Disclaimer: I do not own Infernal Devices, or else we would have a movie on it with Douglas Booth as Will. Oh, and I'd be raking in millions.
He first saw her when he was thirteen.
It was his second Christmas ball at the Institute. It wasn't all too much different from the first one- girls fluttering around in vibrant dresses under the watchful eyes of their mothers, men scattered in groups all over, some solemn, some raucous, and boys, like him, skulking around, grimacing in the itchy evening clothes they had been wrestled into. The same melodies could be heard from the spinet, and the same large Christmas tree loomed over them, colorful yet intimidating in its sheer enormity.
Well, perhaps the gratifying sound of Gabriel Lightwood's arm being snapped was missing.
He felt a smirk creep onto his face, which he promptly hid into his mug of eggnog when Charlotte's gaze flickered toward him. Darn. Somehow she always knew when he was up to something. He shot her a wide-eyed look over the rim, trying to look as angelic as Jem did.
It must have worked, for she visibly melted and smiled, but his thoughts had sobered. Jem was upstairs and in bed, ill as usual. He had wanted to sit by his side, and Charlotte had almost let him, apprehensive of an encore last year's Yule debacle. But she was torn between his wishes and the fierce desire to show Benedict that they did not fear him, and, in the end, she cajoled him into coming. Jem's condition wasn't that poor, after all- he wasn't coughing blood or even feverish, simply exhausted.
It was while mulling over these thoughts that he walked into one of the ornate pillars. He instantly righted himself, swearing at the offending column, when his gaze fell on her.
She was sitting demurely on a divan, her spine straight, chin parallel to the floor and hands folded neatly. Nothing about her posture suggested that she was anything but a dainty little lady, like Jessamine. She wasn't nearly as pretty as Jessamine, though, with a bony figure, drab brown hair and a pallid complexion. He felt his lip curl contemptuously and he began to turn away.
That was until she raised her own eyes to his, and he felt his feet glue themselves to the floor. Large and bright blue, like forget-me-nots, they seemed entirely too large for her waif-like face. The pure mischief swirling in them belied her unassuming demeanor; they simply radiated the desire for the forbidden. It was a glance so magnetic that he found himself wondering if she was part-faerie, even if she wasn't attractive enough.
She cocked her head to the side pleasantly, seemingly unaware of her effect on him. Then, as he continued to stare at her, she nodded upwards.
Slightly puzzled, he raised his eyes, which immediately widened at the sight. Balanced precariously on the arms of the parlor's chandelier were dozens of baked goods- pies, cupcakes, rolls, pastries and the Angel knew what else. Everyone had been so absorbed by the Christmas tree that the whole set-up had gone unnoticed. He snapped his head back towards the girl, just as she gave him an infinitesimal wink.
Before he could react, a creaking sound began to be heard from above. All the guests looked upwards, and so did he, although he was fairly certain he knew what was happening.
The chandelier was rotating, ever so slowly, as if it was being unscrewed. There were a few shouts heard as people began to realize the contents placed on it. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Charlotte rushing up, bewildered and unsure.
Then it stopped rotating all of a sudden. The assortments stayed stationary, and there were sighs of relief heard. They were followed by a rumbling voice from nowhere.
"THE COW SAYS MOO."
And then the chandelier tipped, and the baked goods tumbled off. They did not simply fall as expected, but pelted themselves at a horrified Gabriel Lightwood.
The assault lasted for well over a minute. By the time that older Shadowhunters descended on him with their steles, he had been pummeled enough to be covered with frosting and crumbs of nearly every flavor. When the treats were finally scattered around on the floor, he collapsed right into the arms of his father and began to bawl like a little girl.
He felt himself let out a hoot of laughter upon seeing the pathetic condition of his arch-enemy. Benedict's evident disgust as he pushed his son off himself to glare down at his ruined attire only served to intensify it. Making no show of concealing his mirth, he looked back to the divan- but it was empty.
She had vanished.