A/N: Hey guys! Still not dead! Yay! So if you remember There is Only One from about a zillion years ago, this is the first of the seven-book rewrite! It's far better, I think. And since I'm writing this out on my iPhone on the actual website and it's giving me a bit of trouble, it won't be too long, but the others I'll just do on notes and you will die from how long/strange they are.

Anyway.

Please don't kill me, as I just returned from the grave or whatever makes you less angry and JESUS CHRIST IT KEEPS AUTO CORRECTING MY WORDS TOGETHER AND MAKING THEM WEIRD BUT I GUESS IT'S JUST KARMA UNLESS ONE OF YOU CURSED ME.

OMG YOU CURSED ME WHO WAS IT?

Ahem.

Anyway. I'm just warning you, my OCs will all be major characters. Basically, most of it will be Alec and the OCs - not that I won't have the others, like Magnus and Izzy and Jace or whoever! I'm just not the best at characterization, and it's easier with my own mind-babies rather than someone else's copyrighted mind-babies. So, if that's really not your thing, I would recommend another story, though I ask that you at least give this one a chance, please!

Or I'll eat you and your family.

I'm very very sorry this took about eighty years. Seriously, I feel pretty horrible about it. But never fear! I am now writing my stories on my iPhone's notes, so I don't have to wait to get on my computer (which I haven't been able to do). So yay!

Anyway, please enjoy and review and pass it on or whatever you people do these days!

Rated T for language and violence. I'll try to stay (merged together as today… wtf) away from M, but there is a future character who does have a tendency to curse. Most of them do, actually. I probably won't end up raising it, but it could happen.

JESUS THEY KEEP CHANGING MY WORDS AND PUTTING THEM TOGETHER IT'S AWFUL.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own. If I did, this would be in the books and not on the Internet and my mind babies would also be copyrighted and you'd be writing stories about them.

{Prologue}

She strode gracefully into the room, clicking heels that echo in the hall eliminating any chance of a surprise, to find him sitting slumped against the wall as he always was, tracing circles into the stone ground with his finger, the other hand in his lap, two fingers tapping idly on his legs. She recognized the rhythm, one that speeds and slows, begins simple and morphs into a complex melody, one that was surely intended for an instrument. All the other times she had come into his room, every time she saw him, even from the very beginning, he had always been tapping away with those two fingers, but it wasn't any song or melody she knew. It bothered her.

"What are you doing?" she asked him, even though she could already see, and his head slowly lifted up, their eyes meeting for a second before he blinked and looked away, the circle-tracing finger faltering in its steady movement for a moment before resuming, slightly more forced and deliberate than before. His right hand slowly curled into a loose fist, all fingers except the two. The beat remained steady.

"No, never mind," she said as if he was about to go off on a long, dreary tangent, even though she knew he was not going to speak to her today. "I have to tell you something."

He nodded, a small movement she only perceived thanks to the slight ripple of his hair. She glanced down at his pale hand, pressed to the floor, finger tracing away. And the other, still tapping. She leaned against the doorframe, studying the slow, steady movement of his finger. She wondered if there was actually an imprint of a circle there - he always seemed to be in that same spot, and he was quite strong, even if he was simply lightly tracing the ground with a single finger. She wouldn't be surprised. She brushed a wayward strand of soft hair from her face and tucked a lock of it behind her ear, fingers brushing lightly against her face, hair tickling at her cheek.

"You're going to be getting a neighbor," she said to him, resting a hand on her hip. His head, this time, shot up instantly in a quick, snapping motion, his finger jerking in shock, nail dragging along the stone and leaving a faint, light mark. His hand was in a tight fist now, both of them, abruptly stopping the rhythm he was tapping against his leg. Her eyes went to his face. Calm, indifferent, but he almost always looked like that, his face always as smooth and white as untouched snow, glittering dully with sweat as the snow would under a full moon. She knew not to trust his face. It was all in his eyes, light, flat, and dead eyes. But the emotion was there when he was feeling it, floating up through the murky water of his eyes, breaking the surface without a ripple and simply taking over. For a split second, darkness flashed in his eyes, but it shrunk away almost as instantly as it had appeared.

