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"Jace Lightwood," Camille purrs appreciatively as he enters her room at the Plaza unannounced and crosses towards her in easy strides, "What a pleasant surprise."
Fledgling guards are nearly on him in a moment until she stills them with a single gesture, her eyes never leaving him. He doesn’t even flinch, takes in his surroundings instead with a careless gaze and his arms crossed in front of him.
Her fall from grace has treated her well, he notes - she still lives in luxury, no doubt continues to want for nothing; with a glance out the window he can see all of Central Park spread out before them, the rolling green treetops like waves in the quickly gathering dusk. A curtain of smoke the bluish color of warlock magic shimmers between them and a cloying scent hangs in the air as something half-finished burns in a gold ashtray before her. She fixes him with a heady, narcotized smirk and sinks further into the sofa she's been lounging on, her wrists dripping gold as she brings a crystal highball glass filled with blood to her lips. He wonders if she's even bothered to leave her suite since the war moved to the heart of New York, or if she's simply become content to let the world burn as she watches from far, far away.
"I wish I could say the same," he replies easily, lip curling in disgust he can't be bothered to contain.
Her smile fades but the predatory glint in her eyes doesn't, and he tells himself it doesn't scare him, she doesn't scare him.
"So, angel," she purrs, the nickname harsh and mocking in her mouth, "What is that's brought you here tonight?"
"I need information," he says evenly.
"Oh, don't your kind always," she sighs, shifting on the couch as she reaches for whatever she's smoking. Her robe slips down then, dark red like old blood and parting to reveal the sweep of pale collarbones and the tops of full breasts. He coughs uncomfortably, shifts his stance, and quickly glances away.
She must notice because she glances up as she exhales smoke in his direction and laughs but makes no move to draw her robe together, only reclines further and asks, "And what's in it for me?"
"Well, for one thing," he replies, refusing to take the hint, "the New York Institute will continue not to prioritize action against you for your violation of the Accords."
She narrows her eyes but says nothing.
"And for another," he continues, stepping closer as he swipes a vase from a nearby table and tosses it hand to hand, "I won't drive a stake through your heart in front of half the fledglings in New York."
The fledglings lose their minds then, howling and snarling like wild animals as they draw themselves into fighting stance, but she stills them again. He’s more than grateful, because he’s very much bluffing. It’s no secret that he’s one of the finest shadowhunters of his age, second only to his siblings if any, but he doubts his ability to fight off a room full of vampires and their sire all alone.
She must know this, or fear nothing, or both, because she doesn’t bat an eye.
"Oh, angel," she laughs, as if he hasn't just made a threat on her life, "Let's not make this more difficult than it needs to be. I have something you want, and you have something I want." Her eyes flicker shamelessly to his carotid then and linger there, turning his blood to ice before returning to meet his gaze as she continues, "Let's help each other out."
He bites down on his lip and looks away, unable to meet her gaze as he considers her proposition. The simple fact of his consideration clearly amuses her, excites her - it's written all over her face, and it’s unbearable. He understands that in his current position his threats of violence and political intervention hold no weight here, that if he wants something he’s going to have to give something away.
Not wishing to dwell any longer, he sits down in the wide leather armchair adjacent to the sofa where Camille is perched and waits, his heart beating loud in his ears. Surely, he realizes, that means she can hear it as well as he, and shivers. She crosses the space towards him and sits down in his lap so that she faces him, her robe pooling at her hips and sliding past her shoulders as her hair tumbles out of its loose arrangements, forming a dark curtain around the both of them. As she shifts her position, he places his hands on her waist, and through the thin fabric he finds that she’s cold to the touch, smooth as marble. Her entire body in his lap and tangled around him, he’s suddenly made aware of just how small she really is, and it only serves to highlight her power and savagery by nature of contrast.
He’s so caught up in her that he doesn’t realize he’s broken the skin of his lip until she leans forward and drags her tongue along the blood that's pooled there.
"Let’s be clear," he growls, in a desperate attempt to regain his footing, “This is just one bite.” He’s trying hard to stay in control, but it comes out far more breathless than he would’ve liked, and she just laughs.
"Of course, angel," she purrs, taking his lower lip into her mouth and biting down hard so more of his blood rushes to the surface. "Whatever you want."
She turns then, leaving one hand draped languidly over his shoulder as she calls behind her, "The room, please." And then, with a whisper, "Unless you'd prefer an audience."
He shivers then, hates that the suggestion alone is enough to awaken something dark inside of him. "Thanks, I'll pass," he spits in a tone he desperately hopes sounds uninterested.
She drags her fangs along his neck then, leaving behind thin red lacerations and chasing the blood that rises to the surface with her tongue. He can feel the venom sitting at the surface of his skin, released but unable to truly enter his bloodstream without the efficiency of a bite, and it burns hotter and sharper than any rune he’s ever drawn. He hisses in pain then and grits his teeth as tears spring to his eyes, but there’s the faintest flush creeping up from his chest to his cheeks.
Camille’s eyes grow wide when she notices, and she gasps in delight as she captures his face in her hands. He moves quickly out of her grasp and refuses to meet her eyes but she captures him again, locking him in her grip this time so that he’s forced to look at her.
“Jace Lightwood,” she grins, all fangs, all predator, “Do you like it when I hurt you?” She drags her sharp black nails across the path that the flush has made from the curve of his collarbones all the way to his neck, another set of bloody lacerations left behind for her to lick up shamelessly. He throws his head back then and gasps in lieu of an answer, unable to contain himself any longer.
She runs her tongue along the expanse of his exposed neck then, as if in warning, making no pretense about her intentions as she lingers over his carotid. His head swims with warring fear and desire, and he knows that when she bites him he’ll taste like adrenaline.
Then she bares her fangs, and as they flash in the dim light he is reminded of exactly who she is, the falls she's brought upon monsters and gods alike, but by the time he thinks to say anything it's too late, she's already got his blood in her mouth.
The noise he makes as the venom enters his system is obscene, caught somewhere between a choking gasp and a moan as his eyes roll back in his head. Warmth wracks through his body like a fever, and he feels his nails grip the chair so hard they pierce the leather even as he leaves his body behind and drifts away, suspended in darkness. His mind is clear of anything that isn’t hunger. This , he thinks, is what they’re all chasing. He understands now, and that terrifies him more than any monster he could ever invite to desecrate him.
At some point he must start begging out loud because from far away he hears her laugh and shush him softly as she runs a maternal hand through his hair.
"Oh, angel," she sighs, stroking the side of his face as he leans into her touch, "any faster and I could kill you."
"Please, god, please," he begs, "I don't care, please, I need more." He's so gone now, out of his mind with desire but he means every word, wants for nothing else.
"I know, angel, I know," she whispers as she licks his blood from her lips, "We'll get there. We'll just have to go slow."
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Hours later, he stumbles from her room hollow-eyed and high*, his lips and skin cold and blue as the dead’s and his vision still spinning.
"Wait," he gasps, turning back just as she's closing her door, "the information-"
She cuts him off with a laugh. "Don't bother. You don't look like you have even half the energy to tell a decent lie right now." She looks him up and down, desire sparking there mingled now with familiarity. “And don't worry," she smirks, "I won't tell if you won't."