June 1866, Truro, Cornwall County, England

When coming to England, Charles had been warned numerous times that it rained all the time and he had prepared accordingly, but apparently Truro and the little Cornwall Peninsula seemed to be the exception. The day was shiny and should have lifted his spirits, but instead it seemed the bright sunlight mocked his somber mood. He had reached a dead end.

A month of searching in local records had not given him any further clues about his parent's origin or helped him find any living relatives. Opening his safe-deposit box in St. Louis had been amazingly cathartic as he read the few letters between his parents. Mention of Charles as a baby, and his sister Catherine, helped him replace some of the guilty memories he had of surviving when the rest of his family had not. Clues in the letters had led him to this area of England but he suspected his parents had changed their names when they left.

His limited money was now gone and he had to make a decision. He could stay for about another month to search or he could book passage back to America. Further lingering would mean he would have to work before being able to return and either option meant he would likely arrive back in New York penniless. His attempt to find the institute in New York had been fruitless and he was having no more luck finding more clues in Truro.

Charles sat down on a bench and leaned on his walking stick. It was really a prop, and its main purpose was to house the hidden blade he had made during his winter in Salt Lake City. In exchange for splitting wood and other chores, a nice family had let him stay in a small, hastily-constructed room in their barn. The father had been a blacksmith and not asked any questions when Charles had asked him if he had ever made a sword. Together they had developed the design during the long, cold winter and when he set out in the spring, Charles had a subtle weapon and two tomahawks that were fairly easy to conceal. When Charles had said his likely destination was England, the Mormon settler had actually given him a letter to deliver to the man's family in Plymouth, where the man had been born.

It had taken him nearly a week in Plymouth to find the family, but their obvious joy at receiving the letter and their subsequent invitation to stay had more than made up for the money he had spent in the search. He told everything he had seen of the man's family over the course of two days before setting out for Truro to begin his search five weeks ago.

A movement caught his eye as a woman passed into his view across the street. She was well-dressed and tall, with dark curls falling over her shoulder and a parasol held over her head to shield from the sun. He watched her pass and realized he was staring and hastily looked elsewhere when something else caught his attention. Further behind, a man was walking behind her and to Charles eye, he seemed to be keeping an eye on her. The bigger problem was that his demon sense was going crazy and he subconsciously connected the stalker with the "smell" of something wrong.

He waited and followed at a distance, hoping the man would turn and the suspicion would prove groundless. But he did not.

Abruptly, the woman turned down an alley and Charles cursed silently; she was practically setting herself up for something bad. When the man followed her down the alley, Charles crossed the street quickly and cursed when he could not see either of them. He ran down the alley and checked the next intersection quickly. The woman was in the right fork brandishing her parasol like it was a weapon and the previously normal-appearing man had grown long claws out of his fingers. Charles darted down the alley and gave his walking stick a twist to free the blade which he swept out and buried in the back of the demon.

As the thing disappeared, he got a closer look at the woman. She was quite attractive and he forgot his situation for a moment as he stared at her. A widening of her eyes, slight intake of breath and the stench of demon brought him back to himself and he dove to his right and rolled to avoid the chittering of claws on the stones.

The demon he saw was familiar, having once fought one in the streets of Washington, D.C. and he backed up quickly and pulled a tomahawk out of his vest. He threw it left-handed, aiming for the cluster of eyes in the center of its face. The thing twitched its long, scaled body and his throw missed the eyes, but lodged in the scales at its neck. The heinous creature screamed in pain and swung its barbed tail in his direction. Charles purely defensive reaction brought up the blade and swung two-handed; he felt the shock down his arms and amazingly, sheared right through the tail. Unfortunately, the severed end of the tail caught him in the head and knocked him back several steps to bump his back into a wall.

The demon swung to face him then and screamed in pain and rage, spittle flying from its mouth. He threw up an arm to shield his face and heard the slight sizzle as it landed on his coat sleeve. He swung the blade hastily to keep the beast back and was surprised when another blade hacked at the creature's face and took out its eyes. Without sight, the beast thrashed wildly until the woman calmly severed a foreleg; after that it was just mopping up as the demon flopped to one side and Charles took out its other foreleg and then leaped on its head to drive his blade straight down into its skull. It stopped thrashing then and disappeared a moment later.

Charles landed awkwardly and caught his balance with the point of his blade before crouching in a defensive stance and spinning quickly to survey the area. The woman was calmly wiping her blade on a kerchief which she quickly dropped, and then reinserted the blade into the end of her parasol.

"Nice parasol," he said. She looked up and met his gaze with a small smile.

