A/N: Ok guys, sorry for the wait. School is winding down, and the professors are loading us poor students with homework. Two things guys:
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OK--I'll shut up now. I'm not especially happy with this chapter...I fill like it's one of those filler ones that aren't exactly great, but are essential to the story. So bear with me, kay?
The air was oddly chilly for a summer night, making him draw his dark cloak tighter to his chest, as if he could keep the heat from seeping out of him like water through cotton. His usual flamboyant style had been tamed in an effort to be as inconspicuous as possible. He melted through the late night crowd, not gaining the blatant stares that he usually did. To be completely frank, he missed it. He loved seeing the awed look on mundanes faces' as he passed, as if they had been suddenly blinded by the sun, but were too curious to look away. But tonight, he needed to be completely unnoticeable, invisible. One of the millions that lived in the populous city.
For once, he wanted no one to remember him.
Of course, a glamour would have helped him in his quest, but he wasn't sure if he could summon one if he tried. This could be quite an annoyance if one was a warlock with seemingly endless reserves of magical power. His magic had been waning as of late, and now... all he knew was that he had to expel massive amounts of energy--magical and otherwise--to eek out the smallest of spells. He had a vague idea of what was happening, he'd seen it before in others of his kind. Typically it ended in death he thought cheerfully, with a roll of his eyes. He shook his head lightly, trying to rid his mind of those thoughts like a dog shaking water out of its ears.
Despite his best efforts at blending in, he still exuded a sort of elegance about him. No matter how hard he tried, heads still turned to watch him as he passed. Perhaps it was that he'd been walking for several hundred decades, most of them in another time when the way that a man carried himself was his worth. Gentleman were expected to stand straight, and arrogantly, not in the characteristic slouch of today's children.
He frowned, and stopped at the end of the block. This particular street was darker then most, the streetlamp above him had been shattered, and he could hear the crunch of the glass under his feet as he walked. Taking the little strip of paper out of his pocket he stared at the numbers. He had the right address. He gently cleared his throat, feeling slightly nervous. Normally, this kind of thing wouldn't frighten him, but considering his magical…anomalies lately, he felt as unprotected as a woman on the street.
The building was old, and decaying, a squat brick apartment that was only about three stories high. The street around him smelled like old cigarettes and cat pee. Two hooligans were skulking around in the back, not even making an attempt to keep themselves quiet. At least they could have the decency to not alert their neighbors when they were committing a crime. God, what a neighborhood.
Shoving his hands back in his pockets, he gave a resigned sigh. A crypt. Typical. He thought slightly bitterly. He walked up to the steel door and knocked forcefully. He waited a few moments before hearing several clinking sounds on the other side of the door.
"Magnus?" A surprised Simon asked. "What the hell are you doing here?"
***
"So." Magnus said, leaning against the doorframe, looking casual. "Love what you've done with the place." The inside was as sparse, and decrepit looking on the inside as it was on the outside. With dingy yellow walls, that looked like they had once been white, but were now corroded with cigarette smoke and age. The paint was peeling away in large chips. The furniture was dark, and broken. And Simon was looking really pissed off.
"Well you know what they say, location, location, location."
"Yes, how convenient it must be to be so near a wide variety of crack houses."
"Its cheap. And not too far away from Central Park."
"What's in Central Park?" Magnus asked, stalling for time. Shuffling his feet into the room. It was almost as cold in there as it was outside. Apparently it didn't bother Simon.
"I like to eat the duckies. Why are you here, Magnus?"
"Wow. Someone's grouchy. Did I wake you up or something?" He asked sarcastically, knowing that Simon didn't sleep at night.
"Yes."
"Really?" Magnus was thrown for an instant.
"No, I'm screwing with you. Why are you here Magnus?" Simon replied, irritated.
He'd just been getting ready to go hunt. He was thirsty, and irritable and didn't like Magnus looking at his meager apartment like it was something disgusting on his shoe. He'd picked this place because he was close to the park. Not only was there small game, but occasionally he would come across someone committing a crime that he could prevent. Maybe he could save someone even if he couldn't save himself.
The kiss with Isabelle had been both the best and worst moment of his life. He'd gotten to kiss the woman of his dreams-feel her soft lips against his, touch her inky black hair-but it wasn't enough. He wasn't enough for her, she didn't want him, and that opened a gaping hole in his chest. He felt like someone had scooped his insides out. It wasn't a pleasant feeling. Suppressing a sigh, he brought himself back to the present. Magnus was looking at a large crack in the wall that was damp around the edges. His dignified nose was crinkled in distaste.
"I'd ask you if you want something to drink, but I don't know if you prefer type A or O." Simon said, grinding his teeth into a fine powder. Magnus smiled and opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by a loud popping noise, like a firecracker.
"Was that a gunshot?" He asked, sounding slightly panicked.
"No." Simon replied. Yes, actually it was, but you already look like a cat in water, so I won't freak you out more. Simon thought, crossing the room to close the curtains. But before he could get them closed completely, Magnus was at his side, peering out the window.
"Is that man peeing on your doorstep?" Simon sighed.
