Chapter Text
"The wound is the place where the light enters you."
Rumi
Los Angeles, 2013
Clary was going to kill Magnus.
She had been lounging around the Institute with Jace, Izzy and Simon. The newlyweds had just returned from Paris and her parabatai was animatedly telling them about a flock of Halphas demons they had slain in the gardens of the Versailles. Isabelle joined in from time to time, and it soon became clear that she had been the one to save Simon from getting his ass handed to him and not the other way around.
“I have an idea,” Jace announced, as Simon’s cheeks began to turn as red as Clary’s hair. “Let’s play Simon says. I’ll go first: Simon says...I almost got my balls plucked out by a Halphas demon!”
Clary chocked on her ramen, while Izzy burst out laughing. “Et tu, Brute?” Simon stared accusatory up at Clary, desperately trying to escape his ACDC sweatshirt. “Why is it so freaking hot in hear?”
That was when Magnus Bane burst into the room, announcing that him and Clary were to go wedding dress shopping. At freaking two in the morning.
So Clary found herself being dragged through the streets of Downtown L.A, the change in time zone having no luck in cheering her up.
“Remind me, why is it so urgent that we shop for the dress right now?” she asked, her small feet almost jogging in order to keep up with Magnus. The last time she had seen the warlock this jumpy and jittery had been when Max was left at the Academy’s gates.
“Because, Biscuit, the wedding is in three months, and so far, the status of your dress is, sorry not sorry, thrift shop hobbit wear.”
“What does that even mean?” Clary demanded, now almost running after the warlock.
“It means that this is an emergency fashion intervention!”
“At two in the morning? In freaking L.A?” Clary was so close to drawing a Portal rune and returning to her ramen at the Institute.
“Fashion isn’t time nor space dependent, Clarissa dear.”
“Why didn’t you do an emergency fashion intervention 3 months before Izzy and Simon’s wedding?”
They were nearing their destination, Clary realized. She could see light peeking through the window of one of the small shops. It appeared to be the only open place on the street. Too late to turn back now, she thought.
“Unlike yours, Biscuit, Isabelle’s sense of style is actually alive and kicking.” Magnus held open the door to the shop. Clary glared at him and wondered how mad Alec would be if she punched his husband.
“I’ll have you know my sense of style is doing quite well for itself, thanks for asking. I’m a freaking sketch artist!” Clary pointed a finger accusatory at the warlock’s chest.
“I sincerely doubt that, given the jean onesie your wearing. But then again, Picasso is known to have been an avid collector of stripy tops.”
Clary whirled around and stared. Leaning lazily against the counter was a boy in his late teens. Well, that was if he’d still been alive. Clary could recognize the pallor that came with vampirism from a mile away. So that explains the late hour, she thought. The vampire was wearing a bright purple suit, waistcoat included, and with his blond curls, deep green eyes and amused smile, looked like a model straight out of the runway.
Clary furrowed her brows at him, “I bet comments like that are the reason this place is crowded with customers.”
The vampire threw his head back and laughed, a melodic sound that filled up the room and Clary couldn’t help but feel just a little less pissed off.
“I have been told I can be quite mean in my lifetime, I will admit,” He waved his hand dismissively, golden rings shining on his fingers. “Though given that Magnus Bane has now become a regular, I’ll hold on to the hope of becoming the Gianni Versace of the Shadow World in no time.”
“Maybe change the fashion idol up a little, wouldn’t want an ending like that.”
“Who said I didn’t already have my own version of a tragic ending?” There was a slight edge to his voice and a shadow passed his beautiful face before the big smile reappeared. “But at last, when has art not come from pain?”
He gestured to the racks of clothing carefully lined up against the walls, and for the first time, Clary noticed a slight British accent creep into his voice.
She had to admit, the little shop was a piece of art on its own. The light-colored wallpaper, the Victorian furniture, from the rich green sofa to the detailing of the shelves, the vintage sewing machine carefully placed near the counter, all formed a visually pleasing, carefully organized chaos. Even the clothes, Clary realized, were placed next to each other in such a way that created a beautiful combination of colors.
Magnus cleared his throat behind her, “Clary, this is Matthew.” The warlock started, playfully winking at the vampire. “The savior of your wedding day outfit.”
The boy inclined his head, “It has been a long time since someone has kept up with my banter, Clarissa Fairchild. You are a revelation indeed.”
Clary turned to Magnus, hands on her hips, “So you’ve talked about me?”
The warlock grinned as he slumped down onto the sofa. “Only good things about my Biscuit.”
“Except my poor fashion sense?” she narrowed her eyes, arms crossing definitely over her chest.
“Nobody’s perfect, are they now?”
Matthew was watching them with an amused look in his eyes. “She keeps up with me and Magnus Bane. Interesting.”
“Try dating a Herondale for over half a decade and putting up with that every day,” she pointed her finger at Magnus who smirked up at her, plopping his crystal covered shoes onto the coffee table.
“You see Matthew, Biscuit and I are going through a rough time in our friendship,” Magnus started, cat-like eyed lit up in amusement. “Hopefully introducing her to your fashion expertise will be enough to earn her forgiveness.”
“Rough time?” She echoed, staring disbelievingly down at Magnus. “You own me creative property damage fees!”
Matthew doubled over from laughter, Magnus throwing his hands up in defense. “I object that it should be split between myself and Jem. I wouldn’t have destroyed your sketchbook had he not disrupted my good time so rudely.”
“You were so drunk you literally passed out in the supply closet five minutes later!” Clary exclaimed and frowned. Matthew had stopped laughing, eyes blown out, fists clenched. He looked as if he’d been punched in the stomach.
Magnus cleared his throat, horror suddenly taking over his features. “I’m, uh, craving coffee. Is that weird?” The warlock sprang to his feet, hand smoothing his sequined suit. “I saw a non-stop cafe 2 blocks away.”
Clary watched as Magnus hurried towards the door, silently pleading with him to not leave her alone. He promptly ignored her. “You two start talking design ideas. I’ll be back.”
And with that, the High Warlock of Brooklyn stormed out of the shop, leaving her alone with a vampire who seemed ready to throw up.
Or at least he’d looked like that a minute ago. As Clary turned to face Matthew, the boy adjusted his sea-green necktie, radiant smile plastered back onto his face. “So, what fashion trends do you like, Clarissa Fairchild?”
“Blasphemy, Clarissa!” Matthew exclaimed, pencil stopping midair as he sketched at full vampire speed. How did the tip not break was still a mystery. “What do you mean you do not like puffy sleeves?”
Twin green eyes glared at one another as Clary crossed her arms over her chest. “Those,” she said, pointing at the last design resting on the coffee table, “Are not puffy sleeves! You want to puff them out at the bottom, not at the shoulders!”
Matthew laughed, that contagious laugh full of joy that could fill up rooms. Clary tried and failed to hide the smile forming on her lips. “That’s exactly the point. We are reverse engineering puffy sleeves!”
“I don’t think that’s what reverse engineering means,” she pointed out.
“Nonsense, Clarissa! My father was a scientist, I know what I’m talking about.” Huh. That was the first piece of personal information Clary had about her wedding dress designer. Other than the fact that he loved Oscar Wilde, as all the books decorating the shelves belonged to the Irish writer.