"Likewise with your walking stick," she said. "I am not sure why you followed me, but your help was welcome. I had not counted on a Ravener Demon. Killing one of those alone would not have been easy."

Charles snorted. "The last one I met put me in bed for a week and weak for a fortnight."

She gave him a sharp glance. "By yourself?"

"Well no one else could see it, could they?" he said. He was about to offer his handshake when a movement over her shoulder caught his eye and he reacted without thinking. "Duck!" he yelled in his best Sergeant Duclot voice that had inspired obedience on many a battlefield. Fortunately, the woman knew the voice of command when she heard it and dropped immediately as Charles hurled his other tomahawk at a vicious-looking winged creature that was diving at her back. His aim was true this time and the weapon intercepted the thing mid-air and plummeted to the ground with a scream before winking out. He spun and searched the area again, this time watching the sky. When nothing presented itself he turned back to the woman to see her examining his hatchet.

"That was a very precise throw," she complimented him as she handed back his weapon. He replaced it and offered his hand.

"A little bit lucky, to hit a moving creature," he said. "Charles Duclot."

She took his hand. "French? But your English sounds American."

"And your English sounds French, mademoiselle," he said, releasing her hand.

"Et vous parlez francais?" she asked.

"Oui," he said in surprise. "Mais ca fait tres longtemps depuis le dernier fois j'ai entendu ma mere parler."

"Mais vous parlez bien," she replied. "Your mother was French?"

"I do not know for sure," he said. "But my suspicion is yes."

"Well, Charles," she began and he smiled at her French pronunciation of his name with a 'sh' sound rather than a "ch" sound, "your help was very timely. I must offer you my thanks."

"But not your name, apparently," he chided.

"Ah, desolee," she said. "Je m'appelle Elise. Pardonnez-moi." Her eyes widened. "You are hurt."

Charles looked down at his ragged sleeve and then saw what she had noticed; he had a darkening stain along his ribs under his left arm.

"Oh, damn," he said. He was having flashbacks of that miserable week in the streets of D.C. when he had been crazy out of his mind and unable to keep down any food.

"Not to worry," she said. "Let me take care of it. It is the least I can do." He raised an eyebrow at her, wondering what she was talking about. She reached into a hidden pocket in her dress and removed a slender, silvery rod about eight or nine inches long. "Will you remove your vest, please." She raised his arm and bent slightly to examine his cut. "You caught one of the spurs on its tail, I think." She tore open the slice in his shirt and put one end of the rod against his skin and began to trace a pattern on his skin. It left a faint white line and when she stood, looking satisfied, the pattern felt like it "tightened" on his skin and he sucked in air in surprise as the cut from the demon began to fade and then disappeared entirely. There was still some blood soaked into the material of his white shirt and dried on the skin, but the wound was entirely gone.

Charles staggered until his back was against the wall.

"What 'ees wrong?" she asked quickly, looking at him with concern.

"What did you … what did you do to me?" he asked in shock.

"I used a healing rune," she said. "It looks like it worked perfectly. Did something go wrong?"

Charles mouth moved several times, but he could not think of anything to say. Elise walked over to him, concern in her eyes. "Who are you? You seemed surprised that that worked."

"I came to England looking for answers; my family, anything to explain why I can see monsters when no one else does," he said. "That was not something I expected."

"You have Shadowhunter blood or that would not have worked, but you have never seen a stele used before," she said. "Come. Let us go to the Institute. Perhaps we can both find some answers." She led him away, at times taking side streets and alleys and other times using main roads. She walked with a relaxed air, arm-in-arm with Charles, but she kept a tight grip on the handle of her parasol-sword and she scanned the side streets quickly and carefully. Finally, they walked up to a large, near-ancient looking church.

"Your Institute is in a church?" he asked in surprise.

"Almost all of them are, at least in Europe," she explained, pulling him forward. "Holy ground prevents vampires from entering."

Charles jerked to a stop so quickly that his arm jerked out of her grip. "Vampires? Are you serious? What about werewolves? Are you going to tell me those are real, too?"

"Well, yes," she said looking exasperated.

"Frankenstein? How about him? What about mummies?"

"Those are just stories," she said and turned and walked toward the church.

"Vampires and werewolves were just stories, too, until today," he mumbled to himself and followed her to the door. She entered and led him through a series of passages that did not look like the inside of a church at all. He followed quietly, his sense of anticipation building. He matched Elise's long strides until she came to a solid wooden door, knocked and then entered.

A man, sitting behind a large wooden desk, apparently sifting through papers, looked up as they entered. The family resemblance was plain, so Charles guessed quickly it was her father, or a much older brother; if Elise was his daughter then she had been born when he was very young. He looked fit, certainly, with slight streaks of grey in his hair and a slightly receding hairline, but likely in his late-forties or early fifties. He had very broad, powerful-looking hands covered with thin, spidery white lines.

