Must be Magic
A Mortal Instruments Story
Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns The Mortal Instruments and the Mortal Instruments characters. The plotline belongs to Snoopee. Please refrain from copying, translating, and/or reproducing the material used in this FanFiction without written permission from the author.
First FanFiction!
"And they lived," I said, "happily ever after."
It was Friday night, and I was sitting in my apartment with my best friend's son cuddled up beside me, buried under the blankets that pooled around my waist. He was looking up at me with his big brown eyes, a huge grin on his little face. We'd just finished reading my favourite fairytale—Sleeping Beauty—the only book with action in it, but appropriate for a two year old. He didn't particularly enjoy the lovey-dovey moments (or the "icky" moments in his own words), but was all for the scene where Prince Phillip battled the Maleficent in her dragon form, though he refused to believe that the prince did it in the name of love. We'd actually read the story twice that night, and either he just really loved that action scene, or he was just like his mother and had a way with words, and even though you knew that they wanted something, you'd give in and say, "Oh, fine." Not that I cared, anyway. I wasn't buying a Gucci bag or anything; I was reading the Gucci-Shopper's son a book, for God's sake. Big difference.
"Again!" Max exclaimed suddenly, clapping his little, chubby hands with and an adorable smile. "Again, Aunty Clary, again!" He bounced up and down on my couch, and I winced as I heard the springs down there squeak in agony, but I couldn't rain on this little guy's parade. "Please."
I sighed, running a hand through my curly red hair, glancing at the clock. "It's getting late, buddy. I don't want you going to bed too late," I said. "What would your mom say if she came back and saw that you were up this late? I'd be in big trouble." That was true: there'd be one hell of a storm.
Max pouted, stopping with the jumping on the rickety couch. As soon as he fell back on his behind, the couch sagged and sucked him in a little bit. His shoulders slumped and he glared at the book. "Please, Aunty Clary? Please, please, please?"
"Nah-uh," I said, shaking my head. "I know you're tired. Don't think I didn't see you yawning earlier on. You can't fool me," I said.
He pouted even more, his big, chocolate-brown eyes glazing over with tears I knew he would try not to let fall. In the end, a few tears always managed to spill over, and I really didn't want to see him cry. Honestly, seeing little kids cry sucked. My heart just always went out to them. "P-please?" Max said quietly, his voice wavering just a tiny bit. "W-with a cherry on t-top?"
I shut the book and scooped him up in my arms. "Hey, buddy," I said, softly. "Don't think I don't want to read to you—I really do. But, sleep is important for you. How will you grow up to be big and strong like your daddy without sleep?" I gave him a quick hug as I saw the glassiness of his eyes get blinked out of his eyes. "How about we read again some other time. You pick when."
He nodded his head once, and looked up at the ceiling, obviously pondering which day of the week to pick. "Read to me..." he muttered, one of his itty-bitty fingers at the side of his lower lip, chewing slightly on the tip. His eyes suddenly lit up and he grinned widely—bigger than when his mother got her hands on me to do my "makeovers" or when she came home with a new pair of Christian Louboutin pumps. "Tomorrow!" Max shouted suddenly, throwing both of his hands up in the air. "Aunty Clary reads to me tomorrow!"
"Okay then," I said, standing up and holding him out in front of me. "Tomorrow it is—if your mommy lets me, that is."
"Mommy let you!"
"You have to ask her first, buddy."
Max chewed on his bottom lip, his eyes going really round, like dinner plates. "You call her?" he asked.
"Tomorrow, buddy," I said. "Hold your horses." I touched his nose with my index finger. "Right now, I'm going to get you, Prince Maxwell, into bed." It was true, too: it was already ten thirty, and Max had been deposited with me around noon when Isabelle and Simon went to a gourmet dinner with Simon's boss and his wife. Gourmet dinners. Why couldn't people just be happy with Kraft Dinner or some wholesome KFC, I'd never know. I, for one, did not want to get myself all gussied up, get some thousand dollar wine and a thousand dollar meal that's portions were smaller than Max's hands, and then pay with my entire live-savings. No, I think I'll pass.
