A/N

Thanks again for all the great reviews, and I hope you like the story! Constructive criticism is so welcome, so fire away :D I forgot to add a disclaimer, so here we go:

I do not own anything relating to the Mortal Instruments or Cassie Clare's work. Anything you recognise is hers; but all OCs belong to me!

something-unexplained

Run, run, run away

Buy yourself another day

A cold wind's whispering

Secrets in your ear

So low only you can hear

- Kingdom Come, The Civil Wars

His name was not Alec Lightwood anymore.

He guessed so. The Midwinters hadn't mentioned his family since he had arrived here, and referred to him as Alexander only. Alec hadn't the courage or energy to correct them.

His first impression of the New York Institute was that it was cold. Ancient, peeling and mildewed portraits of Shadowhunters dead and gone hung crookedly on every corner, and he could see his breath frozen in the air every time he exhaled. The floorboards were rotting and almost fallen through to the cellar below, and he was pretty sure there was a few hallways and wards blocked off.

It was like a sick, dying building.

He felt the same way about the Midwinters. For a Shadowhunter family who had run the New York Institute since it was first founded, their sense of pride and drive had seemed to melt away into a deep pool of disinterest. They stalked the decaying halls of the church like vultures, screeched at their (many) servants, drank expensive spirits and as far as Alec could tell, never hunted.

The only part of the Institute he actually liked was the garden. Far under the shadow of the back of the building was a tiny plot that was used to grow medicinal plants and roots way back when. All but forgotten, it hid behind the overgrown tree branches and wild bushes in a small little clearing of magic.

Alec had never experienced anything like it. The Shadowhunters, before the Accords and even after, had ancient plants and flowers that could kill, maim and wipe memory. And all of this was left to grow unchecked, winding perilously and richly colourful through the plain ochre of the strangled trees up to the Manhattan skyline. They were the only things alive back there; they had smothered every ordinary plant with their poisonous grip.

And there he was, playing with fire, every morning and night. Alec picked his way through snapping teeth and long, tickling wild grass to reach the end of the Institute boundary. Pushing aside a yellowing, loose shrub, he placed his basket down and put his hands on his slim hips with a sigh at what he saw.

This would take some work.

Since last night, the faerie snapdragons had physically eaten half of the sprouting midnight flowers, and he was left with a clump of mangled blue petals and a few fluttering from sharp teeth.

The mandrake had wound its way around another oak, its rich red vines spreading like pulsating veins around the trunk, which was already beginning to go tan in colour. Alec gave it a month before the branches followed, and then the leaves would fall. With a huff of exertion, he grasped the ends of the mandrake and began to pull it away from the tree, being careful the roots stayed put. The ruby feelers started to wind around his arms, and he smacked them away with a snarl. Grabbing his knife and swiftly chopping off the culprit creepers, he threw the plant down. A shrill whine seemed to seep through the earth, and Alec knew it was from the parent root.

This place was full of a strange kind of danger.

Alec got drunk on it.

He smiled to himself, smelling the sweet aromas of the flytraps and the smoke from the docks, and began to move around the little garden.

He reached his favourite first, the relatively harmless midnight flowers. They bloomed only at midnight, and he thought they were the most beautiful things he had ever seen. Rich blue in colour, with a creamy, gold centre and anthers like glittering shards of glass, they were used in medicine and also for lovers; they bloomed in the presence of soulmates. Alec gently plucked a petal with a quiet "sorry." He always apologised for some reason when touching them; they seemed so unassuming, and they always seemed to speak to him in some way. He sometimes got a vision he couldn't shake when he was around their flowers; of a blond boy and a red haired girl. His imagination got the better of him.

He stepped gingerly through the long, overgrown weeds and reached the every end of the plot. Here there was a small gap in the hedge, a portal beyond the mystical world of the Clave to the bustle of New York beyond. If he looked hard enough, Alec could see the harbour, and dreamed of sunlight and dancing and a different world. And here was his favourite flower planted.

Officially, it was a long Latin name that Alec couldn't pronounce, but to him and those who knew of it, it went by the Warlock's Violet. Shadowhunters tried to use it to kill warlocks and their species, but once they realised it didn't work, they pretty much abandoned it. Having heard the legend, Alec was fascinated, and with much work and research, he had found out that it had a different purpose.

The myth that it killed warlocks was partly true. It wiped their memory of a certain specific event, which was usually the first time they realised they had magic. Therefore, they went through the rest of their lives unknowing of the power they held; immortality still lasted, and that usually involved the police, accusations of witchcraft and hanging.

Alec loved them. Carefully bending the deep forest green shoots towards the faint light from the hole in the hedge, he admired the faint beads of gold that shone like dewdrops on the petals. They were delicate, but Alec knew the dangers and stepped back. He felt a small flicker of sunlight on his cheeks, and sighed deeply. Time to go back into the morgue.

"Alexander!"

He grinned ruefully at himself and half-ran, half-stumbled through the winding undergrowth to the looming Institute. Time to face the Midwinters.

