hands into his pockets. "It took a while, but with the software Ty managed to install, we found something. Something important." He gestured to the monitor, and Ty clicked on a tab. "From a week ago." He tapped the triangular play button in the corner of the screen.

A video began to play.

It had that blurred, security camera quality with the pixelated shapes and every-so-slightly jerky movements. An image of a tiny hallway had appeared, with cracking cream-coloured walls and an ugly red carpet. A steep set of stairs ascended into a gloom at the end of it, a single door with the number 12 slashed across the wood at the bottom.

Just when it seemed like nothing would happen, a figure descended from the dark and into the yellowish light. They wore dark clothing and a cap. Alec instantly recognised it as the brazen kind of attempt at inconspicuousness that left you all the more noticeable. The mistake was made by a number of UCs trying their hand at patrols- and by an even larger number of inexperienced rogues. It had landed the majority of them in the SCU.

Alec had to restrain himself from grinding his teeth together at the thought.

As the image settled itself after the sudden movement, the figure's features became clearer. A tuft of dark hair peeked out from beneath the cap. Pale hands knocked quietly at the door, then were shoved back into pockets. The figure tilted nervously on their heels.

After a moment, the door swung open. The contents of the doorway were obscured by the angle of the camera, only a tall black shadow escaping into the hall at the figure's feet. The figure swallowed, then took a hesitant step forward. Just before the door shut behind them, they turned, a strained, almost painful movement, and looked directly at the camera. An expressionless face with a pointed nose, an unshaven beard and a set of unblinking, strangely vacant eyes peered whitely from the gloom. Then the door closed and the man was gone.

A brief moment of silence clung to the room before Alec spoke. "Who was that?" He asked.

Kit looked at him. "That man is John Carter. And he's supposed to be dead."

***

Clary threw her sketchbook across the room with a frustrated sigh. It hid the door with a loud thud, then collapsed to the floor. Her pencil clattered onto the desk as she ran a hand through her hair. It had since unravelled from its knot, and straggled messily over her shoulders, frayed like string. 

Her brother had left two hours ago. Until now, she'd been stopping herself from thinking about Simon by constantly telling herself not to think about Simon. It appeared that sketching wasn't nearly as easy when you've just been told your best friend has superpowers. She buried her head in her hands.

The most frustrating thing was the irony. Clary had been hiding her powers from Simon for nearly her whole life- had kept half of herself entirely separate for years- and here Simon was with superpowers himself. The first secret Clary knew Simon was keeping from her, and it was exactly the same as hers. But the other thing, the overwhelmingly huge thing, the thing that carved one more hole in her chest every time she thought of it, was guilt. Guilt that the fact she had superpowers wasn't the only secret, nor the biggest, nor the worst, that Clary was keeping from Simon.

Guilt that the reason Simon had been burdened with his secret in the first place was partly her fault.

Every single human being in the world, mundane or super, had an energy core. An energy core, although fixed inside one's heart, was not considered a part of a person's anatomy. Not made of cells, not configured by DNA. Not connected to us intimately through veins and capillaries and arteries. No scientist could explain how they came to be, spheres of energy, bright or dull, hot or cold, lodged inside humans' chests, coloured glass marbles wrapped with blood and bone and tissue; they were simple there. But one thing that had always been clear, even before the first scientist was born, back in the days when power was seen as something to be captured, constrained, not used: whereas a mundane's energy core was as grey and weak as a broken bulb, useless and offering nothing, a super's energy core was a fire, bright and strong and leeching energy into the blood like lungs pumping oxygen through one's limbs.

And just like fire requires oxygen to survive, so does a super's energy core. As much as energy cores are as part of a human's body as a gun in somebody's hands, they rely on them to burn.

Parts of the Superhuman Theory, a proposal put forwards by an Elite scientists centuries ago, were taught in schools. Clary had drowsed her way through biology lessons with doodles in the margins and her eyes half closed, but whenever the topic had come up, her ears had pricked and she'd sat up straighter in her seat. There were two ways a human could become superpowered: genetics, where energy is passed down from existing energy cores into the new (the details of this were always unclear, and her biology teacher had always refused to elaborate on the subject other than call it a "transfusion of energy") or rare circumstances, where an empty mundane's core is so overwhelmed with energy that it is forced to adopt it as its own, like being hit by lightning.

That was what had happened to Simon. Clary remembered a disagreement they'd had over six months ago, when Simon had wanted to go and hang out with Eric, one of his musician friends, in Eric's new warehouse apartment in the harbour. Clary had tried to persuade him to bail, knowing the area and what was in it, but failed. Simon had gone to the apartment and came out different. Distant. He didn't mention Eric unless asked, to which he gave impossibly vague answers, and refused to meet Clary anywhere that wasn't at hers. She'd brushed off her suspicions then, telling herself that he was upset about their argument. It had been easier than acknowledging the truth: that her father's experiments had worked, and that her best friend's life had been ruined because of them.

***

Jace coughed. The dimness of the room made his wings look more brown than gold. "What do you mean, supposed to be dead?"

Kit looked at the ground. His excitable energy from early had diminished, and his tone became solemn. "The hospital attack, almost a month ago." He paused, as if searching for the right words. "That night, over fifty mundane bodies were taken into the institute's morgue to look for traces of energy. To help with the investigation." Kit pushed himself off the desk he had been perching on and began to pace the room. "None were found. The bodies' identities were found and close relatives informed. And of those bodies-"

"Was John Carter's," Izzy finished, twirling agitatedly at strands of her hair. "But if his body was found, then who's that in the video?"

