Chapter Text
“Yes: I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”
Oscar Wilde
New York City, 2013
Jem Carstairs hurried down the busy New York City streets, trying to convince himself that it was probably nothing. Alarm bells had been ringing in his head ever since he’d gotten the message from Clary, asking him to drop by the Institute. She’d assured him it was nothing to worry about, but given the current circumstances of the Shadow World, he couldn’t help the thoughts circling around his head.
He’d passed through the Shadow Market to pick something up for Mina and the ambiance of the place had taken his mind off his worries, like it usually did. Ever since his time as a Silent Brother, Jem found the place oddly comforting. Even in the most dire moments in history, Shadow Markets found ways to function in their own, peculiar and lasting fashion.
But as he passed by small theaters and lively bodegas, the Institute rising up in front of him, Jem felt a sudden sense of dread overflow him. He didn’t know why his mind was reacting this way. If something truly awful had happened, him and Tessa would have known about it by now. And yet, Jem felt like he was walking straight into an execution.
He wasn’t wrong.
Jem skipped up the stairs the led to the Institute, telling himself for the millionth time that it was nothing. The grand doors swung open at his touch. As soon as he stepped inside the cathedral, gates shutting behind him, he heard it.
An awful, agonizing scream that echoed through the high walls and crevices, reverberating onto the stained glass. Jem’s hand instantly went to his weapon belt, cursing himself for not having brought his staff. But Tessa had insisted there would be no battle to fight, and he’d believed her.
His grip tightening on the dagger, Jem stepped further into the Institute as another scream rang through the building.
“Jem, is that you?” Clary called out. Startled, Jem whirled around to the open kitchen door at the end of the hallway. She didn’t sound distressed, if only a little...anxious?
Frowning, Jem hurried forward, dagger still in hand and stared. Clarissa Fairchild was standing at the kitchen table, sketch pad open in front of her, pencils and supplies scattered all around. Plopped down on the counter opposite her was Magnus Bane. The High Warlock of Brooklyn was nursing a half empty bottle of Irish whiskey, pink sequined jacket in his lap.
“James Carstairs,” Magnus exclaimed, inclining the bottle towards him. “Come join us, we’re drinking!”
Another scream echoed out and Clary winced, dropping her pencil, hands reaching up to massage her temples.
“What,” Jem started, gesturing with his dagger out into the darkened cathedral, “in Raziel’s name, is that?”
“Rune stripping ceremony, my dear Brother Zachariah,” Magnus melodiously let out, “You should be familiar with their chipper, deafening soundtrack by now.”
Jem stared at the warlock. "What?”
“So,” Magnus went on, tipping back the bottle, no sign of having heard him, “I am respecting the tradition established at the crack of the past century and drinking myself under the table. Or counter.”
“What?” Jem repeated, fighting the memories that threatened to rise up from where he had buried them for so many years.
“Now, don’t be such a nitwit, dearest former Silent Brother, after all, you’ve done it yourse-“
“Evan Bridgestock has willingly chosen to live as a mundane, after his entire family Centurioned out in Idris.” Clary offered, eyeing Magnus with a questioning gaze.
“Ironic, right James?” the warlock sang, and Jem staggered forward into the chair in front of Clary, his own head beginning to throb all of a sudden. “Ah, the circle of life.”
“Is that why you’ve called me here?” Jem breathed out, accusatory gaze turned towards Magnus.
“What? No, I-“ Clary stuttered, her face suddenly matching the color of her hair. “I’ve just wanted to personally give you the wedding invitation, that’s all.” Her small hands fidgeted while she handed him a sand colored envelope she had procured from the sketch pad.
Jem opened his mouth to thank her, embarrassed at all the worries that had clouded his mind, and firmly closed it. Because there, sealing off the envelope in a pop of a color, was a little green carnation.
“My idea,” Magnus announced, clearly understanding Jem’s sudden jolt of horror. “The symbol of the love of art, of loving whoever you choose. Perfect for a Fairchild-Herondale wedding, right James?”
