Chapter Text
For Every Bird There is a Stone
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.
~ Good Bones by Maggie Smith
Alec is alone when he arrives at Pandemonium.
The absence of Jace and Isabelle at his back prickles down his spine, but he makes himself move without a moment of hesitation towards the club’s entrance, towards enemy territory. There’s only so much time before the Clave realizes he and his siblings have left the Institute, and possibly even less time before that realization will no longer matter.
Pandemonium has become the main seat of power for New York’s Downworld. Valentine’s rise, and the systematic oppression that only grew after his death, had forced an unprecedented cooperation among the Downworld races. In New York, this means the vampires and the wolves have come together under the banner of Magnus Bane, the infamously powerful High Warlock of Brooklyn and the rumored Consular Warlock of the Americas. His club, his territory, is Downworld ground and nephilim are not welcome.
Alec allows himself one last instant to breathe, to gather his determination around himself as a shield, before he slips into the line of mundanes queuing before the doors. He’s glamoured from their eyes, but he moves strategically to use the bulk of winter coats being shed and the press of excited bodies to hide himself from the two werewolf bouncers outside the door. He needs an audience with Magnus Bane and he won’t get it if they stop him here. Inside, he’s betting the High Warlock’s curiosity will be enough to get him at least a moment of his time.
A moment is all he needs.
His cover holds and Alec makes it into Pandemonium, something loosening fractionally in his chest. He doesn’t even attempt to make it past the two guards inside the door, he just straightens to his full height and waits. The mundanes can’t see him, but his glamour doesn’t hide him from anyone else.
It takes less than a heartbeat for the guards to notice him, their reaction catching the attention of a group of vampires nearby. The vampires’ reaction spreads in a ripple from group to group until every Downworld eye is turned in his direction.
The club falls into an eerie half-quiet at the sight of a marked Shadowhunter, the Head of the regional Institute no less, waiting in the doorway, wings mantled and tense behind his back.
Cautiously, Alec extends his hands to his sides. He is conspicuously unarmed.
The club grows even quieter, the hum and murmur of mundane voices lessening slowly in response to the uneasy tension, even the throbbing dance music ebbing into a barely there presence in the background at the DJ’s cue. The lights are still pulsing in a jarring contrast against the sudden cessation of sound. The mundanes begin to feel the tingling of the wards pushing them out, not sure why they want to cut their night short mid-drink and mid-dance, but leaving nonetheless.
Alec waits where he is, an unmoving statue, until the last of the steady stream of mundanes exit behind him, their eyes passing unseeing over him as they go. Only the High Warlock can manipulate the wards here and Alec knows he has the attention of the man he came to see.
Pandemonium’s two line bouncers slip inside and lock the main doors behind them, aware of his deception now. The hairs on Alec’s neck twitch at having them armed at his back. He keeps his gaze forward nevertheless, focused intently on Magnus Bane. The High Warlock is seated on a couch-turned-throne in the VIP balcony section, the pictures from the Clave’s file not doing justice to the way Magnus so effortlessly turns this club into his court.
The crowd parts for Alec as he finally moves forward, their eyes accusing as they pass between his runes and his wings. Alec’s palms have never itched so badly for the familiarity and security of his bow in hand and a quiver strung over his shoulder.
As he moves steadily closer and Magnus Bane rises to stand in front of his throne, several individuals Alec recognizes from the Clave’s files, his council, move subtly into position behind him.
The strobes have finally stopped pulsing in time to the now silent music, the house lights rising enough to illuminate the club while leaving pockets of deep shadow all around. Catarina Loss is still in scrubs as she walks forward from one such pocket to stand unobtrusively against a wall to Magnus’s right, obviously having been called from her position at the hospital upon Alec’s arrival. Raphael Santiago, the vampire leader, melts out of yet another shadow to stand at Magnus’s left. A thin warlock, eyes narrowed in hate when she turns her attention to Alec, walks beside him. The twist of her fingers is one Alec recognizes as the gesture to close a portal, and he realizes she must have been the one to fetch Raphael from the vampire’s stronghold at the Hotel Dumort.
The combined gaze of Magnus and his people is focused and cold, the weight of it almost physical on Alec’s shoulders as the nephilim pads silently up the stairs to the VIP platform, angling his primaries to keep them from dragging on the steps. At the first hint of the razor-sharp primaries moving, the fingers on Magnus’ left hand twitch.