"Fly, Aunty Clary, fly!" Max shouted, extending out his arms. It was moments like this that made everyone wish they had their own little kids: looking at little Max there, decked out in his dark blue jammies with the rocket ship blasting off on them, little Spiderman slippers on his feet, and a big, goofy grin on his face. But, I had only graduated from NYU last year, so I was a bit young to have my own little tyke running around. I especially knew that it was a bit hard for Isabelle, being pregnant while she was still in University, and Simon was always under stress of getting his work done, getting to his (then, two) jobs, and being there for his girlfriend and son. About two months after graduation, they got hitched, and I had the privilege of watching Max.
I cleared my throat, and spoke in a deeper voice, "Are you ready, Captain Max?" I made my voice sound like it was on the speaker overhead in planes, static and all.
"Ready!" Max grinned, flinging his legs out behind him. He giggled, and, like every little kid's laugh, it was the cutest thing ever. "Countdown, Aunty Clary!" he squealed.
"Say it with me, Captain Max," I said. "Five," I said.
"Four!" Max exclaimed.
"Three!"
"Two!"
"One!"
"BLAST OFF!" Max shouted, throwing a fist out in front of him in the signature Superman position, complete with the one hand on his hip.
We both made zooming motor noises, both giggling and laughing. I ran around the apartment a few times, spinning around and finally making it to the spare bedroom. The walls were painted a deep, dark red with swirly lines on the walls, a light shade of baby blue. Isabelle and I had a debate on whether or not the blue was periwinkle or powder blue—in the end, after verifying on the paint can thrown in the closet, we were both wrong, for it was "Robin's Egg Blue." The bed matched, too. Black frame, white pillows, red throw and sheets, blue comforter. It was, in fact, the only room that matched, and I was proud of it. The lamp in the corner of the room was red and blue, for God's sake. In fact, the lamp was so tacky that the owner of eBay sold it to me—the only bidder—for six bucks.
I dropped Max down in the middle of the bed, panting, and put my hands on my hips. "You're getting heavy, buddy," I said, grinning. "You're growing. Pretty soon you'll be so tall, you'll have to bend down to look at me." I laughed. "You'll probably stomp all over me."
"No!" Max said, yawning. "I won't stop all over..." He yawned again this time, bigger, giving me a perfect view of the tiny little teeth in his mouth. "You."
I bent down and gave him a quick hug and kiss on his forehead, pulling the covers over him and smiling when I saw his mouth slightly parted and his eyes closed. I could tell he was already asleep and dreaming—there was movement behind his eyelids.
"Night, buddy," I whispered, clicking off the light and closing the door halfway. I grinned. I knew he was tired!
I was in the kitchen, washing the dishes and trying hard not to make any noise. I was doing a good enough job, just the occasional clang of a pot or the tiny clatter of plates hitting each other, the small ting of cups bumping, or the clinking of the forks being accidentally dropped into the sink, lost in the sea of bubbles down there. I had on my yellow, rubber gloves, and my hair was falling out of its loose pony tail. I'd tied it up after putting Max to bed because, much to my shock and disappointment, there were actually beads of sweat on my forehead. Time to renew that gym membership, I guess.
I was in the process of washing a plate when there was a loud knock on the door, and I nearly dropped the plate in the sink out of shock. It didn't help that I was wearing slippery rubber gloves. With soap all over them. I shoved my hair out of my face with my arm, pulling the gloves off my hands. My fingers were pale and wrinkly, like prunes.
I opened the door without even checking who it was, but just to get her all pissed off, I kept the chain lock on, poking my head out. Low and behold, Simon and Isabelle were standing there, looking slightly tired and annoyed. "Well, well, well," I said, clucking my tongue. "Look what the cat's dragged in. About bloody time! What'd you do—take them to a Lord of the Rings marathon or something? It's been seven freaking hours!"
"Shut up, Clary, and open the damn door," Isabelle grumbled.
I shut the door and unlocked it, swinging it wide open to have Isabelle and Simon trudge slowly in. "Well, did you enjoy the marathon?"
"We didn't see any marathon, alright, Fray?" Simon groaned, flopping back on the couch. Once again, the couch groaned in protest.
"Oh, I see," I said. "You took them out for ice cream instead. Did you bring me back a doggy bag?" I couldn't help it—I was tired, I was trying to amuse myself without waking Max, I wanted sleep, I was cold, and they left me with their son for seven hours (not that I didn't enjoy spending time with Max).
