Marceline's words are like a blow, punching the air from Alec's lungs. If anything has happened to her – well, he doesn't know. He just can't fathom a world that doesn't have Izzy. She's the only person who knows him – or at least knows the version of him that's closest to the truth. In this upside down version of reality, she's the only person he can count on to realize that everything is out of place.

She's his reason to keep going, and if she's gone, then he's not sure it how long it will take for him to just…stop.

Marceline is surveying him again, looking him up and down as if she can read his every thought. For someone with such obvious intensity, he wonders how she ever managed to keep her feelings guarded from Valentine and her parents.

"Just tell me," he says eventually. Better to plunge the knife fast and deep – then maybe he won't feel it as it's ripped out.

"Stop freaking out." Marceline commands, and it's a testament to Alec's current mental state that he lets her guide him to the floor. "Seriously, stop freaking out. I think your sister is fine."

"You think?" Alec yanks his hand away and tries to pull himself up. He's not here for thoughts and conjecture. He's here for something useful.

Marceline pulls him back down lazily, completely ignoring Alec's complete mortification. "How much do you know about Shadowhunter Academy?"

Alec knows the bare minimum, and he tells her as much. When Alec was a child he was given the choice to go to the Academy. It was an honor; only the best and the brightest were offered a spot. But they couldn't guarantee a spot for Izzy, and so really, as far as he was concerned, they didn't have a spot for him either.

Back then, students were taken into the Academy when they were six years old, and they stayed there nearly year-round for their entire ten years of training. In those days the Academy was set up much like a Mundie boarding school; students attended classes, went on field missions, and shared accommodations. If not for the advanced weaponry and potential for violent death, it could have fit easily into one of the Mundie pocket novels Izzy used to smuggle under her pillow.

But now, the only thing Alec knows about the Academy is that it's mandatory and that the methods of indoctrination into the "Shadowhunter way of life" are harsh. Flunking out means being stripped of your runes and he spends most of his time trying not to think about Izzy alone in that place, tiptoeing around rules she was used to flagrantly disregarding.

"In most ways it hasn't changed much," Marceline tells him. "It's still regimented, still multidisciplinary, and still intense as hell. The subject matter has changed –" she shifts uncomfortably, finally settling with her feet tucked beneath her knees, " – but the general principles have endured. It's a lot, uh, crueler than it used to be – at least, I imagine it is. I hadn't trained there before Valentine took over."

She pauses for a second, and Alec wants to ask what she's thinking. He's intimately familiar with feeling inadequate, and he wishes he could tell her so.

It's as if he spend half his life thinking of all the things he wishes he could tell people. To his mother: I'm still here; to Max: I'm sorry; to Izzy: Nothing you do there is your fault; to Jace… Well, there are a million things he wishes he could tell Jace, but every single one will remain forever unsaid.

And to Magnus Bane: I know.

"Isabelle hates it there. Her letters say otherwise, but I know her. I know that that place is killing her."

"That's just it," Marceline says, pushing her hair out of her face. "I don't think it is."

Alec's rage is quick and fierce. This is what happens when you try to trust people; Marceline doesn't know Izzy – or Alec for that matter.

He pushes away from the wall, only to end up with Marceline's hand on his chest, nudging him back. "Alec, calm down and let me talk for more than five seconds, please. I'm trying to tell you that I don't think Isabelle is even at Shadowhunter Academy."

For a second, Alec is stunned. He sits there, useless, while his brain tries to sift through the information presented. Then, as he really starts to think little pieces start to fall together: Valentine's insistence that he stay in New York, Isabelle's ridiculous letters, the graduation ceremony that had been cancelled the year before. His mother hadn't been allowed to leave the Institute, and Isabelle had been barred from leaving Idris – both ostensibly as punishment for their crimes, but what if it was something more?

After his grand plans with the Mortal Cup had yielded far fewer Shadowhunters than intended, Valentine was almost manically obsessed with maintaining those that he had under his control; Alec and his mother weren't much, but they were two trained Shadowhunters he couldn't afford to lose. They knew New York and they knew the Downworlder haunts that littered the East Coast, and he needed them.

But if he doesn't have Izzy, then maybe that could change.

If he doesn't have Izzy, Alec thinks, he stomach sinking rapidly, then everything I've done – every atrocity I've committed – was for nothing.