Alec immediately regrets the instinctive shift of his feathers, knowing how many Downworld throats have been slit open on nephilim wings, knowing how many times Magnus and his council must have seen that happen. But what’s done is done and moving them back would do nothing. Alec comes to a halt at a respectful distance from the High Warlock and waits. His arrival was without notice and is certainly unwelcome. By both nephilim and Downworld custom the next move belongs to Magnus alone.
The olive-skinned immortal makes no move to speak for a long, terrible moment, merely looking Alec over cooly, and a wave of desperation begins to swell in Alec’s chest. This can’t have been for nothing. Before he has to decide whether to risk breaking the last remaining rule of courtesy, an electric flicker of magic seeps into Alec’s skin from Magnus’ direction, a metal tang coating his tongue. He swallows down the taste, but doesn’t speak.
Alec is a Shadowhunter, a soldier of the Clave, and the Head of an Institute. No matter how he has twisted and bent the rules the Clave has laid down in recent years ‘to control the Downworld threat,’ he deserves whatever magic Magnus and his people feel the need to cast to protect themselves against him. Alec waits for the verdict and prays to the Angel of Mercy, an angel Alec has begun to doubt is listening to his pleas, that Magnus allows him the chance to speak.
“Tell me, Alexander Lightwood,” Magnus begins icily, and it’s no surprise that he knows Alec’s name. “What brings the Head of the New York Institute to my door, unarmed, runes inactive, and completely alone?”
There’s a murmur of surprise from those gathered at Alec’s back at that triple confirmation, but he takes no mind of it. He simply spares one last hope that Izzy’s information holds true, that the wording from her source is correct, and then he squares his shoulders and speaks.
“I came to request an audience with the High Warlock that I might petition him for assistance.”
There’s a sudden stillness in the Downworlders surrounding him, and Alec dares not move. Before him, Magnus’s eyes have narrowed in disbelief and suspicion.
“You are not one of my people,” he bites out, “and you have no right to ask me, to ask any Downworlder for aid.”
“I know,” Alec acknowledges grimly. “But I’m not here to ask for aid on my behalf, and I have nowhere else to turn. Please,” he entreats. “My brother was bitten by a Raum demon. He’s dying and I can do nothing.”
Magnus raises an imperious hand, unmoved, and cuts off Alec’s plea. “Your people have healing runes, do you not? Use them and leave us be,” he commands. “I certainly shan’t be mourning one less Lightwood butchering my people if your Angel sees fit to let him die.”
Alec doesn’t flinch, no matter how much he wants to, desperation melting into his expression and voice beginning to audibly shake. “Please, my brother is only nine years old. He has yet to take his first rune, and the venom is too strong for him to take it now so the Silent Brothers can treat him. A warlock’s healing is his only chance to live.”
Magnus doesn’t waver, voice cool and dispassionate. “How unfortunate then that the Clave outlawed paying warlocks for their services.” He raises a brow. “Unless the Lightwoods have yet again wrangled an... exception, shall we call it, from your oh so impartial law?”
Alec swallows harshly at the reminder of his parent’s past with Valentine. The Circle is still at large, and even with Robert and Maryse’s strident declarations of newfound loyalty to the Clave, Alec often wonders how much of their renunciation was merely a function of preserving their power.
Their ‘punishment,’ banishment from Idris while maintaining family control of the New York Institute, was a humiliating outrage to those mourning the Downworlders they had murdered without remorse.
“Robert and Maryse are already planning Max’s funeral.”
A flicker of emotion, barely visible, runs through the High Warlock. Alec wouldn’t have caught it if he hadn’t been specifically looking. The Downworld cherishes their children, and he knows his parents’ refusal to do anything to save their son would be absolute anathema to them.
Alec takes a single breath to calm his racing heart. This is the only chance Max has to live and there’s no turning back once he takes this final leap. No matter the outcome, whether the High Warlock agrees or not, Alec is about to sign his death warrant.
“The Clave will make no allowance for him.” Alec can’t read the warlock’s expression at that, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already committed to this course. “There is nothing I can offer you worth your help. The treasuries of Idris are barred to me and my Institute has nothing of sufficient value to equal my brother’s life.” Alec takes one more breath in the heavy silence. “All I can do is beg you.”
And before the eyes of the assembled Downworld, Alec sinks to his knees in front of the High Warlock, spreading his wings into a perfect line from tip to tip and bowing down until his forehead rests on the rough floor, barely three hand-lengths away from the boots of Magnus Bane.
“Anything that is within my power to give is yours.” Alec closes his eyes, feeling the stunned gaze of all present focused on his prostrate form. “I am begging you to save my brother. Please.”