Matthew scribbled away on yet another piece of paper. His sketches were messy, not nearly the works of an artist, but Clary suspected his true talent lay elsewhere. She glanced at the carefully arranged racks behind her, at the rich materials and mixes of colors and patterns displayed there.
“How am I supposed to eat without getting them all covered in food?” she inquired, glaring daggers at the sleeves emerging on the paper from Matthew’s pencil.
“A girl who thinks she will have the time or appetite to eat at her wedding,” he didn’t raise his head to look at her and continued puffing out the sleeves even more. “In my time,” he went on, wincing a little as he heard himself, “Girls would fight demons wearing corsets, hoops, long skirt and high heels.”
What? Clary though, eyebrows raised.
“I myself once fought a Mandikhor demon wearing a suit similar to this one. It did not end we-” He gestured down at his waistcoat before abruptly stopping. The tip of the pencil broke.
“So you were a Shadowhunter?” She asked, curiosity suddenly perking up inside her.
Matthew sighed, hands gripping the coffee table. “Yes. Yes, I was.”
“What was your name?” She didn’t think anything of it as she spoke. Just an innocent question, nothing more.
The table broke where he gripped it. She jumped back, eyes widening in shock, hand going to the blade hidden in her rubber boot. If he were still breathing, Matthew’s breath would have come out labored. His eyes were tightly shut, and red liquid began to form at the corner of his eyes.
Oh. He was holding back tears. Well, the blood tears of vampires.
Her hand let the dagger fall back in place, tucked away in her shoe. “It’s alright, forget I asked. Let’s just go back to puffy sleeves. Yeah, puffy sleeves sound good.”
“Fairchild,” he whispered, so silent she almost didn’t hear him.
“What?” she asked, unsure what to believe, unsure what she wanted to believe.
“Fairchild,” he said louder, this time, a blood tear now running down his cheek. “My name was Matthew Fairchild.”
“Oh,” Clary said, her mind racing to a time in her teenage years, when Jace had introduced her to Tessa Gray, his distant relative. Or to Jem Carstairs and his relationship with Emma. Guess it’s my turn now.
“Yeah, oh,” Matthew said, his hands letting go of the ruined table and furiously wiping away the blood from his face. “My apologies, I am not used to talking about my past life.” He seemed more composed now, yet entirely different from the carefree boy she was just debating dress sleeves with. There was a sadness to him now, from the way his shoulders slumped to the light missing from his green eyes. Her eyes, she realized.
“So, you’re what...? My great-great-something-grandfather?” She thought out loud, then instantly regretted it, as his head dropped to his hands. It suddenly occurred to Clary that this sadness was not one simply conjured up in a moment. No, it was a sadness rooted in decades, suppressed under bright clothes and bright smiles.
“More like great-something uncle,” he let out. “I died childless at eighteen. You must be descended from my brother.”
“Oh,” was all Clary could say. Matthew nodded almost undetectable. She knew any talk about dresses was over, and Clary wrecked her brain, desperate for something to say. The silence was so thick she could hear cars passing on the highway nearby.
Where the hell was Magnus? The warlock had been gone for almost an hour now and Clary suddenly longed for his guidance, no matter how pissed off she might have been.
“I’m so sorry,” she exploded, no longer able to stand the quiet. “I didn’t mean to pry into bad memories, I was just curious and selfish and-“
“No, no, don’t apologize,” he raised his hands, dismissing her words completely. “I should have known it would eventually come up when I asked Magnus to meet you. It is my fault I didn’t prepare myself better.”
“You asked to meet me?” she asked, eyes widening in shock. “That’s why Magnus brought me here?”
Matthew shrugged, hand absently rubbing at the back of his neck. “Guess I was curious how my brother’s lineage turned out.” He smiled, a mare ghost of the one that had greeted her and Magnus. “So, I guess we’re even.”
“And?” she asked, “How did your brother’s lineage turn out?” She raised her chin expectedly at him, and he laughed, the carefree attitude slowly rising again.
“Pretty far from the tree,” he said, and at her raised eyebrow, “Don’t worry, it’s a good thing!” he assured her, and Clary smiled back.
The door to the shop slammed open and Magnus Bane stumbled inside. “I’m so sorry, I lost track of time!” Then, as if sensing what had taken place in his absence, asked, “What happened? Who died?”
“Puffy sleeves.” Matthew declared solemnly and Clary burst into giggles, shaking her head. “Same time next week?” He asked almost shyly, and Clary nodded.
“Perfect! I knew you’d be able to talk some fashion sense into our Biscuit, Matthew!” Magnus exclaimed, winking again at the vampire. “Come along now Biscuit, I am suddenly terribly missing my Alexander.”
Magnus danced out of the shop; Portal already visible outside. “Clary, wait!”
She turned around and realized for the first time how young Matthew looked. He seemed no more than an embarrassed boy, scared and unsure of himself. I died childless at eighteen.
“My time as a Shadowhunter,” he began, green eyes studying the fluffy golden carpet, “Has been abruptly ended in the most awful way there is. My reaction tonight, it was in no way aimed at you. My brother’s actions- they are his and his alone.” He raised his head and smiled. That smile that could conquer the sun. “I guess what I am trying to say is, I am very, very glad I met you, Clarissa Fairchild.”
As Clary lay in bed that early morning, Jace peacefully snoring next to her, she found herself unable to fall asleep. There was something nagging at the back of her mind, something that didn’t quite add up about the vampire she’d met that night.
The sadness, the secrets, the violent reaction.
The way he’d gone utterly still when she’d scolded Magnus about the sketchbook. When Magnus had mentioned Jem’s name.
“Have you really done this before?”
“Once. And it is the single, most awful thing I have ever done in my time as a Silent Brother.”
“My time as a Shadowhunter has been abruptly ended in the most awful way there is. My brother’s actions- they are his and his alone.”
Clary bolted upright, eyes widened in shock, a sense of dread suddenly washing over her.
Oh, by the Angel.
Jace murmured something in his sleep, but Clary’s mind was racing, filled with a sudden need to do something, anything, to sooth the pain of a boy who’d died far too young, a boy who’d been subjected to a torture that rose from the darkest, most vile corners of the Clave and Covenant.
Throwing away the bed sheets, Clary grabbed the empty water bottle forgotten on her bed side table along with a blade from Jace’s weapon belt and sprinted to the bathroom.
As the dagger cut her palm, the blood slowly gathering inside the bottle, Clary’s eyes darted to the mirror. She stared into her own green eyes, a few shades lighter than Matthew’s, and smiled.
Matthew Fairchild may not have had a choice when he’d been stripped of his Marks. He may not have had a choice when he’d been turned into a vampire. But now, when the choice lingered in her hands, her blood, who was she not to offer it to him?
Devon, 2 weeks later
“She did what now?” Jem yelled, startling Mina, who was dozing off in his lap. The baby’s face started to redden, and small whimpers could be heard from the little girl. “No, no, Mina-mine, don’t cry.” Jem shushed her, stroking the dark strands of hair that had begun to grow longer on her head.
“Jem, is everything alright?” Tessa called from the kitchen. Oh no.
“Ye-Yeah Tess, everything’s great!” Please don’t cry, please don’t cry. Jem silently begged his daughter.