"Yes. He does that sometimes. I've affectionately named him Pee Guy" Magnus nodded, his eyebrows raised.
"I've a question for you, vampire." He said, still watching the drunken man stumble around in the dark. He finally turned to look at him. "You've recently had discussions with the Night Children, correct?"Simon nodded once."And they wanted to know about Clary's child?"
"Yes." Simon replied, confused and slightly guilty. Magnus frowned and slowly shook his head.
"I don't understand." He said, mostly to himself. Simon almost put a comforting hand on his shoulder, but felt awkward around the warlock. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Surprisingly, that does." Magnus smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I don't know how to tell you this, but...something is happening to me. Something that even I can't fully begin to comprehend. "
"Okay." Simon said, a creepy sense of foreboding was crawling up his spine in cold scratches.
"Someone is….draining my power. Sucking it out of me like some malignant leech." Magnus looked Simon in the eyes, Simon had one eyebrow raised in challenge. "Oh, no offence." He said as an after rolled his eyes.
"None taken. What do you mean, 'draining your power?' " Simon asked, changing his expression to one of concern.
Magnus rubbed his temples, and sat down on Simon's mangy couch. Then he sprang back up as if he'd sat on a pan of hot coals. "This is Versace, I'm not taking any chances." He mumbled, eyeing the frayed fabric suspiciously. Tearing his eyes away, he looked at the vampire. "Magic is like….a network of sorts."
"A network?"
"Well you're a nerd, I figured you would understand that term."
"I'll take that as a compliment. "
Magnus ignored this. "As long as there have been warlocks, there has been magic. And vice versa. Magic is elemental, wild in a sense, it is simply too much for a mortal human to master. That's why the runes--which are so full of the most basic form of magic--burn normal humans without Shadowhunter blood, turning them into Forsaken. Without some element of supernatural--holy or otherwise--in our veins, its is impossible to hold the magic. Warlocks were a race created to dominate this magic. Bend it to our wills. So in this sense, all warlocks are connected. A network."
"A network?"
"My god, is there an exceptionally stupid parrot in here?"
Simon sighed.
"Magic is something immense and powerful. No one knows how powerful exactly, I mean we all saw Valentine do things that we couldn't even imagine. All warlocks or magic users can tap into this vast magic, it's not something that we store in our bodies, it's something that we borrow. But our use of it is limited, we can use it for only so long, before draining our bodies of the power, and once we've done that, were both physically and meta-physically exhausted. Magic is not free. It always has a price. Do you remember when Valentine set up the wards on the ship on the East River?"
"You mean when Clary blew the ship apart?"
"Yes."
"I remember." He said. The image of Clary scrambling to draw the rune was burned into his mind as if someone had put it there with a red-hot poker.
"When Valentine was setting the wards up--it messed up the Magical Wavelengths. By the end of the night, I was so exhausted I nearly passed out, I had to borrow Alec's…." He trailed off, looking uncomfortable.
"Alec's what?"
"Shut up Simon. My point is I can feel when someone is using magic around me. Especially dark magic. That's why warlocks don't live around each other, if were in too close a vicinity, it screws up the magic. Simple spells get interfered with. The Magical Wavelengths go haywire."
"Still not getting the point, Magnus."
"Hold your crucifix, I'm not done yet. Now warlocks, especially warlocks that use dark spells can steal or hijack the magic. Its an unspoken rule that we just don't do that to one another to each other. Because a warlock with too much magic is dangerous. It can do to us what rune marks have done to the Forsaken, it corrupts, turns us into something crazy. Evil. If one person has a capital on magic, the whole world would turn to chaos."
"But having one person to rule all the magic doesn't sound so bad. I mean, if only one person held the magic, then there would be less chances of….rogue warlocks, right?" Simon felt a little rediculous.
"Yes. Because dictatorships have worked so well in the past."
"Point taken."
"If one person has control of the magic, he controls the world." Magnus sighed, and rubbed his temples again. "I think there is a warlock that is taking more then his fair share of the power, therefore, he's draining everyone's power, mostly mine however, because I am closest."
"Why do you think so?"
"Because…I'm having trouble performing it."Simon raised an eyebrow, and smirked.
"You know there's a little blue pill-"
"Grow up, Simon. You know what I mean." For a moment, Simon was hurt. He wished he could grow up.
"Why are you coming to me with this?" Magnus looked uncomfortable for a second.
"Because us Downworlders have to stick together. I was wondering if you heard anything from the Night Children about a power hungry warlock...? "
"No, I'm sorry." And he was sorry, to his surprise. "Shouldn't we go to the Institute with this…?"
"No!" Magnus almost yelled. "They shouldn't concern themselves with this."
"You mean Alec shouldn't concern himself with this." Magnus was silent, his eyes on the floor. Simon crossed his arms, knowing he had hit his mark.
"Just keep this to yourself for now." Magnus said, looking up to meet Simon's eyes. Simon was surprised with what he saw, a mixture of pleading and anxiety. Simon had his one vulnerable spot. "Please." Magnus almost whispered. "I don't want Alec to worry. I can handle this myself." Simon felt a pang in his chest--he wished someone loved him that intensely. But at the same time, he didn't want to keep secrets, especially from the Institute, and ultimately the Clave. But, being a creature of the night, he himself was a secret. The premise of his existence was a secret. It was fitting that he lived his life in half-truths.
