Warnings: sexual assault (someone forcing themselves on another person, but no penetrative sexual assault), violence, implied self-harm
This time, when Alec walks through the front doors of the Institute, Arabelle is waiting for him. She looks ready for bed, dressed in stretchy black pants and a tank top, but her body is practically vibrating with excess energy. Her eyes are narrowed to near slits and she looks more jackal than human. Alec doesn't miss the bulge of a knife at her side or the runes that have been freshly applied. Whatever she's waiting for, he doubts it's a simple talk.
"Arabelle," he says coldly, not breaking his stride. Unfortunately, she gets up from her perch across from the door and follows him down the hall, her heels echoing loudly throughout the silent church.
When Alec shows no sign of slowing, she reaches out and grabs him, spinning him around and pinning him to the wall.
"Ara, I am really not in the mood for this," he grinds out. He's has quite enough of people forcing themselves on him tonight, and even thoughts of keeping Izzy safe can't temper his rapidly rising rage. He traps his hands behind his legs before he can do something rash, and waits for her to get on with whatever she's been waiting to do.
She ignores him and tightens her grip, blood-red fingernails piercing his skin. "You may think that being a Lightwood protects you in some way," she hisses. "But your legacy is coming to an end, Alec." She squeezes tighter. Her white knuckles stretch over Alec's forearm and her porcelain skin is mottled with anger. "You will not make a fool of me again."
The pressure is starting to hurt, so he twists out of her grip, pulling her arm out and around her back. He means to only force her off balance, but the residual adrenaline from everything that's happened tonight makes him underestimate his own strength. He feels a sickening pop as her shoulder dislocates, and he even feels a tiny flicker of pity as she moans, obviously trying to mask the pain. Using his sympathy to her advantage, she drives one of her stilettos into his foot, easily splitting the tiny bones, and flips him to the ground as soon as he doubles over in pain.
Pinning his arms with her knees, she uses her uninjured hand to extract the dagger from her back pocket. She presses the blade to his neck, leaning down so low that he can see much more of her cleavage than he has ever wanted. His gut twists painfully in disgust; after all, knife to the throat notwithstanding, there are hordes of young Shadowhunters who would kill for this vantage point. The list of things Alec would give up to be one of them – to long for Ara's soft curves instead of a lean, hardened chest – is extensive.
"One day, you'll be away from the Institute," she snarls, pressing the blade hard enough to draw blood. "You'll be away from your mommy and in my territory, and then we'll see how confident you are with your little bow and arrow." She presses her knees down, driving the bone into soft flesh, but Alec refuses to engage. He merely stares back, his face the perfect picture of apathy.
"Where do you go?" she muses. "What do you do out there all alone? I'm sure your mother would like to know. I'm sure Valentine would like to know." She smiles and for a single, horrified second Alec is sure that she knows. She lifts the blade and slides it back in her pocket before bending down so that her face is only centimeters above Alec's. "Stay out of my way, Lightwood," she whispers just above his lips. She's so close that Alec can smell her nauseating cherry lip-gloss. "Stay out of my way or I will ruin you." She closes the distance between them, catching his lips in a violent kiss. He startles and she clamps down, drawing blood, and all Alec can do is lie there, paralyzed. When she pulls away a string of blood and spit spreads out between them. Instead of wiping it away, Ara just takes her gloss back out and smears it into her puffy lips.
She's crazy, Alec thinks as she walks away from him, cradling her injured arm. She's absolutely fucking insane.
It's the first time Alec's ever kissed a woman, and it feels as much like a violation of his spirit as his body. He startles a hollow laugh from himself: what would Valentine or any of his followers think if Alec brought forth a charge of sexual assault against Arabelle? They'd laugh him out of Alicante. Weary and disgusted, he gets up and brushes himself off, drawing a quick Iratze on his neck so that the cut doesn't scab and raise questions. Once he's safely inside his room, he draws a rune to lock the door from the inside and then puts the stele on his bedside table. Some nights he'll bring it over to the desk or lock it in a drawer, creating as many barriers as possible. Sometimes, that's enough to fight the compulsion: knowing that he'd have to make the walk across the room. Tonight, he knows better. He knows it would be a waste of time.
Nerves frayed and stomach rolling, he retires to the bathroom, where he proceeds to run a scalding-hot shower. He scrubs at his skin viciously, peeling away layers of dirt and skin and blood, until it all mixes together into a blackish-red sludge. He watches it disappear down the drain and wishes that he could burn away the memories of the night – from the raid, to Magnus Bane, to his encounter with Ara – with the same efficacy.
There's no brisk knock at his door in the morning, and when Alec finally makes his way to the kitchen, he finds his mother at the table alone, drinking a cup of coffee.
He grabs a mug for himself and settles into the seat across from her. "So where is everyone?"
"They left, first thing this morning," she says. "I wouldn't have known, except that I was getting ready to go out myself." Her face is gaunt and there are lines that didn't exist even a few short months ago. His mother, for the first time Alec can remember, looks older than her age. Her willowy figure has changed into something distressingly thin, and Alec aches to be able to provide her with some kind of comfort. Jace, Isabelle, or even Max would be much better company; it's all he can do to just hide the pieces of himself that he knows would cause her even more pain.
