Author's Note: I'm new to the fanfiction world, but very excited about writing for the Mortal Instruments. This story will follow what we know of Magnus' life and his burgeoning relationship with Alec over the course of City of Bones. Essentially, it's the story from Magnus' point of view. Let me know your thoughts and if it's worth continuing. Thanks so much! Extra note: All of the dialogue in this chapter is taken from "City of Bones." I do not claim ownership.
Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns all of these characters, the locations, the story, and a good portion of the dialogue. (Especially in the first few chapters.) I own nothing but my imagination; the universe is hers.
The party was well under way. The location was Brooklyn, where its resident was notoriously categorized as a haute hippie meets high-class urbanite. The loft was spacious and empty, save for the large crowd monopolizing the dance floor. The high-ceiling windows were spattered with mud and paint. A Silly String battle had sullied the floors and walls. An improvised bar had been created in the corner, where colorful drinks were served at the ready. Creatures writhed against each other to a low erotic beat. Sweat ran from body to body in a hot, tangled mess. Elegant yet feral, dazzling yet untoward — all of the attendees were unlikely to forget it any time soon. Unless, of course, they had one of those deadly cocktails.
The host of the party moved with an elegant sort of grace, a unique cross between that of a ballerina and panther. He walked in a way that was sexually ambiguous despite his flamboyant nature. He was the kind of boy that had broken countless hearts since natality and had had his heart broken many times in return. Only he wasn't a boy at all, but a man of immortality, already having lived the better part of eight centuries.
Throwing parties like these were his escape. An attempt to recapture the glories of youth and exhibition. He yearned to feel alive again, to be surprised by life's events. So he filled up his loft with hundreds of arbitrary Downworlders, and waited to be surprised.
He wound his way through his eclectic set of guests, recieving an inordinate amount of ogles and stares as he passed. It was difficult to discern which was more famous: Magnus Bane or the parties he threw.
Everything most people aspired to be came innately to him, in both confidence and style. He had a finely sculpted face, with angular cheekbones and a pointed nose. His skin was a brilliant caramel color, a naturally perfect tan that was envied to no end. He was impressively tall but not lanky. His almond eyes were the greatest hint of his Asian heritage. His irises were a spectacular shade of chartreuse yellow, dangerously similar to that of a cat's. They were frighteningly enchanting, to the point where it became impossible to look away. It didn't help that he had a flagrant habit of accentuating them with the darkest shades of eye makeup. He wore his black hair in a crown of gelled-up spikes for the night, a look only befitting of the High Warlock of Brooklyn. His lips were painted an unsettlingly bright blue. Magnus Bane was unconventional maybe, with a look that was eight centuries in the making.
Chairman Meow, in all his furry glory, rustled toward his owner. He brushed up against the warlock's famously long legs to earn his attention. Magnus picked up the cat and cradled the little beast in his arms as if he were a baby. He continued to work his way through the maze of partygoers. He stopped very rarely, only to offer the occassional greeting to an acquaintance or two. He affectionately petted the animal as he moved, rubbing the sensitive spot between the cat's ears.
The buzzer of his loft sounded loudly, interrupting his impressive walk through the room. Then it buzzed again, even more obnoxiously disruptive than the last time. Spooked, Chairman Meow dropped from Magnus' arms and scurried away from him like a bat out of hell. He ran down a hallway and disappeared around the corner. Magnus dejectedly realized it may be a good while before he saw his cat again.
With little secondary options, Magnus sauntered down his hallway and over to the staircase to deal with this latest nuisance. He flew down the decrepit steps of his apartment until reaching the entryway. He threw open the door with a slight show of spirit.
There were five of them waiting impatiently outside, all uniquely different in appearance. A girl, stunning and aware of it, tore her hand away from the buzzer. She wore a fashionable silver skirt that fell in ruffles to the floor and a revealing black sequined top. Her nails were painted with a gold glitter that earned her an ounce of respect from the High Warlock. The second girl was less beautiful perhaps, but far more striking. Her hair was a fiery, very familiar shade of red. Her dress was simple and short, matched with a pair of boots and fishnets. He knew her identity in a second. Clarissa Fray was very difficult to forget, no matter what age he saw her at.
There were three boys in their company, all wearing black. The first was a little weaselly, with pants that weren't tailored for his body and a shirt that had been flipped inside out. The least memorable of the bunch, Magnus decided. Next to him was an angelic blonde leaning casually against the wall of the building. He wore a look that suggested he was willing to raise hell at a moment's notice despite the languid pose. He was cocky no doubt, but almost too attractive for someone to care. The final boy was hidden behind the rest, his body undeniably self-conscious. He looked hesitantly up at the warlock, and Magnus nearly took a step back. The boy's eyes were a breathtaking, heartstopping blue. They sparkled up at him innocently, offset brilliantly by the boy's dark hair.
"Magnus?" the beautiful girl inquired, reclaiming his attention. She smiled too brightly to be genuine. "Magnus Bane?"
"That would be me." Magnus continued to scrutinize the group, curious of their intentions and wondering how a person's eyes could possibly be that blue. As he studied them all closer, seeing the remnants of markings, he came to a quick conclusion. "Children of the Nephilim." He didn't bother hiding his disappointment. "Well, well. I don't recall inviting you."
The girl carefully took out a piece of paper, waving it in Magnus' direction. "I have an invitation. These" —she gestured to her entourage— "are my friends."
Magnus snatched the invitation away, giving it a once-over, ever careful not to miss the details. "I must have been drunk," he admitted, but still threw open the door to them. Magnus Bane was not one to renege on his word. If they'd been wrongly sent an invitation, he wouldn't deny them such a right. "Come in. And try not to murder any of my guests."
The pretty blonde boy stepped forward first, elongating his body to seem taller. "Even if one of them spills a drink on my new shoes?" The words sounded like a challenge. It implied the question: Who was the greater bad ass between them?
"Even then," Magnus said curtly. His hands, moving quicker than the fangs of a vipor, snatched up a stele from the hands of the blonde boy. He'd noticed it minutes before, but waited until the perfect moment for dramatic effect. He held it up to the light, allowing it to shine for all to see. "As for this," —he slipped the stele back into the boy's jeans pocket— "keep it in your pants, Shadowhunter."
The arrogant boy appeared disconcerted now that he had been bested by a sexual free spirit.
Magnus simply smiled in return before taking off back up his stairs. "Come on." He waved with a newfound energy for them to follow. "Before anyone thinks it's my party." With that, he continued up the stairs, not sparing a second to see if the Shadowhunters had followed.