“You still haven’t told Tessa?” Magnus asked accusatory on the phone.
Jem ignored him. “Clary knows better than anyone what Simon went through. Being a Daylighter, it’s a curse rather than a blessing. How could she do that to him?”
“Neither Clary nor Matthew see it that way. From their point of view, she gave him a choice. Something no one has given him in over a century.”
Jem let out an exasperated grown. Angel help him. “Did she tell him about the consequences? The dangers he will be exposed to, for the rest of eternity?”
“Of course she did, James.” Magnus exclaimed. “Unlike you, Clarissa doesn’t hide crucial information from people.”
Jem sighed as Mina’s whimpers intensified. “I will tell Tessa. It’s just- this is my wrongdoing to fix first. My actions that hurt him.”
“So go fix it. Now!” Magnus yelled in his ear. “You should have seen his face when I name dropped you.” Jem could practically see Magnus shaking his head. “Talk to him, James.” The warlock paused for a moment and Jem had to shut his eyes, the memories lurking at the corner of his vision. “See, Clary even did you a favor. You can visit him at a decent hour now! I’ll text you the address.”
Groaning loudly, Jem ended the phone call. Mina began shrieking, turning restlessly in his arms. Tessa’s head popped into the living room; concern written all over her beautiful face.
“Oh, my baby, it’s alright,” Tessa cooed, waltzing through the room and taking Mina from her father’s arms. “What upset her so much?”
Jem shrugged, hand running through his hair. “Maybe she’s hungry?” He offered weakly. Tessa shook her head, gently rocking Mina against her chest,
Horrible, horrible father, Jem thought.
“You were talking so loudly you must have scared her,” Tessa pressed her lips to her daughter’s locks and Jem winced. “Who was that, anyway?”
“Emma.” Jem said too quickly. Horrible, horrible husband.
Tessa raised an eyebrow at him. “You are not usually that angry when you talk to Emma.”
“She uh- Dru got into some trouble at the Shadow Market. They asked me to go talk to her.”
Worst husband in the world.
“Do you have to go right now? I’ve just finished baking the scones.”
“Julian insisted. Something about how a fresh authority figure will do her good.”
“Ah,” Tessa nodded, cooing down at Mina, who was now happily sleeping in her mother’s arms.
Worst father in the world.
“Did Emma say when she and Julian will be back? Will they make it to Clary’s wedding?”
Wincing, Jem tried plastering a smile on his face. He failed miserably. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Jem walked the 3 miles from the Institute to the address Magnus had given him. The longer he delayed the inevitable, the better. Tessa had been all bright eyes and smiles as she’d made the Portal, telling him how much Drusilla resembled Lucie.
Angel, when did I become such a good liar?
He’d thought he could use the walk to think about what to say to Matthew.
I apologize for torturing you in front of your mother. The woman who raised me since I was twelve.
I am sorry I indirectly made you kill yourself.
I’m sorry your son had to grow up not even knowing you existed. I’m sorry you aren‘t even aware you had a son.
The small clothing store rose up in the distance and Jem almost turned around. But he owed it to Charlotte and Henry. He owed it to Cordelia and Jonah. He owed it to Matthew.
Jem pushed open the door and was immediately awed at how beautiful the inside was. The racks were filled with colorful garments, and for a moment Jem dared to hope. That maybe, just maybe, Matthew was happy. Happier than he’d been before Jem had hurt him in such a horrible way.
“Why, hullo there!” Jem closed his eyes as that voice rang from the back room. “Welcome to the Green Carnation! How can I help you-“
He should have known that wasn’t the case. Jem opened his eyes as Matthew abruptly stopped talking. He looked exactly as he’d had on that dais. Well, cleaner and more put together, but still so, so young. Jem gulped and Matthew opened and closed his mouth, fists clenching.
“What,” the boy let out, eyes firmly shut, as if trying to block out the sight of Jem. “Are you doing here?”
A small part of Jem had hoped Matthew wouldn’t recognize him without the distinctive marks of the Brotherhood. Another thing Jem had been wrong about.
“Matthew,” the former Silent Brother breathed, hands raised in the air in an attempt to make the boy see he meant well. Angel, he looked like a wounded animal. The pallor of his skin made him seem ill and the way his body was shaking...The worst thing was, Jem thought, that in the boy’s eyes, he was the predator.
“Don’t,” The venom in the melodic voice Jem remembered made him shiver. “You dare speak my name ever again.”
“Please,” Jem whispered, “Please just hear me out. Just listen for two minutes-“
“Like you’ve listened to me, when that Rune made me gag on my pleas?” Matthew hissed, fangs bared, and Jem took a step back, suddenly very aware he hadn’t brought any weapons.
“Get. The. Hell. Out. Now.” The way his eyes darkened; Jem wondered for the first time how Matthew’s life as a vampire had been like.
“Please, Matthew,” Jem begged, eyes pleading, trying to reach the boy he’d known, not the vampire currently bearing his fangs at him. “I have wanted the chance to make it up to you for the longest time, I-“
“The chance?” He was screaming now, and Jem backed away even more, back glued to the door. “You’ve had your chance!”
It happened so quickly; Jem barely registered it. One second Matthew was yelling and the next, his hand gripped Jem’s throat, fangs shining in his face. Jem struggled for air, desperately trying to remove the hand around his throat. Maybe, he thought, this was what he deserved. To die like this, at Matthew’s hand. For Mina to grow up fatherless, like Jonah had.
Jem saw the Sanctuary of the London Institute, Henry holding Charlotte back as Matthew screamed and screamed, Charles smirking down at his brother. He saw a little boy with blond curls and black eyes running through the gardens of Cirenworth. He saw Cordelia and James the day Owen was born, when nobody had understood why the new mother wept.
Matthew’s grip loosed, and then the restrain on his breathing was gone. Jem doubled over, gulping for air, his lungs slowly beginning to function again. The boy was now on the other side of the room, crouching on the floor, head in his hands.
“Matthew,” Jem rasped out. His feet moved before his mind did. He approached the vampire as he would a wounded animal, and the sounds that would have been sobs, had Matthew still been alive, broke Jem’s heart. “Matthew, it’s alright.”
Green eyes slowly rose from behind ringed fingers. There was blood on his face, the tears staining his pale cheeks. “Where were you,” he let out through the sobs, “when I was trying to find a way back? Where were you, when the werewolves wouldn’t turn me? Where were you, when that vampire promised me- he hated Shadowhunters. He broke my arms so I couldn’t fight back, held me down, and they took turns feeding on me-“
Jem sucked in a breath. Ever since Magnus had told him about Matthew being a vampire, he’d wondered how the transformation had taken place. He never would have imagined the horrors that came out of the boy’s mouth.
“They only thing they let me drink was their blood. And then when they stopped- I was more dead than alive when they dumped me in the Thames. They thought the blood was gone from my system- I wasn’t meant to turn at all, if Lily hadn’t dragged my body out-“
Jem dropped to his knees next to Matthew and gently, barely a feather, touched the vampire’s shoulder. He’d expected an outburst of violence and barred fangs, but instead, the boy melted into his touch. Jem found himself cradling Matthew Fairchild to his chest, blood tears soaking his sweater. “I’m so sorry,” Jem let out, hand gently running through the blond curls. “I’m so sorry, Matthew. So, so sorry.”