His initial look of affection changed to concern and he stood quickly.

"Have you been hurt? Were you in a fight?" he said quickly.

"Sit down, Father," she said. "I'm fine. Just a little soiled. I brought the man who helped me kill a Ravener demon."

"A Ravener?" said the man in surprise. "What was a …?"

"Later, Father, I need to introduce you to Charles Duclot," she said, turning to Charles. "Charles, this is my father."

The man's head spun to Charles and he began to offer his hand before freezing, shock evident on his face. Charles had never really understood the saying 'white as a ghost' until now; the man looked like he was searching for something, something he really wanted to find.

"Father? Father, what is it?" Elise was looking from her father to Charles and back.

"Duclot, you say?" said the man finally. "Your mother's name?"

"I do not know," said Charles. "It was the only family name I had."

"But your mother was French?"

"She taught me French, and spoke it, so I would guess she was," said Charles.

"Elise, will you go and find Stiles for me, please," asked her father. "It is not an emergency, but he will want to come quickly."

If anything, Elise looked even more confused, but nodded and left.

"I apologize for forgetting my manners, Charles," said the man offering his hand again. "My name is Lamar Bodine. I am the head of the Cornwall Institute. I am sure you have many questions, and we will answer them shortly, but for the moment I wish you to meet someone first."

"You plainly suspect who I am," said Charles. "You knew my father and you think I look like him."

Lamar blinked and looked at Charles again. "Yes. You are very observant, Charles. Wait with me a moment." They stood silently until Elise reentered with another man in tow. He was so obviously similar to Charles' father that he knew immediately the man was his uncle. His father had looked much like Charles himself, slim, just a bit under six feet tall with dark brown hair and a prominent nose. The man who entered was likely three or four inches taller and much heavier, with lighter, straw-colored hair and he radiated an air of … not menace exactly, but certainly controlled violence or maybe intensity.

He gave Charles a slight glance before turning to Lamar. "What is this about Lamar? I was in the middle of training."

"You know I would not waste your time, Stiles," said Lamar. "I wanted you to meet your nephew."

Stiles spun and looked, really looked, at Charles. The change in the man's expression was startling. His hard face softened, his eyes glazed with moisture, and tears began to flow.

"My boy, my boy, oh my dear boy," said Stiles and stepped forward, not aggressively but with open, welcome arms and to his surprise, Charles stepped forward and hugged the man. For his part, his new uncle made Charles' ribs creak with the strength of his arms. After so much searching and wondering, he had found a family and maybe a home here that he had never expected. He found himself clinging to the man as if letting go would make it all disappear like waking from a dream.

Finally, Stiles held him back at arm's length, and looked at him again. "Did you come on your own or did my brother send you?"

"The rest of my family was killed by demons when I was twelve," said Charles quietly. "My parents, and I also had a sister." Stiles eyes closed and his head dropped for a moment. A deep breath later and a smile was back on his face.

"You are here now, and for that I am glad," said Stiles.

"As am I," said Lamar. "We two were his best friends. Maybe we can tell you a few things about your father and you can tell us what your family did after he left."

"Was he at this institute?" asked Charles.

"Yes, we all grew up here," said Stiles. "Our father was the director then."

"So how did he meet my mother?" asked Charles.

Now a pained looked passed over both the men's faces. It was Lamar who answered. "He went abroad to visit other institutes. He met her in Paris. But that is starting the story in the middle and we could stand here all day before we finished. Elise, will you have Robert find Charles a room. We are only a few minutes from dinner and we can introduce him to the rest of the institute then."

"You think that Meg is going to be amused when you spring Charles on him in front of everyone?" asked Lamar.

Stiles scowled. "On second thought, Charles, would you mind coming with me to meet my wife… your aunt I guess. She knew Miles very well, too."

"Of course, sir," said Charles. Elise touched him on the arm before they left the room.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Charles; your help was most timely as it was unexpected," she said. "I will see you at dinner. Afterwards we will find you a room and perhaps we can retrieve your things from where you stayed before." She kissed him once on each cheek and then smiled at him before turning crisply on her boot heel and striding off.

"Well Elly seems quite taken with Charles," said Stiles, elbowing his friend in the ribs.

"He saved her from a Ravener demon in the city," said Lamar.

"What? Please tell me she was not out demon-trapping again," said Stiles.

"Probably," said Lamar as they led Charles down the hall. "Let us have Charles tell us what happened."

As they walked, he related the incident and the details of the demons size and features as well as how they killed it and the creature that had flown in attack afterwards.

