It was some time after the Angel Raziel's descent from heaven, and the first of his new race, Jonathan, had drank from the Mortal Cup and selected his first warriors to fight alongside him when he realised he had not taken Raziel's words seriously enough.
Jonathan had eagerly passed the Mortal Cup to all of his new recruits – perhaps thoughtlessly, in retrospect. One of his most promising, a young man of only eighteen years, named Edward, extremely reserved by remarkably self-sacrificing and courageous; Jonathan did not doubt he would make an exemplary Shadowhunter. But after the Cup touched his lips, Edward crumpled, and writhed in agony for hours and hours, mad with pain. Eventually David had arrived, and told Jonathan solemnly that there was nothing that could be done for him, aside from ending his misery; for he would surely transform into a horrid, senseless creature that lived only to destruct. He called them 'Forsaken'. Perceiving his parabatai was right, with great sadness, Jonathan ended his life.
After, Jonathan had surveyed his new recruits and found he felt a cumbersome weight on his shoulders. One, in particular, Albert, who had named himself Penhallow, was a great strategist, a perspicacious advisor, skilful in battle and devoted to his new wife, Liliane, and their daughter; but Jonathan had also glimpsed in him things that made him consider regret. He was not an efficient or swift killer: he had an unexpected flare for cruelty that would raise its ugly head whenever he drew his seraph blade – he liked to make demons screech in pain, severing appendages, whipping open veins spurting ichor – before he dealt the final, skewering blow. It was evident that, although Jonathan admitted it was natural for a man to feel elation, killing such hideous creatures, Albert thoroughly enjoyed it. He also did not like to admit that he felt nervous, afraid perhaps, around him, though he took care not to show it. Jonathan was in no position to encourage restraint therein – he could hardly admonish that he be more humane in his demon-slaughtering. They were demons, after all. A scourge to humankind.
There were others as well, all strangers to Jonathan, that often questioned his authority, and deliberately, it seemed, disagreed with his orders, knowing that he had no leverage over them – he could not punish them. Jonathan confessed his anxieties to his sister, Abigail, whom some of them, much to his indignation, showed her little of the respect she was due as a more seasoned warrior than they; and discovered she shared his concerns. She had even constructed a plan to resolve it: appointing Jonathan as King of Shadowhunters, and implementing consequences to all those who defied his authority. "No," Jonathan had said. "No, I refuse."
"Why?" Abigail had asked. "Everyone knows you are their leader, and yet you refuse to name yourself as such? And you demand respect from these people?"
Jonathan had sighed. "Abi, you know that I did not desire this. I never asked for this responsibility; I do not want it extended any more than it is. And I am convinced that Kingship is not necessary to gain respect, or obedience. Think about all the Kings today. Name one that does not, sooner or later, find himself massacring innocents, or embroiled in corruption. They are hardly a good example of leadership."
Abigail had recoiled, shocked, as if she'd just accidentally overheard a terrible blasphemy, "Well, if you don't need me, then." Abruptly, she'd got up, and left.
The next few days brought the bitter winter skies, deep snow, and even more frostiness from Abigail, who refused to speak to him, and anyone else, all day. As he expected, she stubbornly mounted her horse at dawn, arrayed with weapons, when they heard news that Dragon Demons were terrorising a small village outside the borders of Idris.
Much sooner than they'd thought, they saw the imposing snow-capped mountains through the high fir trees, the small iced lake, the choking black smoke. As they approached, the cutting, frigid wind carried the sounds of destruction: of crackling, smashing, screaming.
Without a word, they all drew their blades, and invoked the seraphic names that illuminated their blades. They split up, promising to regroup by the lake later. Jonathan was surprised to see his sister drift to his side. Together, they approached a stone cottage, half in flames, half crumbling to pieces.
Inside, was a small dragon demon, hissing at a hunched figure in the corner of the room: jabbing at it with short knife. It was girl – Jonathan could see she was not doing any damage, only irritating it. Abigail and Jonathan launched themselves upon it, edging it away from the girl. When they had dispatched the Demon, they brought the girl outside, using their bodies to shelter her from the worst of the flames. She struggled, wriggling out of their grasp and shouted frantically, in German, "My sister—my brother—have you seen them?!"