Jem was crying as well now, as he gripped Charlotte’s boy in his arms. “I waited for you, for anyone, to save me,” Matthew sobbed into his chest. “But nobody came. Nobody cared.”
Jem’s broken heart shattered into a million pieces. Angel, how he’d failed that sweet child who trusted and cared so easily, so naturally. That child who had looked at his scarred face when he’d been a Silent Brother and offered a kind smile.
“Please forgive me,” he whispered, tears falling freely now, “Please forgive me, di di.”
Jem didn’t know how long they stayed there, Matthew’s whimpers the only sounds in the small shop. Jem’s hands absently rubbed circles on the boy’s back, his mind racing. He wanted to know who those vampires were and hunt them down one by one, if they were still walking the Earth. He needed to talk to Lily, find out what she knew, ask Magnus how to precede-
“Why didn’t you go to Magnus or Hypatia for help?” He wondered out loud.
“What could they have done? They couldn’t turn me into a warlock.” Jem was surprised Matthew answered. He’d assumed the vampire had dozed off.
“Still, they could have guided you to a pack or clan that might have-“
“Nobody would have done it. Not when Charles and Bridgestock threatened anyone who might have helped me.”
His mind conjured up images of the London Shadow Market, him and Will waiting out in the cold for weeks in a row, for a sign, anything, that Matthew might have been there. They never would have thought Charles’s influence had lingered so deep into the Shadow World. Belial and Tatiana, Jem thought bitterly. The fact that Matthew had been forced to reach out to the darkest corners of Downworld, to people who harbored so much hatred for the Nephilim...
Jem tightened his hold on the boy, and to his shock, Matthew cuddled into his chest. “Uncle Jem?” He asked shyly, green eyes staring up at him. “Maybe we should get up from the floor.”
Jem smiled as Matthew slowly untangled himself from him. He shot to his feet, smoothing his green suit before offering Jem his hand. “I’m sorry I attacked you.”
The former Silent Brother grasped his hand, “No damage done.”
“Oh, but your sweater!” Matthew exclaimed horrified. “It’s utterly ruined!”
Jem waved his hand dismissively, but Matthew was already running through the racks picking up blazers and shirts. “Why are you even wearing a sweater?”
Jem shrugged. “It’s colder in Devon than it is in L.A.”
“Devon, huh?” Jem noticed a slight edge to the vampire’s voice as he handed him a pile of clothes to try on.
“Yeah,” He was suddenly reminded of what he had been about to tell Matthew before the boy had broken down. “I’m-uh married.”
“Oh, congratulations!” The smile that appeared on his pale face was genuine, but Jem had a feeling it wouldn’t stay that way for long.
“To Tessa.” Matthew dropped the blazer he was studying. “I-“ Jem placed the clothes onto the sofa and walked over to the boy, grasping his shoulder. “Matthew, there’s something I have been meaning to tell you.”
London, 1903
Cordelia buried her face in the pillow, trying to shield her eyes from the sunlight slipping through the balcony doors. She didn’t want to get up. It had been the first night in weeks since her sleep hadn’t been filled with images of Matthew on his knees, screaming and screaming in agony. She wished she could stay like that forever, stuck in a dreamless sleep and just forget everything.
A small whimper made her raise her head. Oscar was lying in front of the entrance to the apartment, head resting on his front paws. Frowning, Cordelia got out of bed, his bed, and bent down next to the dog. “Morning, Oscar joon.” She gently petted his head. The dog let out another cry.
For the six weeks she had been living in Matthew’s apartment, the dog had had that exact reaction just once. The first night Cordelia had spent there all alone. The night Matthew had been stripped of his Marks. Since then, he had taken to staring out the balcony doors, eating sporadically, whenever the hunger got the better of him. Gone was the happy dog who wiggled his tail and jumped when he saw you.
The whimpers intensified and Cordelia hurried to the kitchen isle, grabbing a few of the expensive dog biscuits Matthew liked to spoil Oscar with. She offered them to the dog, but he ignored her, taking to whimpering on, eyes fixed on the door. As if, she thought, the dog had realized that he wasn’t coming back.
Cordelia had had the same revelation a few weeks prior, when it had become clear she was waiting in vain. Nobody came in, not Magnus to return the clothes he took, not Anna, not James, not Jem. If it wouldn’t have been for her, Oscar would have starved weeks ago. It was as if the Clave had forbidden everyone from touching anything that had belonged to Matthew.
Not that Cordelia would know. She had locked herself in the apartment after that night, only going out when she needed food, taking to wearing his shirts around the house. She didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want anything to do the with the Enclave. She’d told Alastair she was going to stay at the townhouse, while James knew she’d spent a few weeks at her brother’s house, to take care of the baby. She’d assumed the two of them wouldn’t be talking to each other, and it turned out she’d been right.
For the first few weeks, Cordelia had hold on to the hope that he would stop by the apartment to get Oscar, get his things. She’d hoped she would get to hold him one last time. But as nobody else showed up, neither did he.
Oscar’s whimpers sounded more and more like crying and Cordelia felt tears begin to form in her eyes. “I know, kuchulu. I miss him too.” She could see the pup’s body begin to shake and was about to pick him up and carry him back to bed with her, when her stomach twisted painfully.
Oh no, not again.
Cordelia jumped to her feet, and sprinted to the bathroom, falling to her knees in front of the water closet. She hadn’t eaten yet, so there was nothing in her stomach to let out, yet she heaved and heaved, a migraine already forming between her eyes. As her retching slowly ceased, Cordelia heard the front door of the apartment slam open. She meant to get up, but her knees were too weak, and she suddenly felt as if she’d been through a brutal patrol all night.
“Those pastries on the counter look musty,” Magnus Bane wrinkled his nose at her, his flawless attire a sharp contrast to the state of the apartment.
“Back to steal more?” She groaned, the dizziness keeping her locked on to the floor.
“Harsh, Biscuit.” Magnus tsked at her. “But, if you must know, Matthew gifted me those clothes after a particularly eventful night at the Hell Ruelle. It may or may not have involved a particularly alienated former lover.”
“There’s an ill puppy crying his little heart out in the main room,” Magnus went on matter of factly.
“I’ve failed to notice,” Cordelia glared at the warlock. “Wait-what do you mean he’s ill?” her eyes widened, strength slowly beginning to return to her knees.
Magnus sighted, “Heartbreak is the cruellest sickness there is, for there is no cure, no way to alleviate the pain of the one suffering.”
Cordelia wobbled back to her feet, turning her tired body towards the warlock. “What are you doing here, Magnus?”
“Your brother hired me to find you. I think his hair might have turned white for real this time around.”
“Alastair hired you?” she stared incredulously at the warlock, mouth agape. While her brother had always been neutral when it came to Downworlders, she figured he’d gotten tired of warlocks and shamans from the years trying to cure their father’s alcoholism.
“Yes,” Magnus nodded, “Although, between us, I think he may have developed a strong dislike of Silent Brothers. Jem stopped by the house when I was collecting my payment, and your brother threatened him with a spear. A very long spear.”
Oh, Angel help me.
