It was a warm moonless night as Samuel stood, leaning against a tree in an almost empty field, waiting for something of relevance to happen. He rubbed his hand against the tree out of boredom, feeling the roughness of the bark. He wondered how old the giant must be. It was probably first planted before the Europeans had even discovered the New World. He also began to wonder why it was the only tree in the field. He knew that the field was owned by a rich elderly man who lived about a mile away. He was too old to farm, so now he just left the field alone. Sam sighed to himself.

He had lost focus again. He had a bad habit of getting off track and letting his mind wander.

Suddenly the grass rustled in the distance, causing Sam to jolt up before realizing that sound had been made by something small, perhaps a rabbit, or maybe even a fox. He reminded himself that he needed to calm down. He breathed in and out slowly and deeply, trying to get rid of his nerves. He often got uneasy when ever he had to deal with demons or the Downworld when he wasn't with his Parabatai. There was nothing to be afraid of he told himself, not yet. He looked down at his pale arm, suddenly realizing that he hadn't applied a Night Vision rune, and that was the reason he could barely make out the details of the empty meadow.

He pulled his stele out of his trouser's pocket. It was long and slender, and curved slightly near the center. It was an almost silvery white that stood out against the dark night sky. The stele had been his father's when he went to school in Idris. He had left it to him and when he had begun his training he made sure to use it, and it only. It felt perfectly balanced, even more so than a weapon. It was also even the perfect size for his small hands. Whenever he applied a rune he for some reason felt as if he was drawing power from his father, who he hoped was watching over him, especially tonight, when he might need it the most.

He pressed the stele into his toned arm and began to mark the intricate and delicate lines, attempting to remember exactly how the rune went. A sizzling began as the rune began to burn against his skin. He made a point to not press very hard. He would only need the rune for about an hour, and he also didn't particularly enjoy the intense pain that accompanied longer-lasting runes. When he had finished he looked down at his arm. The black of the rune stood out against his fair skin. The rune was very imperfect, but it would have to do for now. It was a shame his parabatai, and cousin, wasn't here. She was really good at applying most types of runes.

When the rune was finished and his stele stopped glowing he put it back into his pocket, hoping he wouldn't have to use it anymore that night. The smell of grass and pollen was suddenly overwhelmed by the smell of burnt skin that accompanied the marking of runes. He tried inhaling as much of the smell as possible; he loved the smell of freshly marked skin.

Feeling impatient, he pulled out his golden pocket watch, which his father had also given him. He then put it back into his pocket. After a few seconds he realized he had forgotten the time already. He let out a sigh and pulled out the pocket watch once again. It was 11:53, 7 minutes early, according to his faery friend, who frequented a bar that Samuel often went to in order to get tips about what was going on in the often sinister Downworld of Philadelphia.


It had all happened the night before. Sam hadn't even planned on seeking information that night. He just wanted a drink, which wasn't exactly legal, considering he was only 17. He knew most of the men (and the occasional woman) at the bar, so they didn't really care if he had a drink or two. His aunt, on the other hand, didn't like him drinking at all. That is why he had to sneak out at night in order to go to the bar. That probably wasn't very safe, considering his parabatai was at the Institute sound asleep. But Sam didn't do much hunting that late at night, so it was mostly riskless, unless a demon or Downworlder decided to hunt him.

The bar, which was named The Orphaned Piglet, was dark and smokey the night Sam walked in. Men sat in the corners, playing cards or smoking their tobacco pipes. When the occasional woman walked in, no matter with the beauty of a picture or a toad, the men hooted and hollered. The woman would act offended and stomp out of the bar into the night. Sam walked up to the bartender and asked for a beer, paying with the money that he kept in his boot. He sat down at an old oak for two and began to drink.

When he lifted the beer to his mouth and took a sip it took all of his self control to not spit it out. It was warm and unusually bitter. Quite frankly Sam thought to himself that it tasted like piss. Even though it tasted less than excellent Sam continued to drink until the taste didn't seem to matter anymore. When he had finished his fifth mug of beer he looked up and surprisingly saw his friend sitting across from, chewing on a bright orange butterfly wing, while the butterfly it belonged to squirmed in agony.