"That's what we want to find out," Maryse spoke from the corner of the room. "I think it's time we visit the morgue."

***

The institute's morgue was just like any other- cold, dark, and almost unnaturally sterile. It fit perfectly with the rest of the building. The Elites' boots thumped noisily against the dull grey floors. There was only one mortuary technician- Jesse Blackthorn, an Elite who specialised in human anatomy- diagnosis, healing, and, in this case, preservation. He kept the corpses from rotting until they could be transferred to more permanent storage. As a government faction the Elites were entitled to any bodies recovered by the Dispatch team for research purposes; the Clave liked to respond to the victims' families protests by reminding them that at least they were still alive to appreciate the Elites' protection, a great irony in itself.

Jesse led them towards a long, corridor-like room at the back. As soon as they entered, Alec's arms prickled with goosebumps, a chill emanating from all sides. Jesse looked at the group as they rubbed their arms. "Sorry. It's the coolers." He proceeded toward the end of the room. As they walked further and further inside, the chill grew into a frost, stiffening Alec's limbs and forcing him to bring his teeth together to stop them chattering. Jesse stopped abruptly. "Here we are," he said, drawing a bundle of keys on a chain from his pocket. After a moment of fumbling around, the jangle of the metal echoing in the sparseness of the chamber, he found the right one. He pushed the key into a handle on the wall, turned it, and pulled. A drawer pulled open with a hiss and a spray of icy fog. The Elites waited as the fog cleared. Jesse gasped.

Alec's heart dropped to his stomach. The drawer was empty.

***

Of fifty-two bodies recovered from the hospital massacre, fifty-two had disappeared. The two from The Forum had also vanished.

The group of Elites gathered numbly in Maryse's office. After a minute of silence, Alec spoke. "We need to go to that apartment."

Maryse shook her head immediately. "No. Valentine can't know that we know. We don't have enough information yet, but we will." She paused. "The Watchman just informed me that Dispatch are on the way back with the teleporter. She's alive and stable. We'll get her to talk." She turned her head to look at Alec. "Besides, I believe there's a conclusion we can make from this. A few, actually."

"Someone's masking energy signals to obscure evidence."

Maryse nodded. Suddenly she had a faraway look in her eyes as her gaze shifted from Alec to the high office windows, the stained-glass angels staring down at the room. "The thing about Valentine Morgenstern," she started, "is that he knows how to manipulate, how to trick your mind into confusing itself.

"I failed to notice the pattern at first. Mundanes went missing, yes, but soon afterwards the responsible supers were found dead. The missing were assumed deceased, the case closed. There were no notable energy signals around the corpses other than their own to suggest that another rogue was involved. I admit it was premature of me to dismiss the cases so quickly, but ultimately, the guilty were dead. And if there was no evidence of another super's hand, then I had no reason to believe anything was amiss. Suicide rates are high in UCs, after all." Maryse turned her back to the Elites, leaning her hands heavily on the shining mahogany desk.

"But soon blood at an office led to mundane bodies at The Forum, and bodies at The Forum led to a supposed massacre at the hospital. And suddenly the similarities became clear. A super is found no further than 5 blocks away from the very crime scene they created, dead. Every time. And though there are differences- numerous mundanes have gone missing at each event, dead or alive still unconfirmed- the mark of the throat is the same. The inconclusiveness is the same. No recurring energy signals. Gaps. Valentine gives clues in pieces, in flashes, like the light of a glowing match in the dark; just enough hope to keep us moving forwards. But we forget that he is always one step ahead, always one step ahead, and by the time we remember we have stepped too far, and the light snuffs out, and we plunge into nothing.

"I don't know why Valentine sent that wolf after the Warden, or why he had his own subjects imprisoned in the SCU only to send us a message, or who is blocking energy signals, or why- and how- fifty-four dead mundanes suddenly vanished from our morgue. And how at least one of them isn't dead at all. But I suspect the reasons for each are not so different. I suspect they are simply dissimilar forms of Valentine's favourite weapon- confusion. Chaos. Discrepancy. The fact remains we do not know his numbers, nor his motive, nor his plans. And until this evening we had no way of finding out, save the address for a basement apartment. And yet thanks to the Warden, we've managed to steal a bullet from Valentine's ammunition. The teleporter. And thanks to our detectives, my suspicions have only been cemented." She finally turned, a hard glint in her eyes as she addressed Alec directly. "The Kestrel is working for Valentine."

***
As Alec sat on the rooftop and waited, he thought back to what his mother had said. "Your sister said it herself, Alec. The Kestrel's illusions are not just that. They are real, at least for a moment. Tangible. Solid. Only he could pull off such a stunt to fool us all." But whilst Alec could not exactly deny that, he was extremely hesitant to believe that the Kestrel was involved with Valentine Morgenstern's affairs at all, let alone intimately. There was the fact that the Kestrel was a UC, of course, a group of people who despised Valentine and who Valentine despised in return- but there was also the matter of Catarina, whose existence Alec didn't think for a second was a lie, and, of course, the Kestrel's tendency to offer his aid to anyone who needed it.

Something about the Kestrel conspiring with a mass murderer just didn't add up.

The Warden was torn from his thoughts by a cough above his shoulder. He turned calmly; the two had come to recognise each-other's altered voices, the rhythm of their footsteps, the subtle change in the air when the other arrived as the weeks had worn sluggishly on. "Hello, little shadow," the Kestrel grinned down at him.

"Kestrel." Alec replied gruffly. "I have... news."