“Has anyone else hired you lately?” she asked, gazing at the little pup staring sadly into nothingness.
Magnus sighted. “No, nobody else.”
“And if I were to hire you?” she inquired, mind racing. Was no one looking for him?
“I’d tell you that there is an order from the deepest, most rotten corners of Hell going around Downworld, that no one shall interfere with the Fairchild situation. I’m sure you are familiar with the way Emmanuel Gast met his ending. His remains have been recently dumped in the London Shadow Market.”
“So, there is no one, literally, no one looking for him?” she yelled, tears beginning to burn furiously in her eyes. Oscar started whimpering again.
“Word has it, Will and Jem have been at the Shadow Market every night for weeks now. But given Matthew’s popularity with Downworlders- Shadowhunters are not welcome at the Market right now,” Magnus shook his head, “As for myself, I tried doing a tracking spell with the clothes he gave him. Nothing turned up.”
Cordelia stopped breathing. “What do you mean nothing turned up? You think he may have-”
“It means there is a barrier keeping me from reaching him. Might be of demonic nature, might be angelic.” Magnus reassured her. “Now, let’s get you home and take care of the little guy over there, shall we?”
It was the second week since Cordelia had been back in the house on Cornwall Gardens, and her nausea hadn’t ceased. She’d be fine one minute and the next, she’d rush to the bathroom, emptying out the contents of her stomach. Risa threw her concerned glares, and Cordelia knew what the woman was thinking. The only reason Alastair had failed to realize it himself was because Jasper was sick again. The baby had been struck by a fever eve since Cordelia’s return and Alastair refused to call the Silent Brothers.
“Maybe he caught whatever you have,” her brother glared at her one morning.
Cordelia closed her eyes. She needed to tell Alastair, she needed to tell someone. She hadn’t bled since before that doomed Enclave meeting, and her breasts were beginning to ache. Oh mâmân, where are you? Images of her mother bleeding out on the birth bed blurred her vision.
“I think we should call Magnus,” she let out. Alastair chocked on his tea.
“You want to call the warlock?” her brother gaped at her. “What can he bloody do, he’s not a healer!”
“Since your mundane doctor was so successful in curing Jasper, and since you refuse to call cousin Jem, what other option do we have?”
“I’m sure you’re dying to see that scarred snake, given what he did to your precious Fairchild boy.” Alastair pointed his spoon accusatory at her.
“What in the world-“ Cordelia began exasperated. Alastair couldn’t have known. He couldn’t have known how she’d betrayed her husband-
“I’m not stupid, Layla.” he said, his gaze softening. “I saw the way you looked at him. You used to look at James like that.”
Cordelia closed her eyes. Where are you, Matthew? Are you in pain? Are you lonely? I’m so scared. Her hand involuntary cradled her stomach.
Risa’s shouting made both siblings jump to their feet. Jasper had stopped breathing.
“The baby is dying,” Magnus mournfully announced. Alastair’s head was buried in his hands, his body shaking. He looked the same he’d had when Charles and Bridgestock had taken Thomas away from him. When he couldn’t save the boy he loved. “Please,” her brother whispered, “Please, there has to be something- “
Oh, Alastair.
“I’m sorry,” the warlock said. “There isn’t. It is time to say goodbye.” Cordelia thought Alastair’s sobbing could be heard from the Silent City. She made to grab his hand, but her brother staggered back, away from her touch. He sprinted out of the room, heading for the nursery, Risa hurrying after him.
She made to follow them, but Magnus’s hand on her arm stopped her. “Cordelia,” he began, “you are with child.” It wasn’t a question.
Cordelia doubled over, heart racing in her chest. “Don’t,” she hissed. “Don’t you dare say those words ever again. Not when Jasper-“
“There are ways, child-“ the warlock began, his voice so soft, so kind, he sounded like Baba. Cordelia hated him for it.
“There are no ways!” she yelled, no longer caring who heard her. “Not when he’s not here!”
“Oh, child,” Magnus breathed, his arms opened wide to her and she melted into his arms, sobbing into his chest. “I’m so scared,” she cried, “I don’t know what to do, Magnus, I don’t know what to do...”
“It’s alright, child,” the warlock shushed her. “It’s alright.”
That was how Alastair found her, crying in Magnus Bane’s arms, for the boy who stole her heart, for the child growing inside her and the one fighting for his last breath.
“He’s dead,” her brother whispered defeated, his eyes scarlet from the tears. Cordelia broke away from Magnus and wrapped her arms around Alastair, cradling the dark head with her hands.
“I’m so sorry, Alastair joon. So, so sorry.”
“Is it true?” He whispered into her hair. “Is it true you are with child, Layla?”
She broke away and stared at her brother. His eyes were sad, but there was no accusation in them, just love and understanding, and Cordelia nodded, Alastair’s arms wrapping around her once again.
Magnus Bane cleared his throat behind them, arranging his already perfect necktie. “There are arrangements to be made.”
That night, in a house on Cornwall Gardens, the faith of the Carstairs line was written. As Magnus agreed to take care of Jasper’s remains, unknown to the Silent Brothers and Enclave, Cordelia and Alastair making plans to move back to Devon, a body was thrown into the Thames.
In the morning, Cordelia would hear from a sobbing Lucie how Matthew had killed himself, his body discovered by the vampire Lily Chen. He had ended his life in the grief of being parted from those he loved, the loneliness and alcohol clouding his judgement. There would be no pyre, no bones to rest in the Silent City. Matthew Fairchild would be buried in a mundane grave, unmarked, the memory of the golden boy with the big smile slowly fading away into dust.
We are dust and shadows.
Cordelia sobbed in her bed, bent protectively over her stomach. He’d died not knowing, she thought. Not knowing he was loved, not knowing he was wanted, not knowing he was going to be a father. He’d died scared and alone, as he’d been on that dais.
Oscar perished the next day, his little heart broken.
Devon, 8 months later
“What,” Cordelia heard Alastair growl from downstairs, “the Hell are you doing here?”
She glanced at Magnus, who was hurrying around her bedroom at Cirenworth, preparing to cast the spell that would numb her and Lucie’s parabatai bond for the night.
Cordelia crouched over as another contraction shook through her body. “Hurry up, already!” She yelled at the warlock.
“I’m trying, Biscuit! But I’m still missing- Jem, there you are!”
Cordelia whirled her head, and to her horror, saw her cousin walk into the room, Silent Brother robes trailing after him, Alastair in tow, eyes blazing with rage.
“Magnus!” Cordelia hissed at the warlock, fear spreading through her whole body.
The warlock waved his hand dismissively, “Did you honestly think I was going to deliver your baby all by myself? What am I, a midwife?”
Cordelia threw a pillow at the warlock’s head. She missed, but barley, the warlock eyeing her disapprovingly. “I’ll have you know Jem delivered both James and Lucie. Will Herondale wouldn’t have it other way. Compared to me, he’s an expert!”
Cordelia, Jem’s voice spoke in hear head. I am terribly sorry for the pain I have caused you. What I did to Matthew- it will stay with me for as long as I carry breath in my lungs. But now I beg of you to let me help his child.
“You told him?” Cordelia shrieked at Magnus, and if another contraction hadn’t taken over her, she would have lunged at the warlock, pregnant or not.