Clary was looking at him expectedly with those green orbs that hunted his darkest dreams, and Jem had to close his eyes and suppress the urge to scream at Magnus. “Stop,” he let out through gritted teeth.
“What’s wrong?” Clary sounded alarmed, eyes widening in a way that made her look like him, and Jem had to conjure up all the control he had mastered as a Silent Brother.
“Nothing, Clarissa. Tessa and I would be delighted to attend your wedding. Thank you for thinking of us,” Jem tried to plaster the most genuine smile he could on his face, because truly, he was grateful for the invitation.
Clary had no fault in this, those thoughts that tormented him from time to time, of the boy he couldn’t save. Neither did Magnus, Jem thought, for he knew the warlock’s intentions had been genuine. It was just the alcohol talking, projecting out Magnus’s own suppressed memories onto Jem.
Another scream rang out into the kitchen, quieter and defeated and Jem suddenly turned to Magnus. “Where’s Alec?”
The warlock snorted, taking another gulp out of his bottle. “Him and Jace are fulfilling the mighty will of the Law and Clave. So,” Magnus went on, gesturing to Clary, “Biscuit and I have decided to hide out here while our men bring Justice in the name of Covenant.”
“Ok,” Clary started, rising from her seat and attempting to grab the bottle out of Magnus’s hand. The warlock avoided her hand surprisingly swiftly given his current state.
Terrified sobbing began to be heard from the core of the Institute and Clary winced again, slumping against one of the counters herself. “This should be illegal,” she muttered, hands pulling at her messy bun.
“If it were, biscuit, you and your friend Emma might not have been born,” Magnus happily declared.
“What?” Clary stared at Magnus, mouth agape. Jem had had enough.
“Magnus,” he begun as he got up and turned towards the warlock. “You need to cut it off.”
“I don’t need to do shit,” the warlock staggered forward, away from Jem, bottle unsteady in his hand. The jacket fell from his lap, but the warlock didn’t notice. His feet tangled in the sequined material and Magnus went flying. His torso hit the table with a thump and the liquor spilled all over Clary’s sketch pad.
“Shit!” He exclaimed, steadying himself. Clary dropped her head in her hands and groaned.
“I’ll go fetch a mop,” Jem sighted, Clary grabbing her stele, attempting to salvage parts of her drawings.
“No, I’ll go,” Magnus announced, eyes mournful at the gap his shoes had made in the thin material of the jacket. “You’ll just end up getting lost.”
“And you’ll just end up passing out in an alcove,” Clary shouted, hand expertly drawing runes on a piece of paper that seemed to hold a wedding dress design.
The sobbing had ceased to audible whimpers now, and Clary let out a sight, dropping the stele. She crumbled the sketch in her hands and promptly threw it in the trash.
“Have you really done this before?” She asked, and Jem took a step back, those green eyes starring curiously up at him.
Pleading green eyes looking up at him, silently begging him to remove the Quietude Rune and allow him to defend himself. Please, Uncle Jem. Please.
“Once,” he breathed, looking anywhere but at Clary Fairchild. “And it is the single, most awful thing I have ever done in my time as a Silent Brother.”
He risked glancing up her and saw that she had since thrown away the entire sketchbook and was now silently putting away pencils.
“Sorry if this brought back bad memories. I really didn’t plan it like this.”
“I know Clary, I know.”
Jem wanted to say more, apologize to her the way he should have done to him more than a century ago, tell her how he had had to do it, to protect the four people he loved most in the world. But the words weren’t coming out.
There, on the whisky soaked table, utterly ruined, stood the wedding invitation, green carnation staring accusatory up at him. How could you let this happen?
The seam broke, and the memories flooded Jem like the Thames had been the night Matthew Fairchild killed himself.
London, 1903
They were making a show out of it.