"Do you, now?" The Kestrel's grin turned mischievous as he settled himself atop a chimney ledge, long legs sprawling over the edge. He leant back casually on his hands. "Do tell."

Alec fiddled with the cuff of his jacket. "Some of our Elite... investigators managed to narrow down possible candidates for Matt Smith."

"Candidates? This isn't the Bachelor, darling."

Alec ignored him. "After scanning the nearest security feeds to each candidate's address, they eventually recognised someone entering a basement apartment in Brooklyn." Alec chose his words carefully. "That someone was John Carter. He was one of the victims of the hospital massacre." The massacre in question was something Alec had avoided thinking about since it happened. He hadn't wanted to think of all the people he'd been too late to save. When the body had been found shortly afterwards, mauled to death, there had been no energy signals around the corpse. Upon later investigation it was discovered that the whole area, hospital included, was devoid of any traces of energy whatsoever. The discovery had been pushed aside until now. Some traces of energy dissipated more quickly than others. But Alec kicked himself for dismissing it as coincidence in favour of maintaining his sanity. It was just like his mother had said; Alec hadn't realised the prevalence of the obscured energy signals until it was on top of him.

The Kestrel waved a hand. "Old footage, then."

"That's the thing. The footage was taken after the hospital break-in."

The other man eyed Alec speculatively for a moment. "Unless you're talking about zombies, I believe what you're suggesting is that this John Carter fellow was never really dead at all. But I saw the bodies, pumpkin. And they were very real."

Alec swallowed. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "The bodies are gone."

"What?"

"They're gone. The bodies from the massacre and the two from The Forum. All the bodies from the break-ins. Gone."

"You're saying the Elites just happened to misplace over fifty dead bodies. And nobody noticed they were missing."

Alec winced. "They weren't... needed, anymore. No traces of energy signals were found and they were put into storage. The last time anybody saw them was weeks ago."

"Impossible. How can so many bodies just disappear? It's not like they could've just walked out. Unless... unless they were never there at all." The Warden saw realisation dawn on the Kestrel's face like ash settling after a volcanic eruption. "Unless it was an illusion." He whispered, looking numbly at Alec. "Tell me you don't suspect me."

Silence, like the stillness of the air after a gunshot.

The Kestrel's jaw tightened. He looked down at his hands. "I see," he rasped, then seemed to remember himself. "I don't know what I expected, really-"

"I don't suspect you." As Alec said it, he realised with certainty that it was true. He believed that the Kestrel was guilty no more than he believed that his father was a good man; even as his mother said the words, he knew they weren't true. He loudened his voice. "I don't suspect you, Kestrel."

The Kestrel's gaze finally returned to him. "You came here for something. Not patrol."

"Yes," Alec admitted, "I did. You're right; the Leech suspects you. She demanded your capture before I stepped in. And after some argument I managed to bargain with her." The Kestrel raised his eyebrows. Alec continued. "In exchange for a full pardon for your actions- this includes your interference with Clave ordeals, misdirection of Elite patrol teams by method of provoked intoxication, and possible involvement with ex-Elite rogue Valentine Morgenstern- you will ally yourself wholly with the Clave until Valentine has been defeated. You will spare us no resource, nor information, and you will come to no harm."

The Kestrel stared. There was a long silence before he replied. "And if I refuse?" He asked, softly.

"Then I think you'd better disappear."

A moment's hesitation. "Have I ever told you the true extent of my power, darling?"

"No."

The Kestrel hummed. "In the moment that I am in control of someone's mind, I am in control of their every sense: sight, hearing, touch, smell. Emotion. I can make people weep beneath my hands; I can make people dance with joy. I can make their worst fears true, unearth their deepest fantasies. But only for a moment. See, each illusion is a bubble; and bubbles are fragile, very much so. Each one takes up a significant fraction of my power and attention." He smiled. "I'm rather amused by the Leech's suspicions, really. I'm glad to see my reputation flatters me so." He looked at Alec expectantly. "Well?"

"What?"

"I've told you mine. Now tell me yours."

Alec considered it for a moment. The only ones who knew Alec's true powers were those he trusted with his life. "Angelic prowess," he said.

"Meaning?"

"Well, on a base level, I guess my senses are enhanced. Eyesight, hearing, all that. But my real power isn't even mine- it's the angel's. Mine to take when I want it, I suppose. But not mine to hold." Alec shifted in his perch. "The angel gives power when I want it. Sometimes it's a specific thing, like inhuman strength or speed. Sometimes it's more general. I don't use it often. The more energy I use all at once, the more exhausted I am when it's gone."

"Is that why you're able to turn into a human glowstick?

Alec nodded. "Shorter bursts of power mean my body has to withstand insane surges of energy all at once. That means I glow. Longer bursts give my body more time to deal with the energy." He paused. "You heard about that?"

The Kestrel nodded. "Whilst you were throwing knives at teleporters, I was stuck with crowd control."

Alec pretended to look apologetic. "Sorry."

"That's alright, darling. My company was saved by a rather reckless and incredibly handsome young man. All is not lost." Alec hoped his hood hid his blush.

The two supers sat in companiable silence for a while, watching the cars go by and the moon traverse across the sky. Suddenly, the Kestrel laughed. "You really are a little angel."

"I'm not little," the Warden protested. "Just because you're a fucking skyscraper-"

"Peace, darling. Though if we're going to be seeing even more of each-other, perhaps you should consider investing in some platform boots."

"Who can fight in platform boots?"

"Beauty is pain."

"You're ridiculous."

And so the bickering continued, until the sun rose up in the sky and the next day was upon them, and they parted beneath the vibrant horizon feeling strangely, impossibly content.