“Who do you think was able to convince the Herondales to leave you alone all this time? I may be a master magician, but I do not hold the power that James Carstairs has over that family.”
Your secret is safe in my hands. I will do everything I can to ensure the records of your brother’s birth match those of your son.
“Plus, Jem actually knows a thing or two about parabatai bonds,” the warlock went on.
We should begin. I fear Lucie may start to realize what is happening if we do not numb the bond now.
As the two of them began the spell, Alastair kneeled next to the bed, and Cordelia turned to her brother. “I’m so scared, Alastair,” she whispered, tears spilling from her eyes. “What if I die like mâmân, what if the baby is sick like Jasper was, what if-“
“You are not our mother, Layla,” her brother took her hand in his, “And your son is not Jasper, no matter what we make the world believe. You are a Carstairs, Cordelia, stronger than Mother, stronger than all of us.”
Cordelia closed her eyes, tears falling freely. “I’m so scared,” she breathed, and Alastair grasped her hand, pressing his lips to her forehead.
When the bond was numbed, the contractions in full force, Cordelia screamed and screamed, the pain like nothing she had felt before. She screamed for her mother and for Baba. She screamed for Matthew, chanting his name over and over again. She wondered if her pain was like Matthew’s had been and for a moment, she thought this was the way she was meant to go.
But she didn’t die that night, and as she laid in bed afterwards, tired but breathing, the baby tucked in her arms, sleeping peacefully, Cordelia vowed that her son would never know the pain and suffering his father had.
I must depart for London soon. Jem’s voice awoke her from her thoughts.
He was standing in the door frame, as if unsure if he were welcome in the room. “Do you think they will believe it? That he is Baba and mâmân’s son? That he is Jasper?”
Yes. Magnus and I will not permit otherwise.
Cordelia nodded, staring down at the baby asleep in her arms.
Are you keeping the name Jasper? I could arrange it at the archives, should you wish to name him yourself.
It had been her mother’s dying wish for her last child to bear a Persian name. And Cordelia and Alastair had kept that promise. But this, she thought, this was not her mother’s son. He was hers.
She wished nothing more than to name him Matthew, for the boy she loved, the father her baby would never get the chance of knowing. But she couldn’t do that, not when it could jeopardize the lie so easily.
“Jonah,” Cordelia said, lifting her eyes and staring straight through her cousin’s sewn eyelids. “Jonah Jasper Carstairs.”
Jem bowed his head, and Cordelia could have sworn, if he were able to, tears would be running down his cheeks. Thank you. Your forgiveness will not be wasted, táng mèi.
Jonah was two months old when Cordelia realized he already looked bigger and healthier than Jasper ever had. It was then that for the first time, she started to believe their lie would work. With the blond curls beginning to grow on his head, his skin bearing a slight tan, and his eyes darkening day by day, he could pass as Elias’s son. She knew as he got older, his features could mature to resemble Matthew, but for now, it would work.
It was then, in the early autumn of 1904, that James Herondale stepped onto the grounds of Cirenworth. He looked thinner; his face more withdrawn as he begged for her forgiveness. He told her what she’d already known from Jem, about Grace’s control, Tatiana’s ploy to destroy those who’d partaken in her father’s death. He told her he’d loved her since those days he’d been struck by fever and she’d read at his bedside. He’d cried in her arms for the parabatai he’d lost, for being so far drown in Grace’s spell he couldn’t even mourn Matthew. He asked her to give him another chance, another chance to their marriage. She told him she would consider his offer.
That night, as she lulled her and Matthew’s boy to sleep, Cordelia wondered what Matthew would have wanted her to do. Help Jamie, she thought. He’s been through so much, barely in control of his own actions, his own thoughts. Help him, Cordelia. Bring him out of the shadows, as you did me. The next week, James moved to Cirenworth.
Jonah was two when Owen was born. As Jem handed her the screaming baby, James at her side, Cordelia wept. She wept for Matthew, who never got the chance to hold his boy. She wept for the little boy with that shock of blond curls who would never know his father. James fussed over her, not understanding her sadness. Jem assured him it was nothing, just the stress of giving birth. Lucie and Tessa gave her concerned looks, but Cordelia didn’t care as she cried and cried, furious at the unfairness of the world.
Thomas came back from the Scholomance the following month. She cried as him and Alastair embraced on the front steps, her brother truly smiling for the first time in years. Thomas had been delighted to meet Jonah and Owen, and Cordelia was glad Matthew’s son would have another father figure in his life. Elias, with his coming in and out of the Basilas, could scarcely be called a father to the boy. Nobody questioned it when Thomas moved to Cirenworth. Let them dare, Cordelia thought. Along with himself, Thomas brought the news of Anna and Ariadne’s elopement, and their desire to move to Mumbai and find Ariadne’s relatives. He also told them about Grace Cartwright’s marriage, after she had been released from the Gard. She’d married into a family slowly rising from the ashes in Idris, and Cordelia hoped Tristan Morgenstern was aware of his wife’s past.
Her first born was six when, after a visit to the London Institute, called her Mama for the first and last time. Not âbji or Cordy. Mama. She had gone utterly white, tears threatening to overwhelm her. Alastair had scooped the boy in his arms and carried him away, while James told her it was alright, that Jonah had never known Sona, and she was the only mother figure he’d ever had. That night, as she tucked him in bed, the boy cried that it wasn’t fair, that Owen got to call her Mama but he didn’t. She’d cried herself to sleep that night, dreaming of Matthew as he played tag with Jonah and Oscar. But life went on. The lie went on.
When he was seven, Jonah developed an interest in music. Alastair taught him what he knew about playing the violin, Elias helping when he was sober enough to do so. She wrote to Jem, telling him about it and the Silent Brother promptly replied to ask Will for his old violin. From that day, Jonah practiced every day rigorously, the violin his most precious possession.
Jonah was twelve when she gifted him Cortana. In his kindness, he said that the sword should go to Owen, but she shook her head, and promptly placed the hilt in his hand. One late afternoon, when the sun had almost set, she was watching him train with Alastair in the gardens. Her eyes caught something in the distance, and for a moment, she could have sworn there had been a man with blond hair, dressed in a green suit, watching. Cordelia shook her head, and from that day, took over her son’s sword fighting lessons.
Owen had just turned sixteen, when him and Jonah called a family meeting, announcing they were to become parabatai. Cordelia felt as if her whole world was crashing down on her. Even Alastair look bewildered as he told them that in under no circumstances was that going to happen. James found her crying in the garden that evening and told her that Owen and Jonah were not himself and Matthew. Cordelia wondered if James knew, if he had known all along, but she didn’t dare ask. A few months before Jonah’s nineteen birthday, Jem performed the ceremony, the oath a horrible sound to Cordelia’s ears.
Entreat me not to leave thee,
Or return from following after thee—
For whither thou goest, I will go,
And where thou lodgest, I will lodge.
Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.
Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried.
The Angel do so to me, and more also,
If aught but death part thee and me.
Brothers in hearts. Brothers in arms. Brothers in blood.