Marceline barrels on, too caught up in her theory to pay attention to Alec's moral crisis.

"She was given private lessons," she says, up now, and pacing across the room above Alec. "She didn't come to mess hall, she didn't participate in group training. The instructors all said it was punishment for her part in the war, but it didn't seem like a great punishment. I mean, I know from experience that it would have been a way better punishment to stick her in the shared dorms. Those rooms are disgusting."

She trails off for a second, until another thought pops in her head. "We only caught glimpses of her, and only ever from a distance. Black hair, long legs, but never anything more. It just seemed off, you know?"

Alec does know. Valentine likes his punishments public; he's not one to let his enemies slip into the shado==[ws. If Izzy wasn't on full display, it was for a reason.

Alec pulls himself up from the floor, leaning against the wall for support. Magnus's magic helped, but it's going to take a day or so for him to be up to full strength. What he really needs is rest, but it doesn't look like that's on the horizon.

"If she isn't at the Academy," Alec says, shutting his eyes against the precarious tilting of the room, "then where is she?"

When Marceline meets his eyes this time, she's blushing. It's faint and the room is dark, but it's there: a pink band across the bridge of her nose.

"The Resistance?"

"The Resistance?" Alec slumps back down on his ass, kicking at the deep grooves in the floor as he settles. "Did she take a side-trip to the Faerie Grove while she was at it? No wait, maybe she's ascended and is leading a troop of angels against Valentine."

"Alec, I'm serious." She kneels down, making sure that he's still paying attention. "I was out on group patrol a few months ago and got separated from the group. The patrols are mostly for show; you don't get many demons or downworlders in Idris. I was tracking through the woods, trying to find some sign of my group, when I saw a Faerie."

"A Faerie?" The Fae had worked hard to stay away from Shadowhunters, even in the years preceding Valentine's takeover. The chances that Marceline had just stumbled upon one – alone and unprotected – were astronomical.

"I know it sounds far-fetched, but Alec I know what I saw. It was a Faerie and he was runed."

"Runed?" Alec looks toward the door to check the Silencing rune. For Marceline to even say something like this – death would be merciful, if it ever got back to Valentine. "Are you out of your damn mind?"

"Don't act like this is completely outside the realm of possibility," Marceline hisses, stung by Alec's rebuke. "I know that Clary Fairchild – "

"Don't." Alec's voice is harsher now – forbidding. He rises, this time to go back to his room. Thoughts of Clary bring back thoughts of Jace, and thoughts of Jace – well, they were avoided at all costs. "Clary's dead."

"But what if she's not." Marceline's eyes are wide and earnest. She believes, more strongly than Alec has ever believed in anything, he's sure, but that doesn't make her right.

"Alec, just think about it. Clary didn't just die – she disappeared. Isabelle Lightwood isn't being made into an example – she's being sheltered. Encounters with runed Fae, Valentine keeping such a close eye on your family, it's all got to mean something."

"Just because you want it to mean something, doesn't mean it does." Alec stalks toward the door – if Valentine really is coming, then there's something he's got to do, and fast. "That's one thing I'm sure you didn't learn at the Academy: just because you're a Shadowhunter doesn't mean you can get every damn thing you want. Angelic blood doesn't mean shit when the whole world is burning."

Even though he's sure she can tell that he can barely keep himself upright, Marceline doesn't stop him from leaving. In fact, she follows him all the way to the front door, standing a silent vigil as he leaves.


The whole time he walks back to the club, Alec repeats, over and over, that this is a colossal mistake. Magnus is probably long gone, and even if he isn't – especially if he isn't – he's going to make that stupid, infuriating smug face.

Alec ends up paying cover for the first time. Depending on the night it usually only takes half a smile or a sullen raised-eyebrow to step past the doorman, but tonight he looks neither attractive nor intimidating enough to waive the ten-dollar fee. Convinced that he's going to make Magnus pay it back, he flicks the money at the blue-haired mundie with no argument and stalks inside.

The worst thing about his aching head and stiff legs, to his surprise, isn't the pounding bass or the uneven floor, it's the fact that there's nothing he can do about the eyes that trace his every step. He's been here a hundred times, always looking for the same kind of guy – big, mean, and predatory – but this is the first time he's ever felt like prey. Someone's hand brushes across his ass, but the whole room spins when he tries to grab onto the wrist. A burly mundie says something offensive under his breath, but before he can react someone grabs his arm: Magnus.