Cordelia fought the urge to unsheathe Cortana and plunge into the crowd of Shadowhunters gathered inside the Sanctuary. The room lacked the festive feel of previous meetings, all tapestries taken down in a small act of rebellion. The Wentworths were racing around, afraid they had missed their seats in the front row. Inquisitor Bridgestock watched the crowd from the lectern, his eyes darting from the open doors to the two empty chairs practically glued to the dais.
They were making a show out of it.
“Damnatio ad bestias,” muttered Alastair and Cordelia dug her nails into her palm, suppressing the urge to scream at him, at all of them.
Something green flickered at her left and for a moment Cordelia thought maybe it had all been a sick, cruel joke. He would pop down next to her with that big, radiant smile so few saw these days. He would laugh it off and she would scream at him, cry a little and they would move on.
“Has Bridgewick always been this...rosy?” Magnus Bane narrowed his eyes at the Inquisitor, who was getting redder and redder by the minute, eyes now fixed on the grand doors that led back into the Institute.
The warlock was the only Downworlder present at the Enclave meeting and had come to make a statement. Those were his clothes. The waistcoat, the shirt, the trousers, the green carnation carefully sewed in the buttonhole, all magically altered to fit Magnus’s taller frame...
Cordelia opened her mouth to protest at this violation of his privacy, his identity and stopped. He would be ecstatic at the thought of Magnus Bane parading around an Enclave meeting wearing his clothes. Even more if certain assumptions would be made.
“Son of a Pickwick,” Magnus muttered as the Inquisitor’s face lightened up and all eyes turned towards the entrance.
Tessa Herondale stood arm in arm with a small woman, Will’s hands steadying a Bath chair next to them. Charlotte Fairchild looked ready to collapse, hair grayer than Cordelia remembered, dark circles a stern contrast to her pale skin. The Counsel’s husband seemed rigid in his chair; eyes fixed somewhere in the distance as if fascinated by the Angel fountain pushed to the back of the Sanctuary.
“Where the bloody hell is Charles?” Alastair asked, turning to his sister as if she held all the secrets of the Fairchild family. In another life, she might have had.
“Making himself Counsel,” It was Magnus who answered, his face grimacing as Tessa gently ushered Charlotte towards the lectern.
“What?” Cordelia felt sick to her stomach, the material of her white dress suddenly to tight and too hot, her blood boiling at the thought of his brother.
Magnus’s eyes softened as he turned to her. “Not all siblings are like you and your brother. For some, family doesn’t mean anything more than a way for them to get what they want.”
“Even so-“
“Even so, biscuit, even so,” Magnus sighed as he rose to his feet. “I should let your husband and parabatai take their seats. If you’ll excuse me, I must make my presence known to the Mighty Defender of the Law.”
And with that, the warlock was gone in a flair of green fabric and Matthew’s cologne, just as James entered the Sanctuary, supporting a red-eyed and shaking Lucie.
Cordelia kept her eyes fixed on Magnus, who was making his way towards the lectern, as James and Lucie sat down next to her and Alastair. She yearned to grab James’s arm and beg him to do something, anything, to stop this circus. She couldn’t comprehend why Tessa and Will were allowing this and yet...
“This is all my fault,” Lucie rasped out and Cordelia was glad her friend had wrecked her voice crying the night before. If those were the lengths the Herondales needed to go to in order to make Bridgestock turn a blind eye on Lucie...Cordelia shivered at the thought.
“Here-” James started, already shaking off his jacket but Cordelia shook her head, her mind spiraling to another jacket being placed on her shoulders just two days ago, on the balcony of a Soho apartment. “Daisy-“ James tried again and Cordelia had to bite her cheek to stop herself from screaming.
Daisy. She had never hated that nickname more than she did now. For she would never again be his Daisy. Not when two days ago she had been Matthew’s Cordelia. No nicknames, no expectations, no pretenses and evasions. Just her, him, Oscar and that small, cozy apartment with the beautiful garden view.