At Thomas’s advice, at 20 years old, in a world reborn after the horrors of the War, Jonah took a travel year in Spain. It was there that he met the woman who would later become his wife, the fire-spirited and fierce daughter of the head of the Madrid Institute. It was through Belen, that Cordelia found out what had happened to Charles Fairchild. Charlotte and Henry had both passed away fairly young, a few months from each other, when Jonah was still an infant, and no matter what the Enclave claimed, Cordelia knew the reason had been a broken heart. Charles Fairchild, in a dire need to preserve his family name, had married a girl ten years younger than himself, an orphan he’d met at the Warsaw Institute in one of his missions as Counsel. Belen’s mother had known the girl. Marina Jaworowski was plain and obedient, the perfect woman to follow Charles around and never once question his morals. One year after their marriage, Charles II had been born, and Cordelia prayed the boy would inherit nothing of his father’s character.
Her wish was granted when Belen burst into the manor one day in the late 1930s, happily announcing that Charles II had been disowned by his father, after eloping to Budapest with the youngest daughter of the Institute’s head and had plans to open an art gallery.
Maybe, just maybe, Cordelia thought, things would be alright. Maybe, faith had found a way to sort things out. As she watched her and Matthew’s son welcoming his own baby boy into the world, Cordelia dared to hope that Matthew Fairchild’s spirit would never truly be forgotten.
Los Angeles, 2013
Matthew waltzed around the shop; dress bags ready to send away the bridesmaid dresses for Clarissa’s wedding. Well, all except one. Emma Carstairs had yet to return from her travel year and all Matthew had so far when it came to her dress were a few loose sketches. Both Clary and Jem had assured him she was indeed coming, so the vampire had spent the last week anxiously awaiting the moment her descendant would step into his shop. Your descendant as well, a small voice that sounded a lot like Cordelia whispered in his head.
Matthew glanced up as his heightened senses picked up footsteps on the pavement outside. He shook his head as Magnus Bane appeared in view, a tray of coffee cups in his hand.
“Matthew dear,” Magnus sang as he entered the shop, “I am in dire need of a pair of new suits. Armani’s new collection is horrendous, so you are my only hope!”
The vampire raised an eyebrow as Magnus handed him an iced coffee cup. “Taki’s specialty when it comes to fresh blood. Iced sheep blood with a tiny bit of cinnamon.”
“Are you bribing me, Magnus?” he playfully asked, taking the cup from the warlock’s hand.
“Consider it an advance payment,” the warlock waved his hand dismissively, “Also, Clary wanted me to ask if you’ve changed your mind about coming to the wedding.”
Matthew sighed. It had been sweet of Clary to invite him at their last appointment, when the dress had been finished. He knew Uncle Jem and Aunt Tessa would be there, as well as Lily and Magnus of course, but it felt like he’d be intruding in their life. He’d try entering where he didn’t belong.
He was about to tell Magnus he wasn’t coming, when he heard the car being parked outside. A girl in her late teens stepped out, blonde hair tied in a tight ponytail, backpack strapped to her back. She was wearing a white cropped top, jeans jacket and shorts and looked every inch at home in the hot L.A weather as she stepped into his shop.
“Emma Carstairs!” Magnus exclaimed; arms sprung in the air in a welcoming arc. “Back to the colonial motherland, I see!”
Matthew went still. If meeting Clary had been out of the need to convince himself Charles’s awfulness had been lost through the decades, meeting Emma was like a dream he hadn’t even known he had. He still hadn’t wrapped his head around Jem’s story. Around the thought he and Cordelia had had a son.
“I have to be,” The girl said, plopping her backpack onto the sofa “I go away for one year and the Clave-in-exile turns into a patriarchal shit-show. Seriously Magnus? Perfect Diego?”
Magnus laughed. “Sorry to disappoint, but I do not get involved in my husband’s political decisions.”
“I get he saved Kieran and helped with the whole Cohort situation, but come on, we’re talking about the guy who has been lip-locking with Zara freaking Dearborn for two whole years. Surely, Alec could have found a better Inquisitor.”
“I think there is a flaw in your feminist speech, Emma dearest.” The warlock observed.
The girl snorted. “Hating Zara Dearborn is not anti-feminist, it’s anti-nazis. There should be an exception in the movement - we stan all women except Zara Dearborn.”
“You’ve certainly kept up with the New York City gossip in your travel year,” Magnus noted.
Emma shook her head, gesturing to her phone, “Apparently, I’ve overlooked the Los Angeles ones. Tessa just texted me asking if Dru has been causing any more trouble at the Shadow Market.”
“Really?” Magnus frowned “What would Drusilla be doing at the Shadow Market? Maybe they started selling vintage horror films now. I’ll have to ask Jem.”
Emma shrugged, “Jules thinks she may be missing Ty and Kit more than she lets on. He’s going to talk to her, see if us being back will help.”
“Huh,” Magnus took out his phone and began texting frantically, brows furrowed.
“Who would you have wanted as Inquisitor?” Matthew heard his own voice as if coming from deep down into the sea.
Emma glanced around his shop, as if only now truly seeing it, “Looks like we’re no longer in Topanga Canyon, Toto.” And then, turning to him, brows raised, “And you, are not Sarah.”
Matthew grinned, “No, I am not.”
“Did you get all these clothes in a vampire version of the Bling Ring heist? If so, you have to tell me all about it. I have been meaning to tick ‘stealing from Paris Hilton’ off my bucket list for a while now.”
Magnus chocked on his coffee.
“Actually, I made them myself.” Matthew raised an eyebrow, “But, if I were to burglarize a celebrity home, I’d probably pick someone with an actual sense of style. Like Reese Witherspoon.”
“Each to their own,” Emma grinned at him and the tension evaporated from his shoulders.
“Matthew Fairchild, humble aspiring designer of the Shadow World,” he bowed in reverence, inclining his drink to her. “Well, maybe not so humble.”
“Fairchild, huh?” The girl studied him curiously and Matthew wondered if he should have left out the last name. “In that case, I’ll let you know Clary’s mom Jocelyn would have made a much better Inquisitor. A woman’s voice, who may I add was clever enough to survive and fool Valentine Morgenstern, is what the Clave needs right now.”
“Oh boy,” Magnus let out.
“Well, my mother was the first woman to ever be named Counsel. I haven’t got the slightest idea who this Flawless Diego is, but I’ll trust your judgement on this.”
Emma’s grin widened. “See Magnus, this is the attitude we need in order to rebuild the Clave.”
“I’m sure Alexander will be delighted to hear your opinion at the wedding.” The warlock grimaced, “You’d better text Julian and let him know the whole ‘Dru caused trouble at the Shadow Market’ thing is actually fake news.”
Emma frowned, “What do you mean? Tessa wouldn’t lie about something like that.”
Matthew met Magnus’s gaze. “You see Emma, sometimes, when century old memories turn up undead and kicking, one may start making up stupid excuses.” The warlock shrugged.
Oh. Matthew thought.
“I have no idea what the hell you’ve just said,” Emma was staring at the warlock as if he’d grown a second head.
“I think what Magnus meant,” Matthew intervened, “Is that this Dru didn’t actually go to the Shadow Market. Aunt Tessa was simply misinformed.”
It was Emma’s turn to raise an eyebrow at him. But to his relief, she didn’t pry and promptly turned back to the warlock. “Fine, but you own me an explanation for this one.”
“Believe me, Jem owes us all one or two explanations.” Magnus muttered.