"Back so soon?" he purrs under his breath as Alec makes a half-hearted protest. He steers Alec back the way he came, bypassing the front entrance for a cramped little room outlined in red electrical tape. Mundies part as they walk by, suddenly interested in anything but Alec and Magnus. He lowers Alec into a chair and conjures up a glass of water, remaining blissfully silent.

Alec waits a minute, looking up when his legs finally stop shaking. He looks just past Magnus, unwilling to decipher whatever he'll find in those strange cat eyes.

"Valentine's coming," he says. He doesn't have the energy for sugarcoating or explanations. Magnus is in trouble, and Alec owes him a warning.

After all, if Magnus gets caught it'll be his fault.

Magnus's intake of breath is subtle, but unmistakable. "You?"

"Of course not." He meets Magnus's eyes, scowling when he realizes that this was the warlock's plan the whole time. "You knew that."

"Just keeping you on your toes." He grins and then falls into a chair across from Alec's, his long legs dangling over the sagging arm. He shrugs slowly, but his eyes are still trained on Alec, vigilant. "So Valentine is coming."

Alec is almost certain that the nonchalance is feigned, but it's still impressive. If he were in Magnus's shoes, he'd already be gone.

"He knows that you – well, he knows that someone is here." He continues, his tone accusatory, "You must have known that someone would notice, using that much magic."

Magnus raises an eyebrow, and even though his body can barely remain upright, it still manages to react to that small gesture. He's betrayed by his internal chemistry.

"And yet," Magnus says. He lifts up his nails and examines them under the dull light. His hands are speckled red; Alec's blood tells a story across his fingers.

"You should leave town," Alec says. Magnus may act like being number one on Valentine's hit list is no more concerning than the bits of chewed gum that litter the floor, but that couldn't be further from the truth.

"Are you saying this because you're worried about me, or because you're worried you want me?"

Leave it to Magnus to try to flirt with him when both of their lives are on the line. "Has anyone ever told you that you're insufferable?"

For a second, Alec is sure Magnus wants to smile. His face twitches, but he quickly shuffles his features into a blank faced stare. "No."

"No one?"

"Not in four hundred years of life." Magnus stretches, and the flimsy outfit he's wearing leaves very little to the imagination.

Knowing that it's exactly what he wants, but unable to stop himself anyway, Alec looks away quickly. "I find that very hard to believe."

Magnus rises from the chair, moving to stand directly in Alec's line of sight. "And I find you very hard to resist."

Drained, exasperated, and too tired to try convincing Magnus to see reason, Alec stands up to leave; he's done his duty by coming here. "Can't you ever be serious?" he asks, voice heavy. His eyelids droop, and he stumbles over an abandoned shoe. He notices a row of coats along one wall, and realizes for the first time that this must be some sort of employee lounge. Absurdly, he hopes he doesn't pass out on some stranger's shoe.

But he doesn't pass out. Magnus's hands settle on his shoulders, and for someone so slight, he's able to steady Alec easily. For a second Alec is tempted to just give in for once in his damn life, and let Magnus support him. Lie him down on this floor. Bring him wherever he wants. Instead, he tries as hard as he fucking can to regain his balance.

"Oh, Alexander," Magnus says when Alec pulls away. "I wish you knew how serious I am."

"I just –" Alec pulls away and heads toward the door. "Just don't treat Valentine like a joke, Magnus."

Magnus snaps a finger, and a glass of electric pink something appears in his hand.

"By the Angel," Alec hisses. The pink goop is hot. He stares down at it suspiciously.

"Drink it," Magnus says, and despite his playful banter a few minutes ago, he sounds oddly vulnerable. "You'll feel a lot better."

Figuring that it can't be any worse than the smoothie-craze Isabelle had gone on a few years ago – back before he'd ever heard the name Clary Fray, and his biggest problem was worrying that he'd pop an inappropriate boner – he downs it in one gulp. He can feel the warmth of the drink making a path down his esophagus, before settling in his chest and radiating outward. In ten seconds his body feels lighter. After half a minute, he figures he has enough energy to manage a low-intensity jog back to the Institute.