Chapter Text

When Alec came home that night, traipsing dirt through the halls and clothes thick with the smell of chimney smoke, he was unsurprised to find his sister in his room.

She sat cross-legged on his bed, flipping lazily through a magazine. Alec just caught a glimpse of the words 'WHO IS YOUR SUPERHERO BOYFRIEND?' before Izzy looked up. Their eyes met. Hers were dark and piercing, sharp despite the time. Expectant. She tossed the magazine behind her. It landed with a thunk on the hardwood floor, ending the brief, heavy silence hanging over the room. "How?" she asked, and as Alec knew his sister better than he knew himself, he knew exactly what she meant.

***

Last night

Other than Maryse and her son, the room was empty. Stiflingly so. The Leech watched the Warden from the corner of the room. "Alexander, you must look at this logically. The Kestrel is an anomaly. An outlier. A-" she stopped and sighed. "It's clear enough now that the Beast is Valentine. And that means he didn't die 19 years ago as everyone thought he did. That means he came back. And that... and that we knew nothing about it." She paused. "I will not be so ignorant this time. Valentine is toying with us. But I will not play his game. Not again." She stepped across the room towards Alec. "The Kestrel has evaded Elite questioning for years. He tells you that he was tipped, but he won't tell you who tipped him. He is the only UC in this- in this chain of break-ins and murders and abductions who hasn't been found dead in an alleyway just minutes from the crime scene. He forms an alliance with the Warden, and the Warden suddenly starts getting attacked by teleporters and werewolves." Maryse ran a hand through her hair. "And to top it all off, his power makes him useful. He's incredibly difficult to capture. He can be whoever he wants. Hell, he could even be listening to this conversation right now, and we would never know." She reached a hand towards Alec's face. Her fingers were cold. "I just need you to understand, Alec. Please."

Alec looked at her. Really looked. Over the years, he'd adopted the habit of standing to attention, head forwards, hands behind his back. And somewhere within those years he'd developed the habit of listening, but not really seeing. So when Alec blinked, and turned his head towards his mother, where she stood with her hand reached out to him and desperation in her eyes and shadows beneath them, lips pulled taut in a trembling grimace, he froze.

The words were out before Alec knew he'd thought them. "Let's compromise."

Maryse still had the decorum to raise an eyebrow, removing her hand from his cheek to fold her arms across her chest. "Compromise? May I remind you who is in authority here, Commander."

"We both know the Kestrel is practically impossible to find, let alone capture-"

"You seem to do a decent job of it."

Alec waved his hand in dismissal. "That's only because he wants to be found. Trust me. If the Kestrel doesn't want to be found, he won't be."

"Then what is it that you propose, Warden?"

"Something that the Kestrel won't be able to refuse. Contrary to popular belief, he isn't invincible. Not quite. He knows we'll catch him eventually."

There was silence for a moment as Maryse thought over her son's words. Alec watched as realisation dawned over her features, her eyebrows slowly drifting down in resignation. "A pardon."

"In exchange for his full cooperation in aiding the Elites' defeat of Valentine Morgenstern. Think about it: we'll have him right within our reach. The UCs will see their infamous Kestrel parading around with the Elites, helping us succeed in our ambitions. He's influential, mother, you can't deny it. And as you said not so long ago: propaganda is important. This will send a message that-"

Maryse shook her head at her son. "It's not enough, Alec. It's not guaranteed. You never know what the UCs will think, and you certainly never expect just how good they are at slipping through your fingers. Especially a UC like the Kestrel."

Alec looked at her for a moment, then sighed. "If you agree to this, I'll end my partnership with Magnus Bane at The Times."

A few tense beats of silence. Then, without breaking his gaze, Maryse slowly held her hand out in the air. A subtle smile played across her lips. "Deal?" she asked, unable to keep the smugness from her voice. Alec stepped forwards and shook it.

"Deal." Just as Maryse moved to step away, Alec tightened his grip, digging his nails into her palm. "But know this: This is not for your sake. Nor Father's. It is for the sake of the city, and the sake of the city only, because unlike you, Maryse, I remember my oaths to the people I swore to protect." His words, laced with venom, rang in his ears as he swept through the door. And so it was that the Warden entered two bargains, and told two lies.

***

"You're not serious, Alec," Izzy gaped from where she was sitting. "What if she finds out? What if the Kestrel finds out?"

"She won't. I'll let Magnus take all the credit, I'll still get my promotion, and maybe... and maybe dad will leave me alone for a while too." Alec knelt down to unlace his boots. "As for the Kestrel, we both knew our alliance was temporary anyway." Just as they both knew it was built on a lie. Alec was certain that his mother would never let the opportunity to capture the Kestrel go to waste, just as he understood that there was no way the Kestrel would ever willingly hand himself over to her. Except now he was. "He'd be stupid not to realise that it's a trap."

As he said it, Alec found himself hoping that the Kestrel knew what he was doing. Because as much as he wanted to deny it, Alec had compromised with his mother for one entirely selfish reason: he knew that he wouldn't be able to watch the Kestrel caged for a crime he didn't commit.

Izzy was silent for a while. Then a grin spread across her face. "Magnus, huh?"

***

By the time Alec made it to work- functioning on little more than two hours of sleep- the article had already been published.

He dragged himself up the stairs sluggishly, shirt unironed and collar drooping, work bag slung loosely over his shoulder. A hand rubbed sleepily at his eyes as his feet carried him automatically towards his desk, his other hand tugging his bag off his shoulder to drape across the back of his seat- and stopped. The seat in question was occupied.