"They took us out dancing, okay?" Isabelle huffed, flopping down beside Simon and resting her head on his shoulder. She was dressed in a long black evening gown, form-fitting but loose—very much unlike the usual style of Isabelle: slinky and shiny, short and flouncy. She didn't look like she was out for a night on the town tonight, out clubbing with girlfriends, going to get drunk with her drinking buddies. She looked more mature...classy.
"Dancing?" Clary laughed. She was the total opposite of Isabelle right then: with her frizzy, orange hair, in sweatpants and a camouflage T-shirt that said Force to Reckon With and then a smiley face. Isabelle looked exhausted, sure, but Clary's eyes were slightly red, bags under her eyes. "What kind of guy takes his employee and his wife out dancing? Was he...you know," Clary said, curving her thumb and fingers as though she was holding a glass and shooting towards her mouth, tipping her head back slightly.
"Drunk?" Simon said, raising his eyebrows. "I wish. Then he might have passed out. But, nope! He drank water at dinner. No alcohol." He glanced at Isabelle. "In fact, we tried to trick him into thinking Isabelle was drunk, and he was all 'she only had one glass of wine!'"
"Did he ever think that some people cannot handle alcohol?" I asked.
"Apparently not," Isabelle said. "Jesus. Think of what it would be like if he met you. Miss I-got-drunk-after-two-glasses-of-wine."
I glared. "Don't you want your son?"
Simon stood up, groaning slightly. "Yeah," he whispered. "Where is he? Guest bedroom?"
"Isn't he always?"
Simon didn't reply, only yawned and strode down the hall. I heard the soft thud of the door being pushed open, and the tired squeal and Simon's Shh. I groaned and yawned, throwing myself backwards onto the loveseat across from Isabelle, closing my eyes.
"Tired, huh?" Isabelle sighed. I nodded. "We really are sorry. We only expected dinner and we needed to get ready. I had a hair appointment, and I was there for like, two hours. I didn't expect dancing, and traffic was pretty thick."
"Where'd he take you?"
"Some hole in the outskirts of New York City," she said. "I promise I would've called but—"
"Your phone wasn't charged," I hummed, my eyes still closed. She didn't say anything, and I knew I was right. Isabelle's phone was never charged, believe it or not. She was on the phone all day long at home—ordering stuff online, from TV, making hair appointments, manicures and pedicures, spa days, doctors appointments, dentist appointments. Every time I called her, she was always talking with someone else, or playing with Max. I guess that's what happens to paralegals who quit their jobs to "spend more time focusing on becoming a mother."
"Time to go," Simon said, popping from around the corner. Max was in his arms, his small hands clasped around Simon's neck and his head resting on his shoulder.
"Was he good?" Isabelle asked.
"Amazing," I grinned. "Oh, and he wanted to come over tomorrow so I could read to him again."
"What'd you read?" Isabelle said, walking over to Simon.
"Sleeping Beauty," I said, and, noticing Simon's eyes widening, I quickly said, "he like the action scenes, okay? That, and I'm sure the pretty blond girl caught his eye, too." Simon grinned then.
"Yeah, I guess he can come over," Isabelle said, and I nodded, smiling.
"Good. Now, go out. Get!" I said, shooing them out the door. "Bye!"
"Later" and "Goodnight" came floating sleepily back to me. I grinned and shut the door, flicking of the lights and scurrying to my bedroom.
My hair was raining down on my face, erupting fire in my line of vision. I was officially in my jammies, cuddled in the center of my king-sized bed, the covers, blankets and sheets all wrapping me up tightly. I reached over and plucked the string of my lamp, and I was rewarded with darkness engulfing the room, other than the soft white glow of moonlight coming through my terrace window. I rolled over and shut my eyes, letting blackness quench the fire in my eyes, and letting me drift off into the shadows of the room. And I was out like a light.
"What I'd give to know what it'd be like to be there," I whispered warily. There was an enormous white castle out in the distance, out of the range of trees, looking tiny in the distance. It was surrounded by fog, high up on a hillside. It was beautiful, and I continued to stare out of the window with a dreamy feeling coursing through my body.
"We all wish to be royal," a familiar voice said. "But, only chosen ones have the blood to be of royalty. We are not." I looked around at the voice, knowing exactly who it was, but I couldn't find her. I looked up and suddenly saw her, hovering in front of me, with a small wand in her hand and a blue frock on. Isabelle.
"There is no such thing as 'chosen ones,' Isabelle," I said hastily. "Anyone can be royal."
