The Art of Survival

Chapter One: The Rift

The night is dank and cold. Dense clouds blot out watery moonlight, casting eerie bars of thick shadows across rain slick asphalt. The oppressive darkness is only broken by scattered yellow patches of flickering street lamps, their electric hum loud in the unnatural quiet.

Fall set in early this year and all of New York is despondent under the lingering chill. The cold is made worse by an unrelenting misty drizzle the smells faintly of sulfur and smoke. A sense of foreboding hangs heavy over the city, clinging to shadows and dark corners like a living thing. It's prominent enough that even the mundane population can feel spindly tendrils of the supernatural creeping across the divide.

People are weary and the usual frenetic energy of New York has been more subdued in recent weeks, solemn, anxious. They're staying indoors rather than venturing out after dark, listening to some inexplicable instinct warning them of 'wrong, unnatural, dangerous' that has made its home in the dark hours of the evening. What should have been a bustling Saturday full of music, entertainment and drunken mundanes tripping down sidewalks is instead unsettlingly quiet. Alec can feel the wrongness of it down to his bones, prickling under his skin like static.

Demonic activity has been steadily rising for the past five weeks and nobody has been able to pin down a reason why. Not for lack of trying. The Clave is stumped and the warlocks have no answers either. They have theories but none of them have been very useful.

Breaches to an unknown Hell dimension are springing open across the globe at an alarming rate, disrupting ley lines, weakening wards and causing all manner of chaos. The rifts have no discernable pattern, no way to determine when the next one will open or where. They're even appearing during daylight hours, which is unheard of, and all active duty Shadowhunters are working themselves beyond the point of exhaustion trying to keep the problem from bleeding over into the mundane world.

It's not working.

Downworlders and mundanes alike are becoming collateral damage. They've had to alter the memories of more mundanes in the last month than they have in the last 20 years.

And to make matters worse the archives have no records of the creatures pouring into their world. What are their weaknesses? Do they have any? Do they die or are they banished back to their world to reappear with the next rift? What do they want?

They have more questions than answers.

So far, thank the Angel, casualties have been manageable—minor injuries, a handful of broken weapons, no actual casualties—but it's only matter of time before that changes too. And while New York boasts a unique relationship with its Downworld even those under Alec's command are running on fumes despite the additional assistance. Already strained resources are being stretched to nearly their breaking point trying to compensate for the increased patrol rotations. They simply don't have enough personnel to keep running wartime protocols indefinitely.

Even the Clave, with its not inconsiderable resources, has nothing left to offer it's struggling Institutes.

Alec feels like he's playing demonic Russian Roulette. Eventually the bullet's going to find its way into the chamber.

Alec moves at a sedated pace, Isabelle at his side, footfalls silent despite every step being inlaid with soul-deep weariness. He can't remember the last time he managed to scrape together more than a couple uninterrupted hours of sleep and he knows he's teetering dangerously close to burning out. Ichor and blood, some of it his own, stains his patrol leathers in dark, sticky patches. He can practically taste the mephitic, sour stench of death that clings to him, is clothes, his hair, his skin. He's pretty sure he's going to need three showers to wash off the stink.

Alec is no stranger to exhaustion, to pushing himself for the sake of the mission, but this constant weariness feels like it's never going to dissipate no matter how long he sleeps. His body aches, a migraine pulses a steady, angry beat against his temples. He scrubs a hand down his face, smearing more blood across his cheek. Perfect. He thinks sarcastically.

"What I wouldn't give for a hot bath and a few hours of real sleep." Isabelle's soft words cut through the oppressive quiet. She sounds as tired as he feels.

Alec cuts a quick glance in her direction, takes note of her hunched shoulders and the dark bags under her eyes. He wants to say something to reassure her but doesn't manage more than a grunt of acknowledgement. His focus is mostly consumed by simply putting one foot in front of the other at this point. He desperately wants to collapse into the ridiculously soft silk sheets covering Magnus's ridiculously comfortable bed and sleep for a month tucked up in his husband's arms. It feels like a very pretty pipe dream.