Magnus swung around in the chair with a flourish, legs crossed, fingers tapping patiently with painted nails on the arms, silver smudged over his eyelids and lips pulled into a smirk. "Darling," he exclaimed, "you're here."

Alec shifted uncertainly on his feet and blinked owlishly at his friend. "I'm here."

Magnus gestured to the article lying on the desk. "You'll see I was true to my word." Alec only nodded. Magnus returned his nod with an elfish grin. "Late night, huh? Did you find yourself another date, Alexander?"

Alec shook his head. "No. I was..." Alec coughed, "helping my sister with her... homework." He watched Magnus' eyes narrow. Alec furrowed his eyebrows, mind scrambling to find something to say, before he remembered the question he'd been meaning to ask. He held the thought tightly, afraid it would fly away again. "Did you get home alright?" he mumbled.

Magnus' smile softened. "Yes, darling, I did. I took the subway. I'm never lonely on the subway." He winked. "Too many people asking for my number." Alec smiled. "Anyway, my dear, as much as I enjoy your company," Magnus continued, "the purpose of my visit was not solely to see your pretty face. Boss sent over our next case." He fiddled with a stray strand of hair- threaded through with silver today, to match the glitter on his eyes- and tapped a cream-coloured folder sitting unnoticed beside Raphael's article. "Just as I expected: Lily Chen."

***

Clary watched Maia pace around the room with a growing sense of guilt and dread, rippling through her chest and pooling, cold and squirming, in her stomach.

"Over a month, Clary. A month. He could be on the other side of the world by now. He could be at the bottom of the fucking ocean." Clary set her mug on the table as Maia flung her hands around in the air. When Maia was angry- which was often- spillages were more regular. As were charred pieces of furniture. "At least with Bat and Raphael and- and Lily, we know where they are. And why." Maia continued. "Fucking Elites," she spat. "Luke is the head of the Wolves, but not many people know that. And as far as I know, he hasn't used his powers in years. Not since Valentine disappeared after the Uprising and the Teams began to form."

Valentine knows, Clary thought. Luke's with Valentine. Valentine is alive. But, of course, she wouldn't say it out loud. Couldn't. Clary shook her head. "He's still in New York, Maia. I promise you."

Maia flung herself heavily into an armchair and buried her face in her hands. "You don't need to be alive for your body to still be intact," she muttered.

"It doesn't work like that. The wards track energy cores. Active energy cores, not dead ones."

Maia looked at Clary through her fingers. "What if you made new tracking wards? You said you made these ones when you were still young. Surely they'd be better now?"

Clary sighed. "I can't, Maia. I'd have to tear the old ones down first. That would take a huge amount of energy to do. It would take me weeks to recover, by which time, as you said, Luke could be on the other side of the world." This wasn't strictly true. Clary had thought of updating her tracking wards- she wouldn't be opposed to knowing where her girlfriend was when she needed to, just in case, and knowing where Simon was wouldn't hurt either- but the whole truth was that taking them down, as well as creating the new ones, would release far too much energy all at once. And huge amounts of energy being released from one location would attract Detectors.

Whilst it was true that Clary had warded her house to absorb energy signals, just like she'd warded certain areas of New York under Valentine's command, she knew that the amount of energy released would overwhelm them. She could create her wards remotely, of course- there was no need to leave her house, which was how she'd gotten away with putting wards over the city in the first place- but just as someone with super strength transfers their own energy to the kinetic stores of whatever they're lifting, fractions of Clary's energy would always leech its way towards the wards it was supplying, breaking straight through her house wards and tearing through the city in all directions. Clary imagined a perfect circle looping around her house, a small area of undetectable energy surrounded by miles of it. A Detector's invitation.

Likewise, creating a larger energy-absorbing ward would be suspicious. Clary had no doubt that these types of wards were like blank spots in a Detector's vision. Whilst her house was a needle in a haystack, her entire neighbourhood, for example, was more like a tennis ball.

And to cover the city, Clary would have to create at least fifty wards and tear down the original 122. That was over 172 loads of energy being released from her energy core- an amount she thought she could probably manage but didn't really want to try- into the city. One ward's energy took hours to become undetectable. 172 would take years.

So Clary shook her head, more determinedly this time. "It's too risky."

Maia was quiet for a moment. She steeled her jaw. "Then I think it's time the Wolves start looking."

***

Magnus looked out at the city and thought of Alexander.

Their date last night- and it was last night, though it felt like years ago- had sparked a realisation in Magnus. The way he talked, the way he-

A knock scattered Magnus' thoughts. He swivelled around in his chair, eyebrows raised. "Who-" he stopped. "Alec," he said, unable to stop the smile turning up the corners of his lips. "What brings you here so late in the day?" He paused. "Not that I'm complaining, darling. The best things happen in the evenings, after all." Magnus added as his smile turned mischievous.

Alec rolled his eyes as he drew the door closed behind him. "Are you this flirtatious with everyone?" He asked. Magnus noticed that his eyes, which had been adorably bleary that morning, were now alert, startlingly blue.

"Certainly not," he replied. "If I was, my suitors would fill up my apartment. And I like my space."

Alec laughed, a quiet, glorious sound, one Magnus would bottle if he could. "I just came to, um, thank you. For taking my name off the article. And not asking too many questions about it. It... thank you."

Magnus waved him off, despite the heat in his cheeks and the stutter in his chest. "Nonsense. There's no need to thank me, dearest. We both know I'm not one for sharing attention." He flashed Alec another smile. "Besides, I like it when men tell me what they want."