"Do you know who's coming next?"
His mother shakes her head slowly and takes another quiet sip. "I only know that they arrive tonight." She opens her mouth as if to say something more, but the space between them remains silent. Her gaze turns once again to the window, and Alec knows that there's no use trying to talk any longer. He grabs a muffin from a box sitting on the table and gets up to leave, nearly falling backward when his mother's hand shoots out to grab his wrist.
"Alexander," she starts, "you must – must pay more attention to your surroundings in battle. You were sloppy last night."
"I know," he whispers quietly. She releases her grip slowly, as if trying to convince herself that he's still there, and continues her silent vigil long after his footsteps fade into the distance.
The new Shadowhunters are a surprise. There are only two of them this time, and they have no orders for specific raids. In fact, they don't seem to have any orders at all. The first is a doddering old man with hunched shoulders and the thickest glasses Alec has ever seen, and wouldn't last two rounds with a cocker spaniel, let alone a werewolf, and the second is a young woman, straight out of Valentine's Academy.
Unlike the previous tenants, these two seem quite keen to get to know the remaining Lightwoods. Clifton, who apparently works in the archives in Alicante, has come for a couple of weeks to sift through Hodge's old books and papers, to sort out if he was researching anything of great importance before he died. Marceline, much to Alec's dismay, seems intent on getting him to take her out on patrol, having spent most of her life in the sheltered streets of the City of Glass.
For the rest of the day it's like his shadow's had a sex change. Marceline follows him from room to room, practicing what he practices and eating what he eats and even reading as he reads. She decides to take the bedroom across from his, and when he finally manages to lose her for a blessed five minutes of privacy, she knocks tentatively on his door, asking if she can come in. Though he's sure he doesn't look thrilled to see her, she creeps into his room anyway and takes a seat near his desk.
For the first few minutes she's silent, watching him as he copies notes from a demonology text into his notebook.
"I can't believe you study in your free time," she says eventually. Her voice is soft and not at all mocking, but Alec can't help but lash out.
"Right, because being prepared to save someone's life is such a waste of time." He turns back to his book, transcribing common demon poisons and their antidotes. "There are no warlocks to run to if you get hurt," he adds brazenly. "Do you know how long you'd have to get to a silent brother if you were bitten by a Rulock demon?"
She looks at the floor, silent.
"What if it's your parabatai?" he presses angrily. "You just going to let his blood coagulate until his microvascular system is blocked and he dies right in front of you?" When she remains silent he throws the book to his floor in disgust. "You spend hours a day in that school, learning what distinguishes Shadowhunters – what makes us so superior – and you graduate so full of inflated self importance that you don't even know how to save your damn life from the creatures we were created to eliminate!" He considers storming out, just so he doesn't have to look at a living, breathing example of his people's hypocrisy, but where is he going to go? He refuses to leave this stranger alone in his room, so he just stays there, seething, and waits for her to answer.
"A warlock saved my sister once," she says quietly, still not lifting her eyes from the floor. "My parents wouldn't let me out of my room, but I could see the outline of her wings through a crack in the door. My sister had wandered off and was attacked by something – we had no idea what – and this woman just came in and worked her ass off until Kathy was all right." Her voice drops even lower and she shifts slightly in the chair, drawing her knees up to her chest. "I saw her again, a couple of months ago, the night before she was executed." She finally lifts her eyes from the floor and Alec is horrified to see that she's crying.
Alec shifts awkwardly on the bed, and is trying to find something to say when Marceline starts to speak again.
"What's it like?" Alec doesn't need her to clarify, but she does anyway. "Killing a Downworlder?"
Unsure of her motivations, but too tired to care anyway, he tells the truth. "It's horrible." What he doesn't say hangs in the air between them: It's not what I trained to do. It's not what I believe in. It's not what I wanted to become.
"I met your dad," Marceline says, breaking the awkward silence. "He said that we might get along." She glances at him through her blonde eyelashes and Alec is struck by an awful realization. Marceline is smart. She seems a little shy and she's spent nearly the whole day with her head stuck in a book. Her blue eyes are bright and he's sure that her thick blonde hair and small smile are very enticing to other guys. She also seems to share Alec's own reservations about Shadowhunter politics. In other words, she's everything Alec's father probably believes he's looking for. His father sent her here for him. He feels like he's going to be sick.
Marceline must notice, because she shuts down immediately. She gets up, ready to walk out the door, but Alec stops her. As fucked up as this is, not of it is her fault. "Wait. We can still go hunting tonight – I mean, if you want?"
She looks a little suspicious – and Alec doesn't blame her, with the way he's been acting – but she responds with a soft, "okay."
Alec settles back against the wall, looking steadfastly at his textbook. "Nine o'clock sharp. I'll meet you at the door." He doesn't fully relax until he hears her go into her own room.
"This is where you hunt for demons?" Marceline gapes at the lineup in front of pandemonium, her eyes lingering over the various tattooed patrons who are waiting to get stamped. "Your parents let you come here?"