"You sound like a more than competent fighter, Charles, did my brother train you himself?" asked Stiles.

"He started when I was five and continued until he was killed," said Charles. "After that, frontier life sort of demanded you know how to hunt with guns and survive in harsh conditions. Then, I served for the Union army in the American Civil War for four years."

"Well then you have probably seen more fighting than most Shadowhunters, though likely not of the demon kind," said Lamar.

"Oh, monsters have been following me for years, sir," said Charles. "I went back to practicing the sword because shooting them with rifles and pistols made a lot of noise and brought too much attention when you could not produce a body."

Lamar and Stiles shared a look.

Just then they arrived at a heavily-carved door and knocked before entering. Sitting inside was a middle-aged woman with blonde hair, a trim figure and kindly face that looked up with affection when her husband entered. Sitting beside her was young woman, perhaps twenty, with similar features, though much taller and muscular in appearance with striking blue eyes. His cousin. Another member of the family.

"Dear, you will not believe who has returned to us," said Stiles without preamble. The woman's eyes shifted quickly to Charles and she stared for a moment and then smiled and stood abruptly.

"Dare I hope this might be my nephew?" she asked.

"You might," said Stiles.

If anything, the woman's smile grew broader and it was so welcoming that when she open her arms he took two large steps and embraced her warmly.

"I have always prayed some part of him might find its way home," she whispered in his ear. "I am so glad you have come. Please call me Aunt Meg. I do not think I can hear it enough coming from Miles' boy."

"Yes, Aunt Meg," he said obediently when he stepped back. His cousin, named Dellia, gave him a smile and a small hug as well. They talked for a few minutes before a young boy knocked and told them dinner was ready. If was highly amusing to see how Aunt Meg, the smallest person in the room herded everyone out into the hall and on their way to wash and ready for dinner.

Elise was waiting outside and showed him to a room with a hastily-stocked wardrobe and a large basin of water with towels.

"We looked for clothes that might fit, but looking at your trousers, they are only a little scuffed. Just find a new vest perhaps, or maybe a coat you like. I will wait outside."

Charles washed and dressed quickly, had a go at his hair in with the comb and mirror, brushed the dust off his shoes and decided they would just have to take him as he was.

"You look very nice, Charles; do not worry about how it fits," said Elise when he commented.

"Well, I certainly do not look anywhere near as attractive as you are," he said. She blushed and smiled before leading him off. Introductions at dinner were somewhat less spectacular than earlier, the most enthusiasm coming from Elise's little brother, who was visiting with her from Paris. It was unspoken, but it became apparent that her mother was not here at the Institute with her father.

He also received an enthusiast welcome from a male cousin named Abram, who turned out to be born within three days of Charles own birthday. His wife and two children were also with him.

They asked him many questions about his family and how he had found them in Cornwall and one older Shadowhunter questioned him about the Chinese man who had set him on this path.

The man's name was Jerald and he had apparently met the Chinaman. "Sun Hi was a fixture at the Shanghai Institute for six decades," said the man. "In his prime, very few Shadowhunters could defeat him with a sword and that is no mean feat for a mundane. He must be more than eighty now. Where did you say you met him?"

"In the Sierra-Nevada mountains in the west of the United States," answered Charles. "The government hired a huge number of Chinese workers to build the railroad to connect both sides of the country."

"Is America really so big?" said one of Abrams young boys who were just eating up the tales of mountains and Indians and railroads.

"When it is finished, it will only take eight or nine days to cross from one coast to the other," said Charles.

"Nine days," said Abrams wife, "of continuous riding on a railroad? What a nightmare. I will take travel by portal."

"Portal?" asked Charles. Sometimes they used terms that made no sense to him.

"It is a way to travel great distances," filled in Elise.

"The wonders never end," said Charles. "Anything that keeps me off a boat has to be a good thing."

They all agreed at that, except one of the boys, who said he wanted to take a boat sometime. This kind of warmth and dinner companionship was something he had missed since spending the winter with the Mormon family in Utah, but more importantly since his family dinners back in Missouri. In the midst of conversation he found tears running down his face and suddenly he missed his family in a way he had not considered since shutting out those feelings when they died. His Aunt Meg looked at him across the table at the same time Elise noticed, sitting next to him. Meg rose and walked around the table and Elise put her hand in his and gave him a comforting squeeze. Meg hugged him tightly to her and stroked his hair while the tears came out. Soon he felt other hands on his shoulder, pats on the back and heard comforting words murmured. When he finally wound down, he looked around, slightly embarrassed and saw nothing but loving faces regarding him.

"Thank you all, so much," he said.

"Welcome home, my boy," said Stiles.