He didn't think he imagined Alec's blush. "Right. Well. It's getting late. I'd better be going."

"Of course. Get home safe, darling." Magnus watched as Alec nodded, turned, and almost tripped over his own feet making it to the door. If anyone had stayed in the room, they would've noticed the way Magnus' eyes flickered brown to gold as the illusion sputtered alongside the flutter in his chest.

Yes. Their date had sparked a realisation in Magnus, like the first flash of silver across the sea as the moon rises into the sky. Recognition of something that had been there for a time but had managed to go unnoticed, something that had been there since the first time Magnus Bane saw Alec Lightwood, with his dark suits and his dark hair and his vibrant eyes and the way he seemed to find the shadows in even the brightest rooms, and thought that he was beautiful. Something that had only grown upon reading his clever articles, watching his face open up whenever he talked about his siblings- like a flower bud to bloom- something that had congealed into something permanent in Magnus' chest and mind, sending strikes through his heart every time Alec rose to Magnus' challenges with electricity in his eyes. Something that had hardened, consolidated into stone, as they'd begun working together and competition turned into teamwork, bitterness into laughs.

But despite this ever-expanding something, it hadn't been until last night, when Magnus had watched Alec shuffle hesitantly into the restaurant and smile shyly at the waitress, and when the Kestrel had found him covered in smoke and ash after charging headfirst into a crime scene because he heard someone's call for help, that Magnus realised what that something was, and why he could feel it like a fist inside his chest whenever he thought of Alec Lightwood: a notion, a feeling, a certainty that ran hot through his blood and sent fire through his heart.

Certainty that Magnus was completely and irretrievably in love with him. And that he was in deep, deep trouble.

Chapter Text

Three Elites stood like shadows before the doors of the New York Institute as the Kestrel approached and the sun balanced just above the horizon.

Their shadows themselves stretched long paths down the steps, distorting like rivulets of ink along the stone. Their statures were straight-backed, shoulders broad, legs braced apart as if anticipating a blow. Their hoods hid their faces, their leather attires cloaking them in black and betraying nothing. Even so, Magnus could feel their stares burn into his face, through the feathers of his mask and the makeup on his skin, like the heat from the sun.

They were watching him like hawks, but they reminded Magnus of ravens: inquisitive. Cunning. And, of course, omens of death. But he tried not to think too much about that.

As the Kestrel drew closer and fine details became clearer, his shoulders relaxed. The Warden stood tall on the right. Magnus couldn’t see his face through the hood- whoever had designed them was surely somewhat of an illusionist themselves- but he could recognise the Elite from the way he stood ever so slightly apart from the others, had retreated into the looming institute’s silhouette. If there was one thing the Kestrel had learned about the Warden in the last month, it was that he could find the shadows anywhere, and they found him just as easily. Like battle partners accustomed to one another’s movement.

It was the only consistent thing about the Elite, and Magnus clung to the knowledge like it was the last raft at sea.

In a sudden, perfect synchrony, the Elites pushed back their hoods. It was the kind of movement of consolidation that was meant to intimidate, Magnus knew, like a football team’s chant before a match. Magnus smiled, letting his eyes flash red to gold as he crested the top of the steps. Two could play at that game. “Salutations, gracious Elites,” the Kestrel exclaimed with a grin, voice slathered in sweetened sarcasm. He cast a quick glance at the Warden, who gave him a subtle nod of encouragement before returning his gaze forwards. Magnus’ grin widened as he extended his hand towards the woman at the centre. “I am delighted to meet your acquaintance.”

As his focus sharpened, the Kestrel noted the sharply tied hair, the expressionless black eyes piercing his gaze from behind the standard Elite mask, and the crimson red lips as they pursed together in reproach. This was the Leech. “Kestrel. I’m glad you understand the importance of punctuality,” she said with a curt bluntness that could cut through wood. It was exactly as Magnus remembered it. “We shan’t waste our time with pleasantries. For our agreement to be legal in the eyes of the Clave, this will need to be signed.” She forced a ledger procured from thin air into the Kestrel’s still outstretched hand with a vicious efficacy. Magnus was grateful for his earlier decision to wear gloves. Papercuts were small but deadly.

On behalf of the Elites, it read, the Leech, Head of the New York Institute, offers an alliance between the Clave and the un-catalogued vigilante known as the Kestrel (Legal name: unknown. Age: unknown. Power: illusion.) regarding the matters of the capture of Valentine Morgenstern.

This alliance shall be established on the condition that the Kestrel agrees to one full questioning conducted by the Inquisitor regarding the night of the break-in at the Forum.

Should the Kestrel display behaviour proved to be infracting of the circumstances of this allegiance, such as:

- Lack of co-operation during missions and patrols

- Refusal to disclose valuable information

- Disclosure of any confidential Elite information collected during this time

- Threat of violence towards colleagues

…the offer of a pardon may be revoked, and the Kestrel will be detained on grounds of suspicion that said un-catalogued individual has previously conspired with the criminal Valentine Morgenstern.

Should the Kestrel remain fully co-operative, he will receive a complete government and Clave pardon for all possible misdeeds.

{The Leech, Head of the New York Institute}

Magnus gritted his teeth. It wasn’t a fair bargain- it wasn’t a fair bargain at all. To sign the agreement would be to begin walking a very thin line, to balance one-legged atop a knife edge. Anything the Kestrel did could be seen as a break in their rules. He would be in arms’ reach of the Elites on every patrol, and a trip away from the SCU.