With the constant need for all-hands-on-deck Alec has been spending more and more time in his old bedroom at the Institute rather than going home to the loft. It's making him exceptionally cranky. He doesn't miss the way his shadowhunters straighten up and scramble out of his way when he enters ops lately, their deer in the headlight, wide-eyed stares. He doesn't think he's been that bad. He just misses the comfort and warmth of home. He misses Magnus, he misses the Chairman.

Izzy grunts back at him, a tired grin quirking her lips. She's not wearing makeup today, and if that isn't indicative of her exhaustion Alec doesn't know what is.

"Why don't you go home and sleep in your own bed tonight Hermano? We have a whole six hours before we have to be on the next patrol rotation. Any reports you need to write can wait until after that."

"Izz.." She's always been able to read him like an open book. He wants to go home, he does, it's just that he knows he'll feel irrationally guilty about it later.

Isabelle holds up a hand to cut off his protest, levels him with an unimpressed stare. "No, Alec, seriously. The reports can wait and you know it. You haven't seen your husband-" she shimmies her shoulders a little, delight brightening her tired eyes, "-in three days. Go. Home." Dark brows rise pointedly.

Alec pauses, purses his lips, turns to stare longingly in the direction of the loft. Technically she's not wrong. He's behind already, but the Clave itself is in disarray and unlikely to notice if his mission reports are late. To be honest, he doesn't think they've even gotten around to reading the ones he sent last week. So, while he doesn't love the idea of leaving the work for tomorrow, he likes the idea of sleeping alone in his old bed even less. He feels warm gratitude for his sister unfurl in his chest. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

She sniffs haughtily. "Of course I am."

Alec can't help but smile at her, rolls his eyes fondly. "You good to get home on your own?" He's not thrilled about letting Izzy take herself home, but she's a grown Shadowhunter and more than capable of taking care of herself. He also knows she'll scoff at his overprotectiveness. Besides, he's already halfway home at this point. If they split up here he'll be able to get home, crawl into bed with Magnus and get a solid four hours of sleep. Maybe five if he can convince his husband to magic him unfilthy. He usually prefers to shower, the hot water soothing after a long night of hunting, but right now he's not sure he even has the energy left to make it to the bathroom.

Izzy nudges him in the direction of home. "Of course. I'll text you when I get home. Tell Magnus I said hi."

He nods, wraps her in a quick hug. "Ok, stay alert."

She gives him a sarcastic salute, opens her mouth to respond with something Alec is sure will be full of snark, but he cuts her off with an abrupt, sharp gesture. The noise is faint, the muted whoosh of a rift tearing open somewhere in their vicinity. He sighs internally. Of course.

He exchanges a glance with Isabelle. She nods at him grimly. With no words spoken between them Alec reactivates his stamina rune, the third time in 24 hours, and forces himself into a sprint.

He grits his teeth against the sharp surge of angelic magic as the overused rune flares to life and floods his system with a renewed burst of energy. The familiar warmth that usually accompanies rune use is starkly absent, it feels jagged and hot, painful sparks skittering up his spine and across his nerve endings. He can taste static on the back of his tongue, bitter and metallic sharp. Like a fork scrapped across aluminum foil.

Rune magic draws on the core energy and strength of their bearer and Alec has been depleted for days. He's tapdancing the razor edge of runic burnout. Lack of proper sleep, skimpy meals scarfed down between patrols and gallons of coffee are not enough to replenish the waning pool of energy he's tapping with each new rune drawn or activated. He's not going to be able to go on like this much longer and he knows it. Black spots dance around the edges of his vision and he forces himself to ignore them. He doesn't have time to deal with it, he can pass out later.

Alec is the first to reach the site of the breech, the portal still spinning itself up as he skids to a halt just inside the mouth of a grimy, nondescript alley.

Neon lights are flickering erratically from a nearby shop window, reacting to the magical interference. They cast the exposed brick in bright beats of colors, green and pink and blue. It vaguely reminds Alec of the lights at Pandemonium. The smell of wet trash and rotten food is strong here and he wrinkles his nose in disgust. With his luck he'll end up rolling around in whatever is creating that horrible stench. At this rate Magnus is going to make him sleep on the balcony.