"They all have been taught things that we don't know, my sweet," Isabelle said. "King Stephen, with his eloquence and battle skills; Queen Celine, elegant and so beautiful, devoted to kindness in her pure heart; and Prince Jonathan—the boy has more skills with the sword than any knight has seen. And he's only seventeen."
"Seventeen?" I asked. "He must be wed soon, I suppose," I said dreamily. My voice was breathy and spacey—unlike me. "If only I could be wed. Imagine that, Isabelle? Me, a princess and wed to the Prince." I pushed off from the windowsill and twirled around. "Princess Clary."
"Don't fret, child," Isabelle said, fluttering her tiny, shimmery wings. "You'll be wed someday. To a nice village boy. You're only fifteen, girl." Fifteen? I was twenty-two in New York! Why was I dreaming about being fifteen? To go back to my bullied and tormented high school days?
"A village boy?" I said suddenly, stopping my twirling. "I don't know any village boys."
"Well, you don't know the Prince, either. Never even seen him, girl," Isabelle scolded. I wonder if she's like this with Max. "For all you know he could be hideous. Atrocious."
I gasped. "He's royal, Isabelle!" I exclaimed. "He cannot be anything but beautiful."
"Nonsense," Isabelle said. "You are beautiful. You're not royal."
"Still," I sulked. "I'm sure that Prince Jonathan is much more beautiful than any village boy. Even more beautiful than Sebastian Verlac, the future knight for the king."
"Valentine's boy, you mean? The baker's son?" Isabelle grinned. "I knew you thought he was handsome. Don't deny it girl, village boys can be handsome."
"Yes, Isabelle," I said breathily—almost a whisper. "But, they aren't royal."
"Royalty," snorted another voice. God. This voice was utterly familiar, and I spun around to see the owner of the soft, but slightly nasal voice. "It truly disgusts me," Aline said.
"Ah!" I laughed. "Don't be such a grumpy Gus," I said. I walked to the window again, basking in the sunlight. "Wonderful day, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is," another voice said. I glanced over my shoulder to see Maia stumbling down the stairs. She tumbled down the stairs and, as she landed on her backside on the bottom step, she rolled her brown eyes and grumbled something. "Oh, my God!" I said. "Are you alright?"
Maia waved me off. "Fine, fine," she said, scowling. "Lord, we need to fix those steps," she said, fluffing the voluminous skirts of her frock. "I've fallen down those things far too many times."
Isabelle seemed mildly amused. "Did you ever think," she said, "that perhaps you were just clumsy?"
"Of course not," Maia said. "I'm much too proud to be considered clumsy. Were you aware," Maia began, "that my father was the Captain of the Guard back in the Seelie Court?"
"Here we go again," Aline said. "Look what you've done, Isabelle." She rolled her dark eyes and glanced at a cuticle. "Anyhow," she said. "Were you discussing marriage again, Clary?"
"When isn't she?" Maia said, hovering over to the kitchen, flapping her shimmery wings. They glinted rainbow in the light. "I don't see why you're so hung over having a man in your life, child," Maia said. "All they do is control you—believe that they own you."
"Mm-hmm," Aline agreed. "Why not be happy being the beautiful, free, and innocent woman you are now? Bask in your own confidence, knowing that any man would want you." She paused. "And that reminds me: who's to say that every man is faithful?"
"The Prince would be faithful!" I declared.
"Lies," Aline muttered. "Enough of the wonderful Prince Jonathan now, eh? We've got work to do!" She clapped her hands together with a triumphant smile. Isabelle, from beside me, rolled her chocolate brown eyes with a sigh, bringing her palm up to her unlined forehead.
"I thought it was your idea for this to be a surprise? How could you not remember your own plans, Aline?" Isabelle groaned, throwing her head back. "For the love of God!"
Aline stopped in her tracks, turning to face Isabelle with her mouth formed in a perfect O. "Well, she doesn't know! It can still be a surprise, right?" She turned to me. "Clary, dear, do you have any idea what we're talking about?" I shook my head, curls bouncing against my cheeks. "Good," Aline said. "Now, go and pick berries."
"Berries?" I asked. "Why do you need berries?"
"We're making a cake," Aline replied easily, voice smooth as silk. She picked at a nail, not meeting my eyes.
"Why are you making a cake? And, don't you want my help?" I asked her.