But he would also be granted access to information, whether the Elites knew it or not. To secrets. Secrets that would be most valuable to certain UC Teams. Because Magnus knew when he accepted the Warden’s offer that as dangerous as this alliance would be, it was also an opportunity. To find Catarina. To score himself a pardon. And to abolish the Clave for good.

The Kestrel made a show of removing his gloves with a flourish as he withdrew a knife from his sleeve. It glinted in the dull sunlight. Magnus met the Leech’s eyes as he drew the blade across his palm, feeling the hot sting of pain as the skin opened under his touch and blood welled from the wound. He squeezed his hand into a fist. The blood dripped in splashes of crimson onto the paper, staining it red. “Sorry,” he smiled wanly at the Leech, “I didn’t have a pen.”

***

As Magnus felt himself be ushered through the doors of the institute and steered down a corridor, a chill prickled from his neck down his spine. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when he first crossed the institute’s threshold.

 Rumours had circulated through UC communities, from one Team to another (though certainly not from the Wolves to the Night Children- they hadn’t been on speaking terms since one of the wolves killed one of Camille Belcourt’s most trusted advisors on neutral territory) of the torture and anguish inflicted on rogues within an institute’s walls. Magnus had even started some himself. But the truth was that the only thing the UCs were certain of was that if one of their own (guilty or not, it seemed in recent times) were dragged through the doors of an institute, the only reason they would ever leave was to be shoved into a van on the way to the SCU.

Magnus was sure, however, that whatever he had expected- whether it was strings of Elite soldiers marching identically down the hallways with their tightly laced boots and their belts of knives and holsters and guns, or bloodied rogues hanging in chains from the walls, or even, given Magnus’ brilliant imagination, some kind of fucking throne room (because the Elites did like to play at being gods)- it wouldn’t have been this.

The institute was beautiful.

Magnus had always appreciated beauty, and he would appreciate it even as he was led towards an interrogation room to partake in a questioning that could save or end his life. The halls were illuminated in light, the last rays of the sun sending multicoloured strikes through the stained-glass windows that stretched towards the high ceilings. The floors were of polished mahogany and shone as if they had been rubbed with oil. The grey stone walls were carved intricately with elaborate runes, and from high above hung ornate chandeliers from curving arches of wood. But it was a cold kind of beauty, just as the institute was cold itself, a constant draft sweeping through the corridors. A noiseless, creeping beauty, one Magnus recognised, one Magnus was all too familiar with- Camille’s beauty. A calculated beauty that lay like a shadow over the ugly cruelty beneath.

A silence hung over this institute like a cloud before thunder. There was no sound, save the rhythm of their feet moving quietly over the floor and the eternal, muffled chatter of the city outside. It unnerved Magnus, had him clenching his fists in anticipation of an attack, like a deer in the woods when even the birds are a little too silent, before it sees the barrel of a gun pointed directly towards its head.

***

The man on the Leech’s right, it turned out, was the Inquisitor himself. Magnus didn’t get a proper look at his face- what he could discern through the mask- until Magnus was directed into a small, dimly lit room, and seated at a metal table. The Inquisitor sat down briskly opposite him. The first thing Magnus noticed was that his eyes were blue. Startlingly blue. The second thing Magnus noticed was that the Inquisitor’s face was taut with disgust. “Kestrel,” he said curtly. “As you may already know, I am the Inquisitor, the Elite responsible for all Clave interrogations worldwide.” He paused, raised his eyebrows, as if he expected Magnus to look nervous.

Magnus turned his gaze to his hands and pretended to inspect the polish on his nails. He was rarely nervous, the Kestrel even less so- but they were both very good at hiding it if they were.

After a moment of silence, the Inquisitor continued. “As the contract states, the conditions for this alliance include an interrogation. We have decided that due to the lack of information we have on the affair, the questions asked will be centred mostly around the night of the break-in at the Forum. We are yet to be informed of your alibi.”

It was becoming increasingly clear that unlike the Leech, the Inquisitor was a man who looked for answers not only in a person’s words, but in their reactions to threat. The Kestrel would give him nothing. He looked up and smiled. “I’d be happy to give you a full account of the night from my perspective, sir.”

The Inquisitor nodded. “I’m sure you would.” He leaned forward in his chair. The back of Magnus’ neck prickled, but not with cold- with something else. Something electric. “And you will.” Suddenly the air changed, the draft gone still, the quiet sounds of the bustling city outside silenced, Magnus’ ears popping as if they were under pressure. The prickle at his neck worsened, sharpened into a million pinpricks, and travelled through his body in waves. A heavy pain rang through his temples. The world around him blurred. The blue of the Inquisitor’s eyes was the only thing that remained defined, flashing like strikes of lightning. “Tell me what happened that night,” he said- commanded- and then words spilled out of the Kestrel’s mouth like a tsunami, unstoppable and inevitably destructive.

***

The air is metallic with the scent of imminent rain. Below him, the rush of traffic dwindles as the night draws on. The Kestrel sits quietly on the rooftop and listens to the clamour of music from distant bars and the continuous chatter of pedestrians making their slow way home.

He had glamoured himself a few minutes ago. Invisible. He doesn’t want the birds taking note of his rather suspicious presence on his favourite rooftop.  

He is looking for clouds in the sky, ignoring the wind slicing at his face, just as the figure appears on the roof, cloaked and breathing heavily. A flash of silver hair is visible as the figure steps towards him, forever bright. “It is Brother Zachariah,” the figure speaks. It is a man’s voice, gentle and-

“Stop,” the Inquisitor orders. Magnus blinks at him and waits. “Are you familiar with Detector Zachariah?”