With a steadying breath he raises his bow, knuckles white around the grip, red fletched arrow already notched. He ignores the fine tremor in his arm as he pulls the string back.

Isabelle falls into position along his left flank, electrum whip uncoiling with a crackling hiss from one hand and seraph blade singing to life in the other.

The rift ripples and swells, red-orange energy shimmering like heatwaves rising off asphalt in deep summer. It bends and twists as it solidifies, growing in size until it finally snaps open with a sound like a firecracker.

Alec watches as dark shapes pour from the portal with hissing snarls. They look humanoid, with varying shades of gray and black skin. They have two sets of glowing eyes set high in their angular faces and a row of razor fangs that dripped dark saliva. Their bite isn't venomous but that doesn't make it hurt any less. Powerful jaws make them capable of shredding flesh from bone in a single bite. Like ugly, demonic pit bulls.

The creature's lanky bodies are draped in scraps of multicolored fabrics that mimic clothing and they hold no weapons. The don't need them though. Their bony fingers are tipped in knife-sharp claws. These creatures are their own weapons.

For a long moment the demons do nothing but stare and Alec tenses in anticipation.

Then, suddenly, everything explodes in a flurry of frantic motion.

The demons are growling and snarling as they rush forward, bottlenecked by brick walls and thick glass windows. Their only escape is through the shadowhunters blocking the mouth of the alley.

Alec counts seven of them. It's not overwhelming odds but the demons are fast and coordinated and he's feeling the effects of the stamina rune already starting to wane. He lets the first arrow fly. It finds its home in the throat of the closest demon. It staggers forward a few more steps before bursting into a shower of ash and sickly green ichor. Some of it splatters across Alec's cheek and he grimaces.

The death of their brethren only seems to enrage the other demons and their snarling howls increase in pitch and frenzy. The noise echoes loudly off the surrounding buildings. They're too close for ranged combat now.

Alec shoulders his bow and draws his blade, the gleaming adamas bursting to life in a blinding flash of white. He slashes out, severing a reaching arm. The demon screeches in outrage and pain, its movements becoming erratic. He parries another swiping claw, twists his blade and thrusts it deep into the creature's chest. Ichor is hot and sticky on his skin and it gushes from the fatal wound. He ducks and spins away in time to avoid another shower of gore and comes up in front of another demon. He grunts in pain when its claws find purchase in his shoulder, raking through adamas reinforced leather with minimal resistance. He shifts his stance, slashes up with his blade, guts the demon from belly to throat. It stagers back, gurgling a death knell, taking shreds of shoulder with it. He can feel his own blood pouring from the fresh wound. It's not deep but it hurts, throbs in time to his heartbeat. He doesn't activate his iratze, afraid one more rune will be enough to tip him over the edge and into unconsciousness. He'll bandage it when he gets home.

Alec's dying stamina rune burns through is veins like fire as he forces himself to keep moving, keep fighting. He's aware of Isabelle at his side, rending through inky flesh with her own precise strikes and furious curses. They work together fluidly, moving with a practiced ease as they continue to cut their enemy down.

"I just want an Angel damned bath!" Isabelle snarls next to him. He watches her duck beneath a clumsy attack, dark hair flaring out around her as she spins up behind the demon and neatly severs its head from its body in one graceful movement. Neon lights flicker across her face in dramatic pulses of color. She looks like a disheveled, angry avenging angel.

Alec snorts a laugh at the absurdity of the thought. It's possible he might be a touch delirious.

Isabelle's lips twitch and she stagers with a hysterical giggle, reaching out to catch herself against the ally wall.

Alec sheaths his blade and sucks in a shuddering breath, moving to Izzy's side to squeeze her shoulder. They're both fetched up against the wall as they try to catch their breath. He eyes the still rippling breach wearily.

"That's concerning."