Cornelius and Lissanda Midwinter stood in the foyer when Alec stumbled through, breathless, hair flopping over his face. They regarded him coolly. He immediately straightened up, feeling the contrast to their straight, stately appearance, and pushed the basket discreetly behind a pillar with his toe.

It had been two weeks, seven hours and fifty six minutes since his family had died. He hadn't even been at home when it had happened. He had been out on a hunt; the golden boy, invincible, fighting demons and earning a reputation around London for his skills. Alec Lightwood; the quiet one, but every day piercing a demon's heart with his arrows.

He should have been ready for it. He should have known, but then again, how could he? It had been a freak accident, a breach in their house's defences, and a horde of Molochs descending on his family. Everyone had died. His mother, father, brothers and his grandparents Gideon and Sophie, savaged to death and their home scorched for all to see.

Alec came back later that day, and all he could see were the Downworlders. Hidden in corners, behind trees, inside windows, they laughed and laughed until tears flooded down their faces. They despised the Nephilim, and they cackled as they burned. He couldn't breathe, his mind was in chaos, and he notched his arrows in utter despair and shot. He fired at the faces in the dark like a madman until he was seized by the Clave. Their screams echoed into London's fog.

Thirty Downworlders died that day, under the deadly rain. Alec's split iron, silver and holy water tipped arrows beat them down like they were nothing. He had broken the Accords, and by all rights he should have been put to death immediately.

But, since he was a minor, and his parents were dead, and he was clearly out of his mind, they shipped him to New York to be put under the care of the Midwinters. Here he was, and he hadn't fought since.

"Alexander." He was broken out of his reverie by Lissanda's grating speech. She grabbed his coat, and flicking dirt off the side, she swiveled him to face them. He stared blanky at them.

"Listen to us. Alexander!" He winced. "What?"

"You need to prepare your room. Demetri is bringing home a guest, and he needs somewhere to stay. So, you are moving to the cell."

He frowned, his eyebrows knotted. "Why the cell? Couldn't I just go to the guest bedroom? Actually, why can't the guest go to the guest bedroom?"

Cornelius shot Lissanda a look under his huge, feathery eyebrows. His aunt's eyes were narrowed, sharp as a hawk, and Alec didn't have time to decide whether he'd gone too far before she shook her head and clamped another hand around his arm. "You're coming with us."

Alec let himself be dragged off. Raziel help him if he had to do the dishes one more time.

Magnus was curious, and he was gradually getting on the Shadowhunter's nerves.

"So, what is this job you want me to do?" he chirruped, striding ahead even though he had no idea where he was going. The Shadowhunter ignored him, his seraph blade still out and digging into the warlock's back. Magnus wiggled his eyebrows and muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" It was the first the Nephilim had spoken since the beginning of the walk. Magnus perked up. "Nothing of interest. What's your name, anyway? I feel like we have become comrades on this trip."

"We've been walking for five minutes."

"Little things. So?"

The Shadowhunter sighed and prodded him ahead again. "Demetri Midwinter. Of the New York Institute."

Magnus quirked an eyebrow again. "Midwinters? Are you new?"

Demetri shrugged. "You're old. Time is different for you. For us, yes, I suppose we are."

They walked on in silence, and Magnus breathed in the evening air with a smile. He loved the streets of New York at night, even when being pushed along by an antisocial Shadowhunter with an utterly useless blade. He tried again.

"I think I need to know what this job is entails. Just to prepare myself." He half-turned to prove his point but was pushed back again. "I can't say. I'm not comfortable with it, but I have my orders, and you Downworlders don't have a conscience so we called you."

Magnus prickled, and blue sparks jumped across his skin. "You'd better watch what you say, pup. If you're right, then I should have no problem killing you."

Demetri squared up and locked his jaw. "Then you won't get the Book, will you?"

Magnus rolled his eyes, and with another prod in the back, they strode faster. Magnus recognized Manhattan properly now, and he could see the harbour in the distance. Another long walk to go.

Alec's head was spinning, and he groggily looked up. He was in the cell, candles lighting the outside, and the cold air tickling his skin. He tasted blood on his tongue.

He was bound. Testing his arms, he realised he was tied to a chair. Struggling, he yelled out in pain as he moved.

Bastards. They had broken his legs.

Tears running down in pain, he tried to sit up with his arms and failed. Slumping down in the chair, his head thumping, he knew what had happened.

Terror overwhelmed him. He began to pray, but he didn't know who to.

Demetri buckled to questioning after an hour and a half. "All right, all right! If I tell you, then shut up!"

Magnus looked curiously at him. "Fine."

"It's not my choice, and I didn't order it. But, it's an assassination. We want you to kill, so we don't get blood on our hands."

Magnus's eyes were wide in shock. "There is no way. I am not doing this, do you understand? My reputation will be shredded. I could be arrested for breaking the Accords!"

"You seem to have done worse in the past. And, we hear there is nothing you wouldn't do for the Book."

The cell door opened. Alec could feel his frantic breathing. He cried out hoarsely and saw white, pain overpowering his whole body.

He was going to die.