“So, Emma,” Matthew cleared his throat, “Clary and I chose a few possible designs for your bridesmaid dress, but-“
“Given that it’s 3 days before the wedding, yeah I know,” Emma interrupted him, “Just shoot me with whatever you’ve got.” She discarded her jacket on the sofa. If Matthew’s heart had still been beating, it would have stopped right there. Because strapped to the girl’s back, as sun-kissed and beautiful as he remembered, was Cortana.
I am Cortana of the same steel and temper as Joyeuse and Durendal.
“Are you alright?” Emma asked, frowning at him. The sword was now in her hands and she made to place it down until she noticed his gaze. “Do you have a weird ‘No weapons allowed’ policy or something?”
“I-“ His mind was racing, full of images of her. The way she’d looked that night at the Hell Ruelle, dancing, the sword flowing as if an extension of her hand, a part of her being, a part of her soul. The way her body had fit in his arms, that night she’d been his and he had been hers. The way she’d stared out at the boy training with Alastair in the garden of Cirenworth, sword shining in his hand. Their boy.
“Matthew,” Magnus gripped his shoulder, anchoring him back to the present. “Matthew, it’s alright.” He opened his eyes, fists unclenching, and was met with two pairs of concerned eyes, one brown and one cat-like.
“Do you-uhm know Cortana?” Emma asked, uncertainty written on her face.
“I knew a girl who wielded it once. A lifetime ago.” He whispered, Emma’s face softening, and Matthew thought he could glimpse a part of Cordelia in her.
“Was this girl badass?” she asked, a small smile appearing on her lips.
Matthew couldn’t help but laugh, muscles relaxing just enough. “Yes, she was. She was the brightest, hottest flame that burned away the darkest shadows of my soul.”
Emma nodded and stepped forward; Cortana offered up to him. “You can hold it, if you want to.”
“I don’t think that’s-“ Magnus started, but it was already too late.
As soon as the blade touched his skin, Matthew screamed, the pain so intense, burning as if his Marks were being stripped all over again. He staggered backwards, bringing a rack of blazers down with him as he fell. Magnus was at his side in an instant, stroking the back of his head. Emma was shouting, not understanding what had just happened.
The pain burned and burned, the skin of his hand ruined, his blood shining red on the floor. “He was a Shadowhunter,” he could distantly hear Magnus scolding the girl, and he wanted to tell them it was alright, that Emma had no fault in this, but the words weren’t coming out. “Being Nephilim, it’s his religion. When you handed him Cortana- it’s like you threw holy water straight at his face.”
“I’m so sorry,” the girl was saying, panic clearly audible in her voice. “I didn’t mean, didn’t think-“
Matthew wanted to reassure her it was alright, he hadn’t thought about it either, but the shadows were creeping in, calling his name back into the darkness.
Los Angeles, 3 days later
It was the morning of Clary and Jace’s wedding, and Emma Carstairs found herself pacing in front of the small shop, heart racing. He wasn’t there. What if he’s still in pain? What if I’ve maimed him forever? Oh Angel, what if he-?
“Emma?” she whirled around, and saw Matthew lazily walking towards the shop, designer sunglasses on, two dress bags in his arms. His hand looked untouched. “What are you doing here? Is something wrong with the bridesmaid dress? Did Magnus damage it in delivery?”
She threw his arms around him, hugging him tightly. “Oh,” he said, his hand awkwardly patting her back. “Good to see you too?”
She let him go and breathed easily for the first time in three days. “You’re alright,” she whispered. “By the Angel, you’re alright.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he questioned, unlocking the shop and waving for her to come inside.
“I just thought- after Cortana- Magnus barely spoke a word to me last night when he dropped the dress off and I assumed-“
“Magnus is overreacting,” the vampire declared, dress bags laid down on the green sofa. “I told him it was fine. You had no way of knowing, bloody hell, even I didn’t know it.” Emma raised an eyebrow, as the British accent surfaced in his speech. “Sure, the first day was kinda bad, I couldn’t sew shit, that’s why I only finished your dress yesterday. But it’s fine now, see?”
He waved his ringed hand at her and Emma nodded. She was going to kill Magnus.
“It’s wedding day, Emma,” he went on. “Why are you here worrying about my sorry ass and not in hair and make-up?”
“My friend’s coming over from Mexico to help me later, but that’s not important, I-“
“Sure it is, don’t be ridiculous! Think about all the selfies you’ll ruin if you mope in them. Do you want to ruin Clarissa’s wedding selfies, Emma? Trust me, I’ve drunkenly moped half of my human life, don’t do it.”
Emma stared, mouth agape. “You’ve drunkenly moped since you were 9? Holy shit, I should have been born in the late eighteen-hundreds.”
“Well, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but- how did you know I was 18? Or when I’m from?”
He glared at her; confusion visible in his green eyes. Clary’s eyes, Emma thought.
“I-uhm, talked to Jem,” she started, studying the golden flared carpet. “He told me about you and Cor- he told me who you are to me.”
“Oh,” was all he said, arranging the suits he’d taken out of the begs, avoiding looking at her.
“Matthew,” she said, hand gently brushing his arm. “When I was twelve, my parents were brutally murdered. I spent the next five years obsessed with training and fighting. All my grief, I channeled into vengeance. I didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t killing demons.”
“But you- you chose the other way. You’ve built something beautiful here,” she went on, “You chose to channel your pain into something good.”
“I wasn’t always like this, I-“
“I know how it’s like to miss someone so much the thought of them hurts,” Emma firmly ignored his protests, “For so long, I thought I was alone. The last Carstairs. Sure, Jem is around, but he has his own family to think of. He can’t just waltz in L.A. whenever I’m missing my parents.”
“Emma-“
“But now- maybe you and I can be each other’s venting partner. You know, kind of like a therapist, but like, for free.”
His eyes brightened and he chuckled. “Venting partner?” He echoed; the distress replaced with amusement on his face.
“Do you have a better name for it, Mister Green Carnation?”
“What’s wrong with The Green Carnation?” he asked, eyes widened in disbelief.
“It’s like you’re inviting people to your Oscar Wilde fan club, not a clothing store!” she gestured to the books displayed on the shelves.
“I am in an Oscar Wilde fan club!”
“Ok,” Emma raised her hands in the air, defeated. “Now we are definitely doing the venting partner thing.”
“Effective immediately,” she went on, “You are coming to the wedding tonight and we are going to have our very first session.”
“I’m not coming to-“
“Yes, you are. I know Clary invited you. You are going to show me those drinking while moping skills and I am going to show you how to take cute selfies, all while being miserable.” She placed her hands on her hips, eyes challenging him to dare say no.
“I have those suits to finish for a client-“
“Those suits are for Magnus! He’s your only client!”
He gaped at her; eyes widened. “I thought Magnus wasn’t talking to you!”
“But Clary and Alec are!”
Green eyes glared into brown ones, daring each other to give up the fight. “Fine,” Matthew sighted, “I’ll come to the wedding. But you explain to Magnus while his suits aren’t ready.”
Emma grinned at him, playfully punching his arm. “See you at the wedding, ancestor.”
Matthew shook his head, smiling as she turned around to leave. “See you at the wedding, descendant.”