Author's note: So sorry for the late update! Life went to you-know-where in a you-know-what for a while, but I shall continue to write, come *bleep* or high water!
To Rosie and PryingLittlePandora: I would thank you properly, but seeing as you're anonymous, I can't. So I do it here :D. Thank you! I love you both!
Disclaimer: If I owned The Infernal Devices, 1) I would not be writing this and 2) I would not be staring out my window at snowflakes right now.
Oblivious
Camille paused at the door to her drawing room. Soft murmurings wafted through the barrier, indiscernible to a human but perfectly clear to her vampire hearing.
"Delightful, is it not?" The voice was undeniably Magnus Bane's. He sounded as though he was thoroughly enjoying something...
"Heavenly. I do believe it is a perfect fit for me."
That voice sounded vaguely familiar, but Camille could not place it. She placed a hand on the door and was just about to push it open when a long, throaty groan sounded from within the room. She froze for a single incredulous instant and then slammed the door open.
Her eyes first found Magnus where he sat in an armchair by the fire. She paused to give him a glare, then shifted her gaze to the man standing beside him. They were both fully dressed but that did not mean anything with Magnus present.
"Woolsey Scott," Camille purred. "Kindly leave my house before you make it smell like a dog."
Magnus raised his brows at her, but his tone stayed neutral as he said, "He was just leaving, Camille."
"Yes, it did sound as though you were finished."
Woolsey flipped his scarf at her as he brushed out of the room. "Do not be a stranger, Magnus," he called over his shoulder as he disappeared down the hall.
Camille ignored the lycanthrope and leveled an icy look on Magnus, crossing her arms. How dare he! In her house, no less! Despicable warlock.
He merely blinked at her. "I assume you know we were trying the latest cognac from France. There is no need to be so angry, my dear. I saved a glass for you."
Ornery
Jessamine would always remember the first day she laid eyes on William Herondale.
He looked so perfect with his black hair and deep blue eyes—that definitely made him Welsh, but no one was perfect. At least he was not Irish.
She had not thought he was real. How could a boy who looked like that possibly be a Shadowhunter? Nephilim were monsters. That boy most certainly was not.
But then he opened his mouth.
That was the day Jessamine decided all Nephilim men were hopeless.
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