"We're making a cake because...it's Isabelle's favourite treat," Aline said, nodding once.
I heard a huff of "Good Lord" and "Heaven all mighty" from behind me.
"But...Isabelle just said she knew about this surprise," I said, backtracking.
Aline cussed up a quiet storm. "I was joking," she said, voice wavering slightly. She cleared her throat and flicked her hair off her shoulder. "Um...I can't say anything because," she nodded behind me, subtly, "she's in the room."
"Maia?" I asked, bewildered. "Why on Earth would Maia want a cake?"
"...Because Isabelle's been wanting me to fit into her clothes that she doesn't want," Maia said quickly. "And I'm too skinny. I need to gain some weight."
"You little...." Isabelle muttered, while Aline burst out laughing.
"Nothing like a good treat to help gain some weight, huh?" Maia said, glancing at Isabelle. The look on Isabelle's face was murderous. "Not that Isabelle is, well, you know. But, we're different sizes." She sighed, frustrated. "But, that's okay! Bigger is the best, right?"
"Only in the chest, yeah," Aline said.
"Well, then things are making sense then," Isabelle said, her voice kind of snooty.
Maia blushed. "Shut up, Isabelle," she muttered. "Not in front of little Clary."
"I am the same age as you! And I'll be sixteen tomorrow!" I said, indignant.
"Honey," Isabelle sighed. "We may look sixteen, dear, but we're really not. You know the faeries. We're immortal—we age, but we don't look old at all. You know that we're about a hundred years old by now."
"Don't get any ideas!" Maia said. "That's young for the faeries."
"Sixteen year olds are like toddlers in the Court," Aline said from the counter. She was gazing at the knives, chewing on her lip. "That means," she said, picking out a knife and running her finger down it, wincing, "that you are way too young to be speaking of marriage."
"But I'm not a faerie!" I said. "I'll be dead in a hundred years. You'll be moving on to being two hundred, and I'll be a name in the wind. Part of gossip around town."
Maia laughed. "I can see it now," she said, grinning. "Clarissa Fray, lonely cat lady raised by faeries, dead."
Isabelle's face was serious, and she glanced around the room uneasily. "No," she hissed. "Don't speak like that!" she said. "The public mustn't know of Clary. You belong in the woods," she said. "Born and raised here, you can live under our roof."
"What about when I'm married?" I asked.
"You can bring the boy here," she replied, eyes staring out of the window. "You mustn't ever leave these woods."
"Why not?" I sighed.
It was Aline who answered, holding a knife in her hand. "Evil lurks out there, child. The devil's own prey in the shadows. In these woods, under our rooftops, you are under protection of the Court. The people in town look innocent, but you have never seen what is truly under them...under her hood," she said. "Speak her name, and she shall rise." She gulped, gripping the knife.
"Who is she?" I demanded.
Aline continued, eyes distant. "I remember that day so clearly," she whispered. "The day she rebelled against the Orders, and took those...demons with her," she said. "The Unseelie Rogues is that she called 'em. Nasty little creatures that kill anything in their path."
"Who is this woman?" I said, voice rising.
"DON'T," Aline said sternly, "speak of him."
"Aline," Isabelle said.
"Under those cloaks, child," Aline hissed. "They're all devils. Demons and creatures you'd never wish to see. Without that black magic—"
"ALINE!" Maia yelled. "ENOUGH!"
Aline sighed, weary. "I'm sorry," she whispered, voice thick. "It's all too much. Can you believe it? Sixteen years ago, nearly. Soon it will be, and what she said!"
"No," Isabelle yelled. "What she said was a lie. It was not true."
"Kept for safe keeping is what they said," Maia mumbled, running her slim brown hands over the windowsill. "How long, really, Isabelle? How long until this darkened world will lighten?"
Aline turned to me. "It never will see the light. Not since her rebel against the Order."
"Hush, Aline," Isabelle said. "When the proper soul emerges from these dark times, we will all live at peace and be at rest. Never say never. Not while...it is kept under the watch of the Court, anyway."
Isabelle's eyes became tired and distant, sad and angry. She smiled and turned to me. "Run along now," she said, grabbing the basket on the sill. "Pick lots, will you? And for the love of the Lord, don't speak to strangers."
"I know, Isabelle. I'm not five years old anymore!" I laughed. I danced out the door, happily.
Tomorrow, I thought, I'd be sixteen.
One more day.