"Alright." He found himself saying. "I won't tell anyone. I'll keep your secret for now, but one more thing. Earlier, you asked me why Raphael's coven had asked me about Clary. Why was that?"
"I don't know yet. But lately I can feel dark--all magic is dark, but some more then others--being used. And it's unnatural for vampires to care about Shadowhunter's lives. It just struck me as unusual for them to be inquiring about it at all."
"Do you think that this dark magic has something to do with the arrival of Clary and Jace's child?" Magnus rubbed the back of his neck absentmindedly. One of his many rings caught the light, momentarily blinding him.
"Yes." Magnus said finally. "I think it has something to do with the child." Simon couldn't suppress the small gasp of surprise emerging from his lips.
"Do you think she's in danger?"
"I don't know." He replied, "not yet." Simon was silent, but his thoughts were far from calm. He was paralyzed with fear for Clary. For her child. Magnus spoke. "I'd appreciate it if you would keep an ear out for anything that sounds suspicious." Simon nodded, regretting his vow not to say anything.
"Will do." Magnus turned to leave, and took a few steps toward the door. He stopped, a hand on the doorknob.
"Thanks, Simon." He said, choking on the worlds only slightly.
"You're welcome Magnus." And with that the warlock was gone, leaving a small traces of glitter where he had stood.
***
It was at three in the morning that Clary had the dream.
Half awake, and half in a dream like trance she rose from her bed. She hardly felt the cold floor under her feet as she made her way to the easel that served as her artists corner.
Not entirely coherent, she flipped the large sketchpad back several pages, getting one that was pure. White and blank.
With her thumb and index finger, she picked up a piece of the artists charcoal she used and began to draw the image in long, angry strokes. It came to her slowly, like in the old days, when she had to concentrate on removing the glamour from things, but the image was burned into her brain with a white-hot fury. Her fingers whipped around on the page, almost inhuman in their speed. The pace at which she was moving would have made drawing difficult for DaVinci, but her fingers moved with a grace and finesse, and certainly something unnatural.
The sharp planes an angles were intimidating, intrusive. The shadows that so heavily surrounded them only enhanced the sharp contrasts. Clary's hands begun to shake, smearing the heavy charcoal slightly. It was beginning to come together now. A wing. Another wing. A manacle.
The night in the Wayland Manor would never leave her, but never had she had such vivid dreams about it. Never.
She must have made too much noise, because suddenly there was a concerned "Clary?" from behind her. She didn't have to turn to know what he would look like. Angelic blonde hair mussed from sleep. His white t-shirt crinkled.
Normally it would have made her smile, but at the moment, she had to finish the drawing. It was as if she had lost of her control. Something had taken possession of her body, the way her fingers moved were familiar, but not her own. It was her gentle hand that was beginning to cramp with the ferociousness of her movements. Her fingernails that were starting to bleed from the pressure. But it was not her intent driving these actions. But she was helpless to stop the same she was not afraid, she did not sense danger. However giving up possession of her body was still unnerving.
Jace had fallen silent behind her, watching her work, with a concerned expression. Her body was blocking most of the drawing, but Jace could see the edges. They were dark, cast into shadow. It left him feeling inexplicably distraught. He watched her arm fly across the paper in long arcs, nearly tearing the sheet in two several times. Her fingertips were black from the charcoal, her chest was heaving from the effort.
And as if something had literally jerked her hand away from the sketchpad, she stopped.
"Jace." She said, not turning to face him, "can you get my Stele?" Without saying a thing, he left the room, entered their bedroom, and grabbed it out of the nightstand, confused at what was happening. When he returned, Clary was standing away from the drawing. Jace knew that face. It haunted his dreams on occasion. He nearly dropped the Stele.
In the picture, the angel Ithuriel, was looking as he had in his last moments on earth. Chained to the wall, his eyes hollowed pits, his bones jutting out under nearly transparent skin. He was covered in dried blood and grime. Yet the angel was still inhumanely beautiful, but horrifying at the same time."What's going on here, Clary?" Jace demanded.
Clary was leaning against the wall next to it, looking dazed. She didn't answer, just grabbed for the tool, and went back to the sketchpad. She placed the tip of the Stele against the paper, and closed her eyes, letting the rune come to her. Without opening her eyes, the tip of the Stele scratched against the paper, smearing the charcoal. After a moment, she felt the rune was complete, and stepped away from the easel. The runes glowed against the paper, a warm, golden color against the pale whiteness. Clary was concerned for a moment that the paper might catch fire. But then, as the marks began to fade, Ithuriel turned his head and hollowed eyes toward them. His wings ruffled, like a bird in a breeze. He was looking directly at them.
"There is trouble." The angel said. His voice was like wind chimes, and thunder. Beautiful, yet ominous and terrifying. Jace and Clary only gaped at the talking paper.
"Holy shit." Jace said, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Clary agreed silently.
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