A/N: I tried to get this up faster this time, but I guess it didn't happen. Sorry about the inconsistency. A small FYI, I plan on referencing "The Bane Chronicles" throughout this story. This chapter contains a small reference to "The Runaway Queen". If you have read them, hopefully it will be fun for you. If not, it's not significant enough to really matter. Either way, I hope you enjoy this. Please review!

Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns all of these characters, the locations, the story, and a good portion of the dialogue. (Especially in the first few chapters.) I own nothing but my imagination; the universe is hers.


There was something about the effects of alcohol that Magnus adored. Downing a shot, his throat quickly ignited with fire. A deep, toxic burning became rooted in his lungs. It made his chest ache and his mouth tingle with an unsettling yet oddly pleasant pulsation. His concentration lapsed for the moment, his thoughts becoming jumbled as a wave of dizziness took over. The sensation made him want to act in an unpredictable fashion, to earn the undivided attention of his guests once more. He wanted to serenade a lucky someone, or dance in circles seductively around them. If only he had a little more incentive.

He quickly snatched a flute of champagne off a nearby tray and drank some more.

"Careful now," a female voice warned. "You wouldn't want someone to find your behavior unbecoming, would you?"

Magnus turned his head and cast his gaze in the direction of a pretty girl with a heart shaped face and curly locks of red hair. Her eyes were a deep amber and, upon further inspection, contained a teasing glint to them. She was playful, Magnus decided. Much more playful than the typical vampire.

"Have we met?" Magnus asked curiously.

The woman clutched at her chest. "I'm hurt you don't remember. It was only a few centuries ago after all. In Paris."

Magnus gave her a long look, recalling his time in the fashionable country. Slowly, the pieces came together. "Ah, yes. You were one of Marcel Saint Cloud's clan, weren't you? Perhaps that might explain why I blocked it out."

If the woman hailed from Paris, Magnus could only assume that she carried a wee bit of a grudge against him.

She smiled brightly, no fangs portruding out. "He was rather detestable," she admitted easily, apparently over the clan's vendetta. "The very reason us vampires have such a bad reputation."

"One of many reasons," Magnus muttered none to quietly.

The woman laughed and took a step toward him. "I'm Blanche," she introduced herself. "Blanche Douay."

Magnus took her hand and kissed it. "Magnus Bane."

Blanche simpered. "Pleasure."

It was then that a tall brunette came storming between them.

"There you are," said Isabelle.

Magnus turned on her, eyes narrowing. "Has any figure of authority informed you that it is rude to interrupt a conversation?"

"I don't recognize any figures of authority," Isabelle snapped back.

Magnus' eyes shimmered as he stared her down. "Fair enough."

He excused himself from Blanche, with a promise to find her again at his next impromptu gathering. She looked to be just the sort of a wingwoman that one needed at a party like this. His interest was far from romantic. The Lightwood boy still held that particular aspect of his fascination. Besides, history had proven that vampires were almost always the love 'em and leave 'em types.

Magnus slowly directed his attention back to Isabelle. "What is it you need?"

"Your magical assistance is required," Isabelle spoke savagely, although it was clear her anger was directed elsewhere.

"Again?" Magnus sighed.

"Jace insists," she tacked on darkly. "Apparently I have to play the messenger."

"He insists on a lot of things," Magnus commented.

"They're at the bar." She hiked her thumb in the direction of her friends, her bracelet sliding down to her wrist.

Magnus waved in front of himself, finding it foolish to argue. Isabelle would simply bother him until he agreed. "Lead the way."

The pair sashayed their way over to the young Shadowhunters. Upon arrival, Magnus witnessed a small rat squeak inside Clarissa's hands. He chuckled at the sight. The mundane really had turned into a rat.

"Rattus norvegicus." Magnus said the words almost jovially before eyeing the mundane closer. "A common brown rat, nothing exotic."

"I don't care what kind of rat he is," Clarissa snarled. "I want him turned back."

Magnus considered her request as he usually did, but still came to the same conclusion. "No point," he said flatly.

"That's what I said," Jace added, with just another of his typical smartass responses.

"NO POINT?" Clarissa yelled. "HOW CAN YOU SAY THERE'S NO POINT?"

"Because he'll turn back on his own in a few hours," Magnus explained. "The effect of the cocktails is temporary. No point working up a transformation spell; it'll just traumatize him. Too much magic is hard on mundanes, their systems aren't used to it."

"I doubt his system is used to being a rat, either," Clarissa pointed out. "You're a warlock, can't you just reverse the spell?"

Magnus considered that as well. "No," he said again.

Clarissa gave him a look. "You mean you won't."

"Not for free, darling, and you can't afford me."

Few could, Magnus knew.

"I can't take a rat home on the subway either," Clarissa complained. "I'll drop him, or one of the MTA police will arrest me for transporting pests on the transit system." The small animal in her hand made a noise as if insulted. "Not that you're a pest, of course," Clarissa amended.

Then a commotion broke out. A swarm of vampires had gathered near the door, shouting various ramblings about motorbikes and missing friends. Some were so inebriated that their words came out slurred and incomprehensible. At the center of it all stood one female vampire yelling above the rest. Blanche.

Magnus rolled his eyes, accepting that his assistance would always be needed somewhere. "Excuse me," he declared to the group as he left to take care of the latest problem to plague his party.