"What?" he asked her, the fading embers of his native accent struggling for breath, seeming to be fighting to be heard past the American one that was growing in his voice. It was a shame, she thought, as his accent was quite a nice one, but the kind of limbo he had now was one of the greatest things she's heard for a while.

She smiled cooly at him, but it did not reach her eyes. "A neighbor. You know what it means."

He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing, and his eyes darted to her feet. He blinked twice before finally raising his gaze back to her. Flickering unease was swimming in his eyes.

"Who?" he asked, and she smirked.

"You're not talkative today, are you?" she asked, even though she already knew that no, he was most certainly not, and he scowled at her, the dark flash returning, remaining dominant in his eyes for just a moment longer than it had before.

"Come on, Sherlock," he said and she chuckled. Her name sounded quite nice in that mixed accent of his. Everything did, really.

"You remember the Lightwoods?" she asked, the name dripping with scorn and hate, deciding that he might lose his mind if she kept him waiting for too long, and his eyes narrowed slightly in thought.

"Which ones?" he asked. "I've known quite a few. So have you." She could tell by his voice that he already knew exactly which Lightwoods she was talking about.

She leaned forward slightly, hand dropping from her hip, finger pointing at her chest, strands of dark hair grazing at her hand. "My Lightwoods."

After a moment, he nodded with a knowing and serious blink, and she fell back against the doorframe, her hand dropping down to her side.

"So are the two of them-" he began to ask, but she held up her hand to stop him. He waited, as she idly ran it through her silky waves of hair.

"No. Not them. Have I told you about their children?"

His eyes went wide, glittering in the dim Witchlight. Horror was glowing and dominant in his eyes. "Children? Those Lightwoods, your Lightwoods, they have children?" his voice, normally rock-hard and steady, had the faintest hint of a tremble. She could see why he was appalled. She hated those Lightwoods. She nodded once, lock of hair falling into her face.

"Yes. Their youngest is dead, but that was Jonathan's doing. Besides," she said with a heavy coating of scorn in her voice, brushing the wayward lock aside. "I asked him to kill all three. He failed miserably."

"He what? You what?"

She looked at him, and flicked her eyes away. His face had changed very, very slightly, hardly at all, but enough to cooperate with his eyes to better illustrate his horror. "He killed their youngest. Nine-year-old boy. I-"

"Can't you leave it at that?" he yelled out, cutting her off, jumping to his feet, hands curled into shaking fists at his sides, light eyes dark, so dark in his anger, his face drastically different, lines in it deep. He was really angry, furious - his native accent was almost dominant, and his voice was trembling, both in fury and sadness, she could tell. "They've lost one child! A nine-year-old boy! It was your doing, you asked Jonathan to kill them! Why can't you leave it at that?"

"You know why," she spat, pointing at him, her voice completely venomous. "Now sit down, before I make you."

Trembling in anger, the darkness in his eyes faltered slightly as her threat sunk in. She had made worse, and she ha carried out worse. The emotion on his face slowly sunk away, returning to the stony, indifferent, and blank expression he had always kept on his face, almost like a shield. The blackness in his eyes slowly fading, he took a step back and practically threw himself against the wall with a thud, crossing his arms harshly over his chest. "Better?" he asked dryly, and she waved a dismissive hand.

"Fine."

He bowed his head slightly so his light hair hung down over his eyes. "So who?" he asked, and she could hear in his voice that he was trying not to scream and lose control.

"The oldest son. Black hair, blue eyes," she stared at him, boring her eyes into his skull. She saw him swallow again, and tip his head slightly up, peeking at her through the hair that hung down at just a length to shield his eyes. He blinked.

"Why him?" he asked, and she could tell he was genuinely curious, his voice a bit calmer, evident by the return of his half-American accent, but he was still fuming, furious. She smiled, proud of all her work, all her spying, and she could just feel her pretty eyes sparkle.

"He's the one connected to everyone," she said, almost dreamily. He looked at her, full-on now, the question in his eyes. She knew he was not going to talk. She could see that he would explode again if he spoke. She brushed a tickling strand of dark hair from her neck in a quick, flicking motion. "As I've said, he is the oldest son of the Lightwoods. He is the brother to Blondie and Slutty McWhore, the ones who killed Jonathan." She let out a small chuckle regarding the nicknames before continuing. "And Sparkles. He's his boyfriend."