“Yes. I met him on the night of the Forum break-in.” If Magnus could have, he would have grinned. He would have laughed. Men like this were so often so blinded by how much power they held in their hands that they didn’t know how to use it. It was a popular flaw in powerful people to be so ignorant of their own limitations because they didn’t deign to believe they had any.

The simple truth was that Magnus had mastered equivocation years ago, and the Inquisitor was asking questions which were much too easy to evade.

The Elite sat back in his chair. “Continue.”

-soft, like the sway of tall grass in the breeze. “I know you’re there.”

“You detected my signature, then?” The Kestrel asks, waving a hand to dispel the illusion.

Brother Zachariah nods. “When I was on 10^th. I assume that’s when you glamoured.” He frowns. “How is it, Kestrel, that although you have an incredibly distinct signature and release it so frequently for your… gatherings, you are never found?”

The Kestrel smiles. “Well, I do try so very hard not to be. But it probably has something to do with the fact that with a power like mine, you’ll never know I’m there even if I’m standing right in front of you. Besides, you know how energy signals work- by the time you get to the spot I used my power, I could be miles away.” He pauses. “I admit the only reason you managed it is because I’m curious.” His eyes narrow. Still, he smiles. “What is so important that you made the effort tonight?”

“Multiple bouts of energy were just released into the city in the same exact location: The Forum’s office building. I do not recognise the signature,” Zachariah muses. “You are the leader of the Warlocks, are you not, Kestrel?”

“In technical terms.”

“Raphael Santiago has been arrested, the identity of the leader of the Wolves unknown. The Seelie Queen, as usual, is somewhere underground, and I do not have the time nor patience to bargain with her tonight.” Zachariah replies. “There are whispers, you know, Kestrel. Of a mysterious UC roaming the streets of the city at the night, plucking the purses from thieves’ hands, keeping the rogues in line. One with many faces, and yet the very same smile. I wonder if the High Warlock has heard of them.”

“I can’t say I have,” the Kestrel replies. He picks at the hem of his coat, nonchalant.

Zachariah hums. “Well, I’m off back to the institute. I’ve had enough of patrolling for the night. If you happen to see them, tell them that their help would be appreciated.” He turns, walks back towards the steel stairwell twisting along the side of the building. His hood billows like a flag in the wind. He looks back at the Kestrel just before he begins his descent. “After all, you wouldn’t want the Elites to have all the glory, would you?” he adds, then ducks out of view.

The Kestrel isn’t entirely sure what brings his feet to move after that. He stumbles almost helplessly forwards, as if he is being tugged forwards by an invisible length of rope. Something in the back of his mind resists, his muscles are tensing, but he continues forward, on and on, staggered steps one after the other. As the Kestrel makes his way towards The Forum, the police radio starts to shriek at his side. ‘Break in at office 462, The Forum, Brooklyn. Supers involved,’ it reports, and the Kestrel grins, an uncomfortable grin, like two strings have been pulled at the corner of his lips. As screams erupt into the night, and the Kestrel draws closer and closer, four blocks away, three, words trip over themselves in his mind- two- the same words, mangled and broken words- one- patching themselves together all the same, in the end: wouldn’t want glory the Elites want the Elites wouldn’t want the Elites to have all the glory, would you?

Then he has arrived, and the screams have hushed.

***

The moment Magnus was released from the Inquisitor’s grip, he slumped forward in his chair. His body was rigid like cement, muscles tensed. After a moment, he draws himself up, shoulders tight. “Was that information enough, Inquisitor?”

The Inquisitor watched him in contemplation. Magnus wanted to throttle him. “Yes, I believe it was.” He rose from his chair.  “We’re done here.”

Magnus pulled himself stiffly upwards. Blood rushed to his head, skull pounding. His surroundings blurred, black spots crawling through his vision. His knees began to buckle. Suddenly there were hands at his back, on his arms, steadying him, grounding him, and a voice rang out, stark and echoing in the quiet stone room, familiar and certain and undeniably reassuring. “Easy there, Kestrel,” the Warden said. Magnus blinked. Colours began to brighten, shapes defining at the edges, haze fizzling to nothing. He turned, shot a grateful look at the Warden, who gave him an almost imperceptible smile before stepping back, falling easily into his militant stance. Magnus steadied himself against the back of the chair before raising his gaze to the Leech. “So,” he said casually, forcing his shoulders to relax and his fists to uncurl. “What will I be receiving tonight? Orders for patrol or a free trip to the SCU?"

The Leech just stared. As the last of the haze drifted from Magnus’ vision, melting away like a waning frost before spring, the expression on her face became clearer. Magnus froze. Her eyes had widened, emotion thawing the daggers of ice in her stare. A pale hand clutched at her throat, red painted nails like droplets of blood on a blanket of snow.

Fear.

Magnus was not above fear. He knew all too well what a weapon it could be. A man who had everything he wanted in the world could love nothing but himself, feel no emotion other than greed, but fear having all he had made for himself taken away. With fear, you could take away power as easily as it was gained, could strike down shields of strength and reveal the trembling, frightened reality beneath with the simplest of threats.

But seeing the mighty Leech, unwavering and unmerciful, look at him, raw with terror- it unnerved him. Magnus swallowed. “What is it?”

The Leech’s eyes had drifted to a spot on the floor. At the sound of Magnus’ voice, they snapped upwards. She seemed to regain awareness, then, returning her hand to her side to straighten her jacket. Her eyes hardened into black opal. She exhaled. “I believe we have a thief on our hands.”