Jonathan meant to calm her, but he was stunned into silence. Ash from the smoke was streaked across her face, a ghastly contrast to her pale skin. Her eyes were tight with exhaustion and terror, and she trembled hard in her thin, stained shift. Her hair was loose: a white, creamy blonde- wondrously long-waving over her shoulders and down to her hips. Her eyes were like grey shimmering pearls, chilling, and stricken with fear as they darted around. The girl was not beautiful, but arresting, she certainly was.
Not receiving any answer from Jonathan, she spun around and applied to his sister, who simply stared, shaking her head slightly.
The girl gasped, "Then they are still in there?" She whirled—and ran towards the house, now engulfed in fire—Jonathan caught her arm, yanking her back, "No!"
An immense crash sounded, accompanied by a billow of dark smoke. Jonathan looked up to see part of the roof sag, and tumble inside the house. Jonathan covered his mouth, coughing, wiping away sweat from the heat from the explosion.
She ripped her arm from his, fell back, and sank to the ground. "No!" She screamed, a horrible sound, long and ragged. With a keening wail, she shoved her face into her hands and cried out. Rocking back and forth, she began trembling violently.
Having dispatched the remaining Dragon Demons, Jonathan's fellow Shadowhunters collected around the girl, staring at her convulsing body forlornly, as if mesmerised by her grief. Jonathan glanced around, but it was obvious the onus was on him – he stepped forward, slid off his heavy coat, and carefully placed it on her shoulders.
She jumped, squealing at the contact. Her eyes searched—and looked up at him fearfully. Jonathan spoke gently, doing his best to recall his rusty German, "Come with us, please. We can help you."
"Help me?!" She got up, her voice rasping and overflowing with emotion, "You didn't help my brother and sister! They are dead!"
"By no fault of our own!" Jonathan shouted back. Forcibly, he calmed himself. "Those demons – that is what they do! They kill—"
"Demons? What—they were demons—"
Albert interjected, in rough and mispronounced German, "Of course. What did you think they were?"
"This is what we do," Jonathan continued, "We kill demons. We are called Shadowhunters,"
The girl stepped back and surveyed them all with wide, horrified eyes. "No...No!" She turned away and ran, heading for the forest. Jonathan and Abigail ran after her.
Grabbing her shoulder, Jonathan said, "You must stop! Be calm, please!" She faced him, her eyes incredulous.
"How can you see us?!" Abigail said. She glanced at Jonathan meaningfully, and continued, "We are glamoured, you should not be able to see us – other humans cannot. So how is it you can?"
The girl, panting, looked around frantically. "What do you mean, how can I see you – of course I can, I don't understand—"
"Ignore her-where are your parents?" Jonathan asked.
"My parents?" She answered, confused, "What?" She glanced at Abigail, over her shoulder, bewildered.
Jonathan stood in front of her, reclaiming her attention, and said firmly, "Listen to me. Where are your parents – do you have anywhere to stay?"
"No, no..."She answered dreamily, fresh tears running down her face. She said at her feet, "No, I have nowhere to stay,"
Her shoulders assumed a cramped position, and she grasped her face in her hands.
"I think she should return with us," Abigail said to him softly, in English. "We need to know more about her strange..." she glanced worriedly down at the girl's weeping, hunched figure, "ability."
Jonathan looked over at her and replied, "Yes, I think so, too,"
Before the girl accompanied the Shadowhunters back to Alicante, she insisted that she recover the bodies of her dead brother and sister, so that she may bury them; and salvage what possessions she could from her home.
The mid-day winter sun was blindingly cold as it shone numbingly down on them all: shovelling out snowy, partially frozen earth, digging graves for the girls' brother and sister, and the other mundane inhabitants of the other two houses situated further into the forest – all of whom had perished.
Jonathan wanted to be back in Idris before nightfall, so he did not allow the girl long on her knees, to pray and mourn, before they ushered her to her feet, and she reluctantly mounted Abigail's horse. She rode side-saddle behind her, her head hung. The radiant white tresses of her hair undulating in the wind looked dull in the dreary, beclouded sunset. She stared at the muddied snow as if she wanted to plunge into it. He noticed that she shook slightly, and the sickly pallor of her skin made Jonathan wonder if she was not becoming feverish. When had she last eaten, he wondered? Was she too cold? Perhaps she'd kneeled in the snow too long...Or perhaps he should not be looking at her for so long. Jonathan nudged his horse, and galloped to the front of their party.