Soho, 2 days ago
Cordelia opened her eyes, the smell of bacon and cheese overflowing her nostrils. She rolled over in the satin sheets, her blurry eyes trying to focus on the blond boy currently placing scrambled eggs onto two plates lined on the small kitchen isle. Oscar was wiggling his tail next to him and let out an excited bark as Matthew threw a piece of bacon straight into his mouth.
Her eyes darted towards the balcony doors, surprised to see the sun hasn’t risen yet. The witchlight lamp on Matthew’s writing desk cast warm shadows on his burgundy jacket and waistcoat. Cordelia felt a slight blush creep upon her face as she gazed down at her naked form.
Wrapping the sheets around herself, Cordelia rose from his bed and made her way towards the kitchen, her legs wobbly, the slight ache at her core making her blush even further. Her hair desperately needed brushing and she prayed to the Angel he wouldn’t notice the rose in her cheeks. Matthew’s face brightened when he saw her, that big, radiant smile that could melt away icebergs and turn both girls and boys into giggling messes. If only he’d show it to the world more often.
It had that exact effect on Cordelia. She almost dropped the bed sheet and had to fight the urge to run her fingers through his curls. Her blush deepened as her mind conjured images of that blond head buried between her tights just a few hours ago.
“Morning,” she whispered, involuntary tightening the sheets around herself.
“Hi,” Matthew breathed out, his hand moving to tug a tangled piece of hair behind her ear. He slowly lowered his head towards hers, and Cordelia closed her eyes, longing to feel his lips on hers again, the way their mouths had danced together on the balcony. “I’ve-ah made breakfast.” He said instead and Cordelia prayed the disappointment wasn’t written on her face.
She knew why he’d stopped, why he took a step back as he handed her a plate full of eggs and bacon and motioned for her to sit down in front of him at the isle. The magic of last night was slowly fading with the timid sunlight beginning to creep through the balcony doors. Their lives, who they were, who she was - all the things they couldn’t change were beginning to make their presence known once again.
“What time is it?” she asked, desperate to fill the silence between them. She didn’t want things to be awkward and remorseful with Matthew, she wanted to hear him laugh, tell silly jokes and say her name over and over again.
Cordelia. Not Daisy. Not Layla. Not Herondale. Just Cordelia.
“A quarter to six,” he said averting her gaze, but Cordelia noticed, for the the first time in that growing light, the shadows under his green eyes.
“Have you slept at all?” The way he was already fully dressed, had had time to cook, the coldness of the side he’d laid on in bed after they’d parted...
Matthew just shrugged, pointing at the sewing machine to the side of his desk. “Had a waistcoat I needed to finish anyway.”
Cordelia felt cold sweat begin to form at the back of her head. Her blood was boiling at the thought that he’d bed her, but not dare sleep next to her afterwards. Her brain told her he’d probably been burdened by guilt at the thought of his parabatai, but her heart raged. She didn’t want to think about James, didn’t want to care about how James would feel, because every time she thought of him, she popped up.
Cordelia was done being Daisy one moment and nobody as soon as Grace walked in. She was done waiting for her husband to show up at her mother’s funeral, only to find out he’d had an emergency at the Bridgestocks’. She was done putting herself second when it came to her own heart.
So Cordelia let the bed sheet drop to the floor, blocking away thoughts of how scandalized her mother would have been, and watched how Matthew Fairchild chocked on his bacon.
“Cordelia-“ he coughed as she strode towards him. She gently lowered herself onto his lap, straddling him while her arms wrapped around his neck. On instinct, his hands moved to her waist to steady her and he let out a groan as she shifted to press her lips to his.
If kissing James felt like trying to melt away years of ice, building from reserve and pretense to a slow, suppressed passion, kissing Matthew was fire from beginning to end. Lips, teeth and tongue all collided in an explosion of passion she’d dreamed of for so long. There was a lingering smell of whiskey to his breath and he tasted of mint and bacon, his lips slightly chapped as he gasped into