He let our a curt sound that could almost be a laugh or a scoff. Then he was silent. She stared at him, waiting for him to speak, because he knew she had nothing else to say. He needed a haircut, she thought to herself, staring at the long strands. His hair was still short enough for a man, but it was getting very long, covering his eyes so they peeked out like glittering pools of water through tall grass. His light strands were tickling down at his jawbone and neck, covering the back of it and his ears. She wondered if he wanted any new clothes, as well. All he had were the plain ones she had Rowan poof up for him, white, short-sleeves shirt, blue jeans, white sneakers.

"Why are you telling me all this?" he finally asked, brushing a strand of hair from his light, handsome eyes, literally the only path to his mind, his feelings, flaws in the rock-hard, protective mask of his face and body. She considered the question for a moment, and then shrugged, fully meaning the gesture, looking down at her hands. She put them together, and slowly traced the swooping, graceful lines of the open eye rune with her thumb.

"I guess I figured you deserved to know. That you wanted to."

He nodded. "So what are you going to do with him?" he asked, accent wavering slightly, hands balled up into fists. She smiled, looking up at him, dropping her hands, and his eyes slowly trailed away, the color flickering.

"Exactly what I did to you," she said. He shuddered, not visibly, but with his eyes. Slowly, he blinked, and raised his eyes to her face, holding his head up high, gaps for his eyes in his lanky hair. He blinked again, faster.

"And will you kill him?" he asked her, and his voice was cold. She shrugged.

"I didn't kill you," she said, but knew that the argument was useless, even before she said it.

"You had a reason. The only reason I'm still here is because you can't kill me," he said to her, and he threw his arms to his sides, pressing his palms onto the wall, and pushed himself off it, walking towards her. "What reason will you find for not killing him? Will you make one, or not even bother with it?"

She blinked, the haughtiness falling slowly from her face, she could feel it. Frustrated, she plastered scornful vanity on there instead. She suspected she looked a bit strange, but she assured herself that it did not pull away from her beauty. He sighed, but not from annoyance. She was taken aback.

"You don't have to act all… all haughty around me. I'm your friend, remember?"

She blinked. Then she laughed. He was right. Despite all the malice, the discomfort, they were friends. Old, old friends. "It wouldn't kill you to act like it, Mr. I-can't-make-eye-contact-or-not-act-awkward-in-a-conversation."

He chuckled, but the sound was forced, the slight smile that did not change anything else on his face looking hard and strained. "Like it wouldn't kill you to just call me James."

She smirked, and her expression was seamless. "Yes, it seriously would. And you don't want me dead, for obvious reasons. Besides, you'd be stuck with Rowan, then, and she's a real pain in the ass. In my opinion, at least."

He smiled at the joke and let out a breath of air through his nose as a meager laugh, but she saw something flash in his eyes - not the angry darkness, but the reminder.

"But seriously, Mr. Icmeconaaiac-"

"What the hell?" he asked, the slight discomfort falling away, replaced by a bewildered confusion.

She smiled. "That whole Mr. Blahblah thing was a mouthful. That's the first letter of each word."

He blinked. "Did you… just think that up now? Or did you plan it before?"

"A magician never reveals her secrets, J."

He rolled his eyes, and his shoulders finally relaxed. He wasn't one to relax easily, but he wasn't the nervous type, either. It was just a watchful guarding of himself, his emotions.

"Besides," she went on, deciding that she would be here all night if they continued to joke, or that he just might explode from discomfort. "I might grow attached. I did with you."

His shoulders slowly tensed. "But the order was different. Everything was different."

She looked away, running her fingers through her hair. "Maybe."

He breathed in loudly through his nose. He let it out as a slow, thoughtful sigh. "I won't be able to talk you out of this, will I?"

"No," she said instantly, but something tugged at her mind. "Sorry," she said, and she meant it. That got his attention.

"You never say sorry. The only time you ever said that was-"

"I know," she said, and she waved a hand to stop him. "I know. Just… let me do this, alright?"

He sighed. "It's not like I can stop you. No matter how hard I tried, you would never change your mind."

"You're right," she said to him, unsure as to why she asked his blessing, and already she was beginning to back out of the room. Through his hair, she saw his eyebrows raise.

