Under the Cover of Night

Disclaimer: The Mortal Instrument characters belong to Cassandra Clare, and I claim no ownership over the parts of this story belonging to the Shadowhunters TV producers and writers. The rest of it is of my own creation.

A dark stooped figure walked along the Rambla under the cover of night, his face concealed under the hood of his jacket and his eyes intent on the ground at his feet. Only the odd drunk and the last of the restaurant employees sweeping floors and cleaning tables was all that remained of the revelry and the festive atmosphere that had overtaken the street just hours before. None of them paid any attention to the stranger as he made his way towards the Gothic Quarters.

With resigned but definite steps, the stranger walked along the narrow alleys in the direction of the Plaça del Rei, one of the last true Medieval public squares left in the Quarters. His hand rested against his heart where the recent self-inflicted burn still throbbed, a reminder of both what he left behind and what he carried within. He entered the square walking along the side of the Santa Agatha Chapel, avoiding the street lights that reflected the rose and grey of the stonewalls. A few meters into the plaza, he stopped in front of a massive arched wooden door, decorated with an intricate bronze knocker in the shape of a ram, its horns curling upwards and its eyes open in an eternally blind stare. He knocked twice and straighten, bringing his arms to his sides, and imbuing his posture with self-assurance and an air of arrogance. As he waited, he noticed the bronze door knob decorated with a six-point star surrounded by an intricate and swirling design. Flamboyant, he thought and smiled, the pleasant memory fresh but all too brief.

A few moments later, the door opened slightly and a horned dark-skinned face with a black goatee peered through the gap before opening the door wider to let the stranger in.

"Magnus Bane," said the horned warlock, a mixture of recognition and feigned disbelief in his voice. "You are sure a sight for sore eyes."

"Not as much as you are," replied Magnus, pulling back his hood and stepping inside. "How long has it been Gwydion?"

"Seventy-two years; since Berlin. Where are your buddies Catarina and Ragnor? She is not going to be pleased that you didn't bring them."

"Dead," replied Magnus tersely, making his way past Gwydion, and entering the enormous foyer of the palace that used to be the residence of the Kings of Aragon.

The interior of the building was not much different than its exterior. Thick stone walls devoid of decorations or ornaments sustained an enormous vaulted ceiling that stood at least forty feet at its highest point. Iron chandeliers hung at regular intervals, illuminating the room with a yellowish light. At least two dozen warlocks stood along the walls, in groups of two or three, speaking in whispers to one another. They turned and went silent as soon as Magnus walked in and stared for a moment, some with curiosity, surprise and derision, others with apprehension and even fear, before returning to their whispering, that now sounded more animated.

Magnus wore no make-up, jewelry or glitter, and his apparel of black pants and grey button down shirt under his hooded jacket was unusually severe, emphasizing his youthful features and making him appear not older than a boy. His hair fell asymmetrically and in disarray down his face, covering half of his forehead and reaching almost to his eyes.

"She has been expecting you," said Gwydion, "and you know how much she detests waiting."

"I would have come sooner, except that until yesterday, I thought you were all dead," replied Magnus, in a casual tone.

"I bet you did. Still, she expected you hours ago."

"I had some matters to attend to first, not that it is any of your business," stated Magnus looking around the room. He knew most of the warlocks there and despised most of them for their treachery, cowardice, blind ambition and feeling of superiority.

"I bet you had," replied Gwydion, a knowing and sardonic smile drawing on his face. "That was a pretty boy you were with."

"No one of importance," said Magnus, his tone even and disinterested.

He was about to walk further into the room, when two other warlocks, unfamiliar to Magnus, barred his way.

"What is going on gentlemen? I thought this was a friendly gathering," said Magnus, forcing his mouth into a casual smile.

"We have instructions to take you down to the basement," said one of the warlocks, a tall bald man with greyish skin and gills along the side of his neck. "She wants you to cool your heels for a while."

"Of course, she does," said Magnus with a knowing and unsurprised expression.

The two warlocks escorted him down a winding set of stairs, its stone steps becoming more slippery and their surrounding more silent the lower and deeper into the humid bowels of the building they went. Magnus knew that the building was used nowadays by mundanes to house a historical society of some sort, and he could see paper covered desks and water coolers as they passed through open office doors. He wondered what kind of glamour or spell the warlocks had devised to keep the mundanes away. Perhaps they simulated a gas leak; or enchanted the building to appear to be under renovations; or spell bound the employees to believe that they had all been given vacations at the same time.

He suspected this were just temporary headquarters and that soon they would be moving to a more permanent place either here in Spain or somewhere else in Europe. After all these years, he doubted she would consider carrying her campaign from anywhere else in the world. Europe was where the Clave resided and it was here where she had been defeated all those decades ago.

They finally arrived at the bottom of the stairs and after walking along a vaulted corridor with a low ceiling, they reached a closed arched wooden door. The bald warlock produced a big brass key with which he unlocked the door and gestured Magnus to go in.

"Is this how you treat old friends?" said Magnus in a contemptuous tone.

"You are not friend of ours. We haven't forgotten Berlin," said the bald warlock, a hateful expression in his eyes as he pushed Magnus inside the dark room and closed the door behind him. Before walking away, the warlock told Magnus that it was futile to try to escape; that the door had been enchanted to resist any attempts to break free, magical or otherwise.

"I have nowhere else I would rather be," replied Magnus, in an unconcerned and almost casual voice.

As soon as he found himself alone, Magnus leaned against the wall, lowered his head and brought his hand to his chest, placing it over the still throbbing burn, glad that no one could take away the only thing he brought with him to this horrid place, the only thing he truly cared about. He resisted the urge to recall the memories from the last year and find comfort in the moments of bliss and completion, in the joy of giving and receiving love, and in the innocence with which he had believed that his past would never catch up to him. There is no use, he thought, to hold on to what cannot be. He was a warlock, ancient and immortal; a warlock with a duty to his people, and it was that duty that on this dark night brought him to this dark place to confront his past and fight for the future.