She had been twirling her silky teal hair and playing with the lace on her dress, which would have seemed out of place in the bar if she hadn't of had enough glamor on herself to cover the entire 13 Colonies. She batted the eyelashes of her big piercing blue eyes, which had no whites. When she had finished eating the butterfly she quickly pulled out a piece of algae, which had been woven into her hair, and began to chew on it as well. Sam was disgusted by the Fair Folk's "interesting" choice of food, but at least they didn't snack on Mundanes like some other Downworlders. When she saw that she now had Sam's attention she smiled, showing a row of very sharp teeth. Sam had, on several occasions, seen her take off part of her glamor and smile at a drunkard if she was feeling particularly mischievous. While Sam was supposed to kill any Downworlder who was terrorizing Mundanes, he found her antics amusing, and knew tricks like those were in a faery's nature (and harmless), so he let them slide. Somehow, despite how unhuman his friend looked and was, she still had a beauty that no human, Shadowhunter or Mundane could deny.

"So, Samuel" his friend said after finishing her snack. "We meet again."

"It appears so. You're looking as lovely as always." Sam replied, intentionally feeding his friend's ego.

"Oh, stop it!" She said. Sam imagined she would have blushed if the Fair Folk could blush.

"What brings you here?" Sam questioned, only making polite conversation, but not really expecting a straight forward answer. "Nothing going on at the pond?"

His friend, which Sam still did not know the name of even after knowing her for several years, lived in a pound a few miles out of town. Her and the other Sprites quite often ventured out of the pond to find entertainment. The pond was actually linked to the Seelie Court, but Water Fey were looked down on upon, even by other Fair Folk. Most of the Sprites abided their time by playing pranks on the unsuspecting Mundanes of the city, or even sometimes seducing some of them. But it was a Sunday night and not much was going on in the sleeping city of Philadelphia.

"Oh, you know." The faery sighed. "Nothing is ever going on in the pond. Every time I try to organize a function the only other faeries that show up are Satyrs and Trolls. Even if they could breath under water the party would still be a disaster. And now every time I try to gain entrance into the Seelie Court the King tells me my kind aren't welcome there anymore. Sometimes I feel I would even have a better social life if I was a Shadowhunter. But then I realize that being a Shadowhunter only allots 60 years of partying at the most, and I don't quite know if that would be..."

Sam's friend continued to ramble on until Sam let out a yawn, partially out of boredom, but mostly out of exhaustion

"Oh I'm sorry, was I rambling on again?" his friend apologized, or perhaps questioned. Sam could never make heads or tails of Faery Speak.

"It's fine." Sam reassured, deciding to take it as an apology. "Is there a reason you came to see me, or did you just want a drink?"

His friend chuckled. "If I really wanted a silly Mundane drink, don't you think I would have gotten you to buy me one?"

"Good point." Sam countered. "So what is the reason you came all the way here from your pond?"

"Can't a girl come visit her pal?" his friend teased. "Or maybe I just wanted to see your, quite frankly plain, face."

"Sorry, the whole no-lying thing, you know" his friend added.

"Whatever." Sam stated, not even particularly offended. He was used to his friend's insults which hid as "honesty". "Will you just get to the point already. Why are you here?"

Right at that moment a group of men who sat a card table began to gawk at Sam. He could not even begin to imagine what they were seeing. For all he knew all they were seeing was a young man arguing with the chair that was sitting across from him. Next time he would either have to glamor himself. Or even better her could pick a better location to have a decreasingly friendly argument with a Downworlder.

"Maybe now I won't tell you." the Sprite sighed. "Considering how rude you are being tonight. First you practically fall asleep when I try to answer the question you asked. And now you are getting saucy with me. I simply won't stand you talking to me this way. I may be Fey, but I am still a lady."

"I'm sorry." Sam apologized, genuinely meaning it. "But you would rather talk about your social life then tell me something that is apparently important. It is important, right? Or you obviously wouldn't have walked 3 miles to be here."

"Well." the faery began. "It's not important to me, or my people, it probably wouldn't be important to a Night's Child, it might be important to Moon's Child, it would definitely be important to a Warlock, and it would most certainly be important to you and the Clave."

"If it is so important." Sam began. "Then could you please tell me what it is."