Typically, the inter-dimensional portals fold in on themselves and vanish once they've spat out their demonic passengers, but this one continues to twist and swirl angrily. Alec can vaguely make out a dusty gray landscape beyond the rift, barren save for a few scraggly black trees and a handful of rocky outcroppings.

He presses his lips into a thin line and fumbles his phone from his pocket. He doesn't want to call Magnus, knows his husband has been running himself ragged as well, but unfortunately closing gaping holes torn in the fabric of reality isn't really in Alec's wheelhouse. He's just pulled up Magnus's number when a writhing mass of bone white tentacles suddenly erupts through the breach.

Alec knows before it even happens that he's fucked. The world around him seems to move in slow motion as those snaking appendages reach for him, wrap around him in a vicelike grip and start dragging him forward. He thinks, belatedly, that his reaction time should have been faster. He should have been able to avoid this. And maybe he could have, if he wasn't already injured and running on the dregs of an overused stamina rune. He aware of Izzy screaming his name as he's drawn closer to the rift and he realizes with a startling clarity that this thing isn't trying to cross over, it's trying to bring him to it.

"Izzy, run!"

It's too late. In her attempt to free him, his sister is now caught in another set of writhing tentacles, held immobile as they're both pulled through the swirling vortex.

OXOXOXOXO

Alec gasps sharply as he's yanked through to the other side of the breach. It's nothing like normal portal travel. The magic tingles over his skin like angry bees, skitters up his spine and raises the fine hair on the back of his neck. It lingers for several long seconds before dissipating, slides away like grease, leaves an oily residue behind.

The atmosphere in this place is humid and sticky, he feels fresh beads of sweat break out over his skin. His shoulder is on fire now. The air smells of sulfur, like old eggs left in the sun to rot. Or maybe that's the creature holding them captive. Alec fights down the urge to retch.

The demon is a massive, ugly thing, somewhat squid-like in appearance. It flaps its leathery wings almost lazily as it flies upwards, climbing further and further from the rift and the ground below. It stops some indeterminate amount of time later, hovering well above a safe falling distance, and turns its attention on them. Milky blue eyeballs protrude from short stock, swiveling back and forth between the shadowhunters.

Alec feels like it's assessing them, judging their value with its watery gaze. He winces when, after several long minutes of scrutiny, it shrieks at them. The sound is high pitched and grating. It reverberates through his skull, compounds the existing migraine.

The demon pauses, eyestalks still rolling back and forth expectantly. Does it…want an answer? Was there a question asked?

"I…" Isabelle's voice is hesitant. "I think it's trying to talk to us…?" She looks seconds from passing out, from exhaustion or pain or both Alec isn't sure.

The demon shrieks again. It sounds agitated now, impatient.

"We don't understand you!" Alec snaps at it, for all the good it will do him. He's tired and sore, his patience is in taters, and this demon is the reason he's not at home, warm in bed with his gorgeous warlock husband. He struggles in its grasps, fingers trapped just inches from the hilt of his seraph blade. If he could just get one arm free…

Another moment passes in silence before the demon gives one final shriek and simply…releases them. It turns and flaps away, clearly unconcerned with the Nephilim plummeting towards their death.

Hot wind rushes up around Alec as he falls, his body plummeting towards the ground at an alarming speed. He grits his teeth against the darkness creeping across his vision, willing his tired, battered body to obey just a little longer. The magic binding his wings cracks and splinters. They burst from his back with a whoosh, glossy onyx feathers catching the heated air currents and slowing his decent in a well-practiced maneuver. He scans the sky quickly, panic lancing through him when he spots Izzy still tumbling in freefall.

With a curse he darts after her, wings flattened against his back as he dives. His eyes burn from the rush of air, his shoulder screams in agony, his heart hammers against his ribcage. Please. He thinks frantically. Please let me make it.

He catches up to her just a few miles from the ground, pulls her limp body into his arms and flares his wings out wide. The wind is still whistling loudly in his ears. With their combined body weight and the speed of their decent he'll never be able to slow them down in time. He cradles Isabelle against him, curls his wings around her, hopes it will be enough to protect her.