"Don't worry about me," Magnus says before Alec can properly thank him. "This isn't the first time there's been a price on my head; I've become quite adept at hiding."

Alec nods and reaches out to open the door. But before he can pull it open, he turns back for a second.

"Magnus do you – "

Magnus doesn't interrupt – for once he gives Alec the time he needs to properly formulate a question.

"Have you ever heard of a Downworlder resistance? An alliance, between Downworlders and Shadowhunters?"

Asking in public is dangerous – and downright stupid – but if this is going to be the last time he sees Magnus, he needs to ask, for Izzy's sake if not his own.

Magnus looks hesitant, and that tells Alec everything he needs to know. At the very least, Magnus has heard something.

"It's my sister," he says. "She's – well, it just sounds like the kind of thing she'd be involved with, if it existed."

Magnus takes a step toward him, but this time Alec is strong enough to stay out of his reach.

"I have to go," he says, and disappears through the door before Magnus can say another word.


The trip home is quicker with Magnus's potion boosting his energy. When he arrives, he's not even surprised to see Marceline standing directly in front of the entrance, fighting to keep her heavy lids from shutting.

"I wanted to make sure you go home okay," she says, scrambling to her feet as Alec closes the door behind him. She rubs at her eyes quickly, allowing Alec a second to step in. "You look a lot better than when you left."

Alec shrugs and shoves his hands in his pockets; he knows that none of this is Marceline's fault, but he's reached his sharing quota for the night.

She walks past Alec, slowly slightly in front of him. "I'd like to meet her some day, you know."

Shame courses through Alec. Even Marceline – one of last truly decent shadowhunters – doesn't suspect. Could never suspect. Because what Alec does – who Alec is – goes beyond fraternizing with Downworlders.

"There is no her," he replies. The bitter words leave a foul taste in his mouth and burn a track down to his chest.

"Goodnight, Alec," Marceline says heavily before disappearing around the corner.

Alec watches her leave. Better for her to think that he's a liar than to know the truth.

By the time Alec gets to bed the warmth has been leeched away. He's cold enough that even a stack of blankets from the storage closet down the hall can't keep him from shivering.

One of the blankets is old – at least fifteen years, he'd be willing to bet – and the last time he can remember seeing at was at this indoor picnic that Isabelle had set up when they were kids. Jace had still be wary of the pair of them, and had hovered by the door, picking at a piece of splintered wood while Izzy set up intricate china that she'd pilfered from one of the cupboards their mother had expressly forbidden them from playing in. Still, their mother wasn't there, and Izzy was always one to bend the rules. Alec could remember sitting on the edge of the blanket, rigid, not wanting to let Izzy down by leaving, but terrified that their mother was going to catch them.

It's funny, he can't remember now how the food tasted – or even what they had eaten – but he can remember exactly how he felt, for the whole hour that they'd sat there, tempting fate. He can remember exactly how Izzy looked as she'd snuck back to the cabinet with the fine china. He can remember Jace rolling his eyes, disgusted with both of them for playing such a childish game, but especially with Alec, for his reluctance to take any responsibility for his actions.

It's always easy – especially in these moments before sleep, when his whole body shakes with the force of his racing thoughts – to remember the innumerable times he'd been a coward.

Tonight his thoughts are suffocating; they pound against his head and screech until he can barely breathe. He thinks of Izzy, fighting alongside downworlders while he slaughters them under Valentine's command; he thinks of Magnus, dark and dangerous and tempting; and he thinks of Marceline and I'd like to meet her someday, and the all-encompassing loneliness that threatens to smother him. His chest squeezes with panic, and there's an aching, clawing pain that stabs from behind his breastbone, screaming for release. No matter how much he gasps for air – no matter how much he takes in – it'll never be enough. This weight will crush him before he can move.

He scrambles along his bedside table until his fingers settle around his stele.

Instead of a careful press to the inner thigh, tonight he cannot stop himself. He needs to carve out this pain, and it needs to happen now. He chokes on air, and tightens his grip on the small tool. Then, rubbing his left hand over the slick sheen of sweat that coats his chest, he scrapes the burning point along his sternum.

It burns and burns and burns until he can finally breathe.


Woah, that was an intense one. hope everyone is still enjoying themselves... ;)