"I could." she said.

"Will you?" Sam replied.

"It'll cost you." she said.

"What do you want?" Sam replied.

"It depends on what you have."

"It depends on what you want."

"That." she countered. "depends on what you have."

"I can personally guarantee you a favor". Sam responded.

"Oh, no no." his friend giggled, twirling her hair. "You do not want to owe a favor to a faery."

"If it's that important then maybe it will be worth it."

"Well, here I go." the girl started. "A certain Water Sprite could have heard from a certain Pixie that a certain group of Mundanes could or could not be getting together tomorrow night at midnight in a certain field west of town to try summon a certain Greater Demon."

"Hmmm." Sam said. "That's sort of vague. I am not sure if that's worth a favor."

"Oh shush." she snapped. "You know how much trouble I could get in for telling you this."

"Thank you." Sam said, placing his hand briefly on top of hers. "This really means a lot to me."

"You better come through on this favor." she said, getting up from her seat.

"Trust me, I will." he said as she walked out the tavern door. "And if me and my friends ever grow gills we will be the first ones at one of your parties. We Shadowhunters know how to have a good time!"


Suddenly Sam jolted awake. He hadn't even realized he had fallen asleep. He was leaning against the tree, and for some reason had a massive headache. Bark, as Sam now knew, didn't make the best pillow.

Out of nowhere Sam began to shiver. It was a fairly warm night, so there was no reason he should be this cold. He hugged himself and then rubbed his hands together to keep warm. Then he suddenly smelled it when an abrupt gust brought the scent of burnt sugar to his nose. He knew that smell well. It was the smell of magic.

Sam was actually friends with a couple Warlocks, and even an Ifrit. While most Shadowhunters couldn't even stand to be around Downworlders, Sam actually got along quite well with most of them. The majority of Nephilim would rather kill a Downworlder than shake hands with one. Sam couldn't help agree with them when it came to Vampires, however. Being friends with Fair Folk, Werewolves, and Warlocks, was one thing, being friends with bloodsuckers was another.

This magic in the air somehow tasted different though. The taste of Warlock's magic usually tasted pretty good to Sam. But this magic tasted stale, and oddly wrong. This was the taste of a demonic magic, not the regular magic that Warlocks used around Shadowhunters in fear that they would be killed for using the more dark forms of magic.

Sam pulled the seraph blade out of his boot, which was where he liked to keep most things. As soon as the hilt touched his skin he began to feel the blade humming to life, almost affirming that he was meant to use this weapon that it was his birth right. He tightened his grip on the knife, preparing for a battle that might soon occur.

"Uriel." Sam hissed.

Suddenly, as if by magic, the blade began to glow. The knife knew its name. The knife was ready to act. The knife was ready to kill, if it had to.

The wind changed once again. This time it smelled of regular fire. Sam couldn't tell if it was coming from the city, or if for some reason the Mundanes had built a fire in the middle of the field. Not waiting to speculate any longer, Sam stood up and looked across the field, which now wasn't empty any longer.

In the middle of the field there was indeed a fire. It wasn't a regular fire, however. It looked as if the Mundanes had cut down an entire forest to create it. So much wood was stacked upon the still-growing fire that the hungry flames reached 10 feet into the air, as if they were wishing to consume the stars themselves.

The Mundanes were all dressed in long, blood red robes. Each one had there hoods down, so there was no way he could even confirm that they were Mundanes. Sam would just have to take his faery friend's word. Almost all at once, each hooded figure raised and extended their arms to each side. Waiting on both sides of any particular person were two other hands. When their fingers had finally met each other they grasped palms, forming a crude semicircle around the fire.

After a few seconds of eery silence, an even more eery chanting began. Each person began to speak in a language that Sam didn't recognize, and Sam prided himself on his knowledge of demon languages. The language itself sounded like a crackling fire. At one point Sam couldn't quite tell if the noises he was hearing were from the fire or from the people.

From what Sam could tell, they were speaking words of Summoning and Ancient Evils. The language sounded to Sam somewhat similar to an obscure language that was spoken by certain groups of Arabian Desert Demons. Sam was even surprised that Mundanes were able to speak the complex language. Even most Shadowhunters found it difficult to speak demon languages. While Sam didn't know exactly what would happen if he let the Mundanes continue, he didn't exactly want to test his luck and find out.