"First rule of Shadowhunting: you go where the demons go." Alec sidesteps before a particularly rambunctious mundie trips over his feet, and his arm brushes against Marceline.
The touch triggers an instant reaction and the smooth skin brings back a flood of memories from the night before. He can feel Ara's soft hands pinning him to the ground and can taste the bitter tang of blood along his lips. He stiffens and Marceline draws her arms close, looking hurt. "I think I'm a little underdressed," she says, clearly misinterpreting his distress.
Alec actually smiles a little at that, gesturing to his faded jeans and ripped t-shirt. "Join the club."
"Hey, at least my clothes are intact," she teases. She steps toward him, and the scent of her shampoo – something citrusy – overwhelms his senses. He stumbles back, right into a group of mundanes who are thankfully too drunk to notice, but as he does, a familiar face catches his eye.
It's Jenkins, the werewolf from last night. He stands out in the crowd, towering inches above everyone else, but thankfully Alec manages to push away his anxiety and pull Marceline around the corner and halfway down the block before he can turn and spot them.
"Alec, what the hell are you doing?" She yanks her hand away, collapsing against the brick wall of a Laundromat. "Warn somebody before you take off like that."
Alec ignores her and runs out to flag down a cab. "Marceline you need to get in this cab and go straight back to the Institute. She opens her mouth to argue, but Alec just shoves some money at the driver and closes the door. "I'll be back in a couple of hours," he says as she drives down the street. "I'll explain everything later."
As soon as the cab is out of view, Alec collapses to the sidewalk in relief. He's not that worried about Jenkins – he'd know by now if the werewolf had seen him – but he can't shake the feeling of discomfort that comes from being so close to Marceline. He should have known that this would happen sooner or later. The Shadowhunter life expectancy curve drops like the Marianas Trench after age twenty-five, so romances start young and escalate quickly. Still, he'd assumed he was safe in New York. He hadn't dreamed that his father would start arranging girlfriends for him, shipping them off to him like cattle. Marceline seemed like a pretty nice girl, but unfortunately, nice girls are the last things that Alec's interested in. For a second, he tries to convince himself that it won't be so bad. He imagines going back to the Institute, knocking on Marceline's door, and pulling her into his arms, but his very being balks violently at the idea of her breasts against his chest, of running his hand along the soft swell of her hips. He may be an aberration, a shame to the Shadowhunter name, and a coward, but he's not a liar. Even if, by some miracle, he could that to himself, it wouldn't be fair to Marceline or any other girl his father decided to push his way.
Agitated, he lets his thoughts drift to what he really wants, to narrow hips and a smooth, golden, navel-free abdomen. He lets the image of Magnus Bane flood his mind – his cool finger-snapping and effortless charisma– and his abdomen tightens with lust.
Come back tomorrow.
The warlock's low, sultry purr is engrained in Alec's mind, playing on a loop like the horrible mundane songs that are constantly on the radio. Books, training, fending off Marceline – all have been attempts to rid himself of the complicated mixture of arousal and shame Magnus seems to elicit, and none have been successful. And nothing will be successful. He knows that unless he does something – finds someone, Magnus Bane or not – he's not going to be able to sleep. He's not going to be able to concentrate or rest until he can rid himself of this feeling. He's weak – a fact backed by years worth of evidence – and he should know better by now than to even try to resist.
Maybe he's not here, Alec thinks as he pushes the bar door open. He convinces himself that he doesn't want Magnus to be here, so that he can just have a drink, find a guy brave enough to go out back with him, and get this over with.
But when he looks to the edge of the bar and sees Magnus, disguised again by potent magic, chatting with a young mundane with spiky blonde hair, his heart flutters inappropriately in his chest. He dampens the feeling, pushing it into the far reaches of his mind, and approaches as confidently as he can. It's the allure of his power – the thought that maybe Magnus will be the one to push him over the edge, to drive him away from this lifestyle – that propels him toward the warlock, he tells himself. It's fear, not arousal that twists Alec's insides and makes his mouth go dry. Magnus has not only the means, but also the motive to make this hell for Alec. He can – he should – make this unbearable.
Though he doesn't look up from his conversation, Alec knows that Magnus can see him. He can feel Magnus's awareness of him; a skill honed from over a decade of battle. The young mundane looks up first, and visibly blanches when he takes in Alec's grim face and tattooed arms. Alec ignores him, and looks directly at Magnus.
"Does your offer from last night still stand?" he asks, sounding infinitely more confident than he feels.
Magnus's face is blank, but the corners of his mouth twitch with the urge to smile. His looks up through lowered lashes and a slow smirk spreads across his face. "Sorry Jared," he says to the mundane, pushing a drink toward him in recompense. "It looks like I'm spoken for." He grabs Alec's shirt and drags him toward the back room, and the air practically thrums with the force of his contained magic.
Next time: we pick up right where this chapter left off ;)
From here on out the story is going to get a lot more plot-oriented. Magnus's presence will set some things in motion that affect both our boys.