"Leaving so soon, Sherry?" he asked her, using that silly name he knew she hated. She pursed her lips and he smirked, a real smirk. "What? You called me J."

"Yes, but-"

"Alright," he interrupted with a roll of his eyes, already knowing where the conversation was going, the humor on his face falling away, the lightness in his voice hardening, straining. "Fine. But really, where are you going? Or do I not want to know?"

She briefly considered the question. "I think you already do. But if you don't, then I think you would prefer to keep it that way."

He blinked and cocked his head slightly, tapping at his leg with his fingers in that same, familiar rhythm. He knew. He already knew everything. His eyes were heavy and dark. "Tell me anyway."

She flipped her hair. "I'm going to New York. I'm going to pick up your new friend."

He shook his head. "Not my new friend. I can't be his friend if you're going to kill him."

"I might not, remember? And just because Emma-"

"It wasn't just Emma," he reminded her, flinching like she had slapped him, voice strained, the accent changing again. "It… I just can't be, okay? I can't even talk to him."

She sighed. "Fine. I'm going to pick up your new neighbor." She put an extra, scornful emphasis on the last word. He clenched his jaw. Deciding he was no longer pleased with her presence and not going to speak while the two of them stood there just staring awkwardly, she turned around and took one step, one foot out the door.

"What's his name?" he suddenly asked, but she did not turn around because something in his voice told her not to.

"What?"

"You never said what his name was. You didn't say any names, in fact, just silly fake ones, but I think you know them all. So I want to know what his name is."

She ran his sentence in her head a few times, the way his voice sounded, and his light, sorrowful eyes appears in her mind. "I thought you didn't want to talk to him."

"I can't. It doesn't mean I don't want to. You of all people should know the difference between the two, Sherlock. So?"

She shuddered invisibly at the statement, at the cold way he had said her name, the accent making it sound even more bitter now. He was wrong, she told herself sternly. She had always been an excellent liar. "Alexander Lightwood," she said, and realized that there had been a long, tense pause in between his asking and her answer. "But everyone calls him Alec." She ran the name around in her head a few times, and not for the first time. It was elegant. She quite liked it, really.

"Alec…" he repeated, and she couldn't tell if it was a question or if he was just thinking aloud, though she suspected the latter.

"Yes. Alec, with a 'c'. You know, more… elegant than Alex. Nicer."

"I heard you - and you're right about that last part. I was just thinking."

"Okay. I thought that was it." He made a small, acknowledging noise, and she stepped fully out the door, grasping the strong, heavy thing with both hands, her painted fingernails standing out, the navy blue looking bright against the dark, enchanted metal (courtesy of Rowan). She sent him one last look out of the corner of her eyes, and started to close the door.

"And the boy's?" he asked, and this time she looked at him full on, as he was to her. Neither of their gazes wavered. "The one Jonathan killed?"

"Maxwell. Max."

He nodded, and she looked away. Suddenly, she remembered what she had to tell him, what she had seen at the party.

"James, there's-"

"Wait," he piped up again, voice weaker this time. She flicked her eyes to him, then to her feet. "And don't mention Emma again," he said to her, as if reading her mind, knowing exactly what she wanted to say. "Not her or anyone else."

She turned her head to look at him, wayward strands of dark hair in her face. She swallowed.

"Alright."

He nodded, and sat down, back in that same spot, but this time his knees were to his chest and his forehead was resting against them, arms wrapped around his legs, curled into loose fists, thumb tapping away at his fingers. That same rhythm.

"What were you going to say?" he asked, sounding defeated, sounding almost like he knew she wouldn't say it now, and she shook her head.

"Nothing," she said, and closed the door with a creaking thunk, the clicking heels of her boots echoing in the hallway as she walked, like the never-ending whispers of all the promises she broke long ago.

A/N: Okay, prologue! Not really the longest, but whatever! It's seven books, what do you want from me?

If the formatting is weird, sorry. iPhone. Let me know what's off and I'll try to fix it, but no guarantee.

Also, do you remember how in Only One, Sherlock mentioned killing the loving shit out of Alec?

SHE WILL DO THAT TO YOU IF YOU DON'T REVIEW.

That is all. Probably. But I don't think so. I forget things a lot.

Later!

~CNoel