He put down his knife and pulled a regular slingshot, which he had bought at a Mundane market, out of his trouser pocket. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a vial of holy water, the perfect thing to put out a Demon Fire, since not all fires could be put out by plain old water. He put the vial into the slingshot, closing one eye, and began to aim.

His Shadowhunter instincts began to kick in. He supposed his years of training didn't hurt either. He pulled the slingshot back all the way, and after a moment of hesitation, released.

Thanks to his Night Vision rune he could perfectly make out the shape of the holy water soaring across the night sky, quickly getting closer to the giant fire. Suddenly the vial descended and land into the fire with a crash, slightly left of the center. The second the glass of the vial broke and the holy water spilled out, a horrible shrieking noise arose from the fire. Sam was almost as startled at the Mundanes, who stopped chanting and let go of each others hands. They were all nervously looking around, searching for the person who had fired something into the fire they worked so hard to create.

When the shrieking finally died a few seconds later, so did the fire. Sam had successfully stopped whatever scheme the people in the field were planning. He would have patted him self on the back if he wasn't holding a slingshot in his hand. He put the slingshot back into his pocket, and was planning on finally congratulating himself with a nice pat when he heard a booming voice from the group of Mundanes that made his skin crawl.

"We know you are here." the gravely voice shouted into the darkness. "Show yourself and beg for forgiveness and you might be spared."

Sam stood in the silence, afraid to even breath. Suddenly he felt ashamed. Shadowhunters were brave. Shadowhunters were strong. Shadowhunters feared no one, let alone Mundanes. He let out a breath and picked up his knife, which was still glowing. He knew what he had to do.

"I am a Nephilim." Sam professed, stepping forward to be seen. "I come in the name of the Clave." Which technically was a lie. At 17 he had not yet officially pledged his allegiance to the Clave.

"The Clave?" The voice laughed in a laugh that made every hair on Sam's body stand on end. "The Clave has NO authority here."

"The Clave has authority over the entire Earth." Sam firmly asserted. "In the name of the Angel Raziel I command you to surrender. The Clave will have mercy if you surrender without a fight. The Philadelphia Conclave will not hesitate to kill those who pose a threat, however, even if you are Mundanes."

"The Philadelphia Conclave?" the voice laughed once again. Somehow the laugh was even more frightening and bone chilling the second time. Sam had to fight back every urge to scream.

"You are here alone. You are the one who will be needing mercy. Maybe when we summon The Ancient One we can feed you to him. I'm sure he would love to feast on the blood of an angel that runs through your veins."

"In the name of the Angel Raziel, I command you to surrender!" Sam shouted, his voice faltering half way through. Any authority it might of seemed that he had suddenly faded away.

"Even an Angel can't protect you here." the voice said, in what might have been described as a cackle.

Sam looked down at his weapon and quickly back up. He began to calculate in his head how likely he would be to hit the person who was speaking directly in the heart. At that distance the odds were low, even for him. He thought he might go for it anyways. He raised his arm to throw the blessed weapon when a hand grabbed his arm. He couldn't help but let out a gasp of surprise, but before he could a scaly hand covered his mouth. He whipped his head around to see who was now grasping his forearm.

Right behind were 2 of the people in the red robes. Sam trashed with all his might, trying to remember what he learned in combat class. He lifted up his leg and forcibly kicked the robed figure directly behind him in the stomach with the heel of his boot, which felt as hard and firm as the stone floors of the Institute. He would have cried out if not for the hand which was still covering his mouth. He struggled some more, trying to break the grip, which felt like a claw sinking into his skin.

When he looked back to where the other figure stood he saw that it was slowly pulling back its hood. The face barely had enough starlight on it for Sam to make out the details. The countenance that it showed was not of a Mundane. It was like nothing Sam had ever seen. It was worse than any creature from a nightmare or fever dream that Sam had ever had. At that moment he had regretted ever putting on the Night Vision rune. And when it smiled not even the scaly hand covering his mouth could stop a scream of fear and agony from escaping his mouth and fleeing into the night.