When they had returned to his mansion, Jonathan told his servants to take her to the guests' chamber and look after her until David arrived to minister over her; meanwhile, he dined with the others and discussed what they should do.
Albert Penhallow put down his goblet of wine and projected over the table in his low, commanding voice, "Though if I were honest with you, sir...I do not think it a good idea to shelter the mundane girl." Jonathan hated it when he talked like that – his voice resonating with age and wisdom and experience. It made him feel painfully inadequate somehow, as if he were nothing more than a callow boy presuming to lead where others were clearly more suited to the role.
Simon Lightwood, a confident dark-haired Shadowhunter, whom he'd recruited only at Abigail's behest, leaned back in his chair and spoke up, "I agree. I cannot think you in earnest, Jonathan. Are you going to extend your hospitality to every helpless mundane girl you see?" A knowing smile curved his handsome face, revealing straight, white teeth, "Surely, sir, you cannot think to keep them all." Jonathan gritted his teeth and levelled a vicious look at him. Simon grinned. "I suppose we're merely wondering how much of your charity and courtesy is motivated by philanthropy and how much by her pretty face?" He raised an eyebrow.
Abruptly, Abigail stood up, knocking over her chair and sending her wine glass clattering to the floor. "You impugn my brother's honour, sir."
"Like I impugned yours last night?" He winked at her.
She gasped and coloured immediately. "How dare y—"
"Enough!" Jonathan stood, slightly stunned, and pleased, by the sweeping power of his voice, which reverberated across the walls, instantly silencing them all, "Simon, do us all the immense honour of shutting your mouth, for once. Despite my best efforts, I honestly don't care what you think about my saving a mundane girl from a very horrible death, and taking her in when she had nowhere else to go. Nor do I care what you think about why I did it, and I don't ever plan on condescending to justify myself to you. And if you ever presume to talk about my sister that way again in my presence, you will quickly see the limits of my generosity." He turned to Albert, lowering his volume, "Albert, if you are concerned I will make a habit of this, I can only assure you that will not be the case. I am quite aware of how unreasonable it would be to propose such a thing."
Albert nodded and answered, "I understand that she has nowhere to stay, but it is no fault of ours – we have saved her from the Demons, and thus done the only duty necessary by her. Raziel expects no more of us. You must remember, she is not of us. Not of our blood; she does not belong with us. She belongs with her own kind."
René Montclaire and Roderick Granville were whispering frantically in French beside Jonathan. With a stern look at the both of them, Ciarán Fairchild stood up. "What they say is true. And what if the girl tells other mundanes of what she'd seen—of us? Killing demons? Magic?" Seamus, his brother, nodded, and concurred. Malcolm Trueblood, beside him, folded his arms and said, his mouth a thin line, "If she spoke out, it could be potentially catastrophic for us, sir. We cannot allow it to happen."
Isobel Trueblood snorted, and pushed herself up, using the back of her chair. It was clear she was near her time - even over her loose gown, her enormous belly protruded, looking ready to burst, which she placed a protective hand over. Contemptuously, she exclaimed in her thick Scottish accent, "Oh, Ciarán, sit down, you fool. What women say is questioned most of the time, let alone when they run around shouting about how they saw men magically killing demons that nobody else could see. What would you say if a woman said that to you a year ago?"
"Isobel—"Malcolm began reproachfully, yanking on her hand, but Jonathan interrupted.
"No, Malcolm, she's right. Mundanes are superstitious. Very. Like as not, even if the girl did say something, no one would believe her...And if they did, it's not as if they could do anything about it."
Alys Graymark's small, quiet voice uttered beside him, "Isobel is right. Should she speak out, they would only dismiss what she said. Ten people are different – but only one woman? I don't believe we have anything to worry about—"
The doors to the dining hall were flung open and a servant, flustered, ran through and shouted, "Sir—sir—you must come—the girl—she's gone."
"Gone?" Jonathan repeated.
"Yes, sir—disappeared. I left the room to get a jug of water, and when I came back –she wasn't there."
"Well, where can she have gone?"
"I don't know, Sir—"
Jonathan thought. "She can't have attempted escape – it's freezing cold out there—she'll die!"
"I know, Sir," The boy said. "I'm looking for her, Sir," With that, the servant turned ran out the doors.
Jonathan glanced back at the table; the others were looking up at him expectantly. "Excuse me," he said; whirled, and ran.