(( Disclaimer: You know the drill. I don't own the Mortal Instruments universe or any of the characters indigenous to it. Those all belong to their creator, Cassandra Clare. I do own, however, the story line, the writing itself, and any original characters I add to the Mortal Instruments universe. Please review if you like what you read! Feedback keeps me going. :D I am so glad you guys are enjoying the story so far. ))

"for there is nothing either good or bad,
but thinking makes it so."
- Hamlet ( II, ii, pg. 11)

The Institute was surprisingly quiet, considering how much traffic it had been hosting in the past week. The Silent Brothers came and went, mainly Brother Enoch and Brother Zachariah, but there were other visitors as well. Aline Penhallow had visited a handful of times, usually to see Isabelle and discuss what the two girls referred to as "private matters" whenever Alec or Jace asked. The Lightwoods had kept a short list of allowed guests but those who were given access were given it frequently. The stillness of the air would have been out of the ordinary, were anybody there to observe it.

In fact, the only inhabitant currently there was Alec, and he had been sleeping since the evening before. The last week had been a miserable blur for him, after he and Magnus had broken up. He tried, just a few times, to find solace in Isabelle, but her harsh response when he told her the truth about why he and Magnus broke up propelled him back into solitary sadness. He tossed about occasionally as he slept, stirring with nightmares.

He was not interested much in being awake, considering the state of things around him.

Yet, as the stagnant feeling rose, like hot air, throughout the Institute, Alec slowly woke up. His eyes adjusted to the dim light of his room. "Izzy?" He called out, mostly aware that if she were farther than down the hall she would not hear him. Still, he called for her again. He just wanted the reassurance of another voice. "Izzy?"

"Are you always this pathetic?"

A voice did answer him, but it was not the one Alec expected. Low, neutralized in accent, and most certainly female; the voice made him shiver despite the blankets piled on top of him. The voice reminded him of the thick, connected movements of oil as it traveled across a surface.

Alec may not have possessed the Heavenly Fire inside him, like Jace, but he was a Lightwood and that made him a World Class Shadowhunter to many. His surprise and his fear were instantly dulled by his instincts, if not also a little by his sorrow. There was less urgency in life without Magnus, and Alec felt that very sedation now as he continued to lie in bed, protracting his gaze to the silhouette now that belonged to the voice.

It was a young woman with the figure of a warrior who worked in the shadows. Slender, tall, pliable, and quick. She appeared to be able to change just by some trick of the light, and as Alec watched her with a guarded expression he noticed the angles of her face. She was not like any of the young women he had seen in his life. Shadowhunters were often of European or Nordic descent, and despite studying at an Institute in New York City, a hub of cultural diversity, both mundane and Downworlder alike, Alec spent little time around those he did not have an explicit reason to be around.

Which meant that he was used to women like Camille, or women like Clary, who either hid from their femininity or used it to soften the men they kept company with. He was used to the candor of a face whose features could be seen all at once. Alec was used to women who could be remembered after being seen just once.

What he saw before him was foreign enough to his concept of a young woman, was striking and alluring and baffling enough to him, that for a brief moment he felt a small flare in his chest. He forgot the question. "What?"

The young woman laughed, and it was no less mysterious than her appearance. It sounded like a kaleidoscope lived in her throat, and it scattered the strings of her laugh about, filling the entire room with different textures and meanings. "That answers my question. Are you a Lightwood? I need to speak to one of the Lightwoods. Preferably the one running this place."

Alec pushed the covers away from his chest and sat up. His eyes traveled to her dark brown hair, which was messily held in a ponytail that appeared to have been tossed about from the night wind. Some of it hung down in tendrils, dripping guiltily with rainwater. "I am a Lightwood. Not the Lightwood who runs this place, but I am certainly 'in line' for the gig, as they say."

"Who's they?"

"What?"

"Who's they? Are you still asleep? You seem to be having great difficulty with simple questions." The young woman took a step towards him, and as she did Alec pushed the blankets even further away, swinging his legs off the bed.

"It's a figure of speech. Who are you? What do you want?"

"Ah, finally, you're behaving somewhat rationally." The young woman smirked, and as she did her nose seemed to pull itself down, briefly disrupting its arrow straight appearance. Alec felt his chest tighten.

"If you came here to speak to a Lightwood," he stood while speaking, trying to ignore the buzzing in his breast, "then you should know what we are, and what I am capable of, at the very least."

"Is that a threat? Do you think a little Nephilim son can do anything to me?" She swayed in place for a moment. Alec squinted. He wondered if the dim light of his room was making her appear illusory.

"Who are you?" He repeated, raising his voice. Alec was blessed with a face that appeared harsh even when at rest, so when he truly was agitated his expression was enough to incite fear in those who crossed it. The young woman, however, seemed neutral. After a minute, she began to move towards the door. Alec, quick as a fox in hunt, darted between the young woman and the doorway. The abrupt movement had left him breathless, and it appeared to have done the same to her, but when he rushed to block her she had been facing the spot he intended to take before he took it, smiling. Like she had been waiting for him.

"Alec Lightwood. You certainly aren't the one with Angel blood." The young woman chuckled; it was a soft on his ears, and he caught the tingle of breath that came from it. They remained still, and close, as she chuckled again. "I know about you and the Warlock."

This suddenly sobered Alec. He took a step back, expression cross. "What? How do you-what exactly are you talking about?"

The young woman sighed, squeezing the bridge of her nose in frustration. Her fingers were slender and tan. "Don't you get it? None of that matters. You're not asking the right questions. The larger point, here, Mr. Lightwood, is that I obviously know much more than I've let on, and what I've let on is enough to frighten you into a defensive mode. You're better off answering my questions first."

Alec moved slowly towards his dresser, aware that his stele was in the first drawer, under a small pile of shirts.

"Your silly magic drawing sticks won't work on me. Neither will your daggers. Just as your friend Clary Valentine found out, I am not anything you have been trained to understand. Do your part. Answer my questions and you might be spared the fate that awaits your friend, daughter of Valentine."

He was not listening to her. He had already lunged for the dresser, grabbing both his stele and a slender, hooked dagger simultaneously. Twisting his waist, he flung the dagger with his full might in the direction of the young woman, but as his body came around he saw the blurry image of her feet, and then there was nothing in front of him. The dagger slammed into the wall across from him.