They hit the ground with shattering impact, churning up plumes of grey dust. Alec is acutely aware of excruciating pain slicing through him, hears the crack and snap of breaking bones. The copper taste of blood fills his mouth and his vision goes dark. His last thought is for his sister before consciousness falls away.

OXOXOXOXO

Jace wakes with a ragged scream, agony twisting through him, his throat is raw from the animal sounds escaping him. He's panting, gasping for breath.

He can't breathe. He thinks he tastes blood.

Sweat beads across his skin, his knuckles white where they're clenched in dark blue bedsheets. He's vaguely aware of Clary kneeling beside him, cool, gentle fingers brushing away sweaty hair, running across his forehead, down his cheeks. She's murmuring to him in a low soothing voice but he's to distraught to make out the words. Alarms bells are blaring loud and angry in his head and he can't fucking breathe.

Nightmares are an old acquaintance of his, but this -this is something else entirely. His whole body aches from the phantom pain. Slowly, sluggishly, it begins to subside, only for panic to surge up to replace it.

He can't feel Alec.

His parabatai is always there, a steady hum just in the back of Jace's consciousness. A calm, sure strength that he knows he can count on when he starts to falter. He reaches out frantically, heart thudding a staccato rhythm in his chest as he scrabbles for threads of their bond, searches desperately for his brother's familiar presence. What he finds leaves him feeling flayed open and hollowed out, unmoored inside his own head.

There are traces of where his parabatai should be, lingering gossamer strands that twist and coil around emptiness. It feels like the bond has been shredded at one end and Jace is left grasping at an nothing. He's afraid to look down, afraid of what he might not find.

"It's still there, Jace. He's still alive."

Clary, bless her perceptiveness, must have realized what was happening and her words restore some of his equilibrium. He risks glancing down, sees the rune stark and black against his skin. He breathes for what feels like the first time since he woke up screaming.

Logically, Jace knows that if the rune still exists then Alec is still alive. Logic doesn't matter when his world is tilting on its axis and his soul is crying out for it missing half. Even when he was trapped on Valentine's boat, he could still feel the beat of Alec's heart next to his own, faint, and soft but still there. Now all he feels is a crippling emptiness. He tells Clary as much, stares at her with haunted eyes. Grief is a lump in his throat and he thinks he might choke on it.

"Ok." Clary says, her face a mask of grim determination. "Ok."

Jace watches her scramble off the bed and stumble over to their dresser. He knows they keep vials of each other's blood on hand—magically preserved and hidden, keyed to their unique energy signatures for safety—for situations just like this.

There's nothing more potent to track with than the life essence of a person.

Clary clasps her hands around one of the small vials, brow furrowed in concentration. Shadows play across her features, accentuating the dark bags beneath her eyes. Her already pale skin is sallow in the moonlight, red hair a frizzy halo around her face. They're all so very tired.

What feels like hours later, but has really, only been minutes, she shakes her head and clambers back into bed, holding the vial out for Jace. "You try. You're better at this than I am."

So he does. He clutches the tiny vial in his hands, closes his eyes and reaches. It's like trying to find a path through a blizzard. A hazy shroud of white mist looms up all around him, thick and impenetrable. It feels cold. It's reminiscent of tracking over water, only the trail doesn't suddenly stop, it simply doesn't exist at all.

Jace lets out a wounded noise, frustration coils in his gut. "I can't…there's nothing…I can't…" He's shaking now, whether it's the fallout from the massive adrenaline spike, or simply despair, he isn't sure. His eyes are burning, fear's spindly fingers clutched tight around his heart.

"Ok," Clary says again. "Well figure this out. I'll call Magnus."

TBC…

AN: Hello my lovelies and thank you so much for joining me on this journey. Unfortunately I don't have a specific update schedule set but I will do my best not to leave you all hanging for too long between chapters. I already have the beginnings of the next chapter in the works so it shouldn't be too far away. As always, comments and constructive criticism are always welcome. I don't have a beta so all mistakes are my own. And of course all but my own original characters belong to Cassandra Clare. Rating and warnings may (probably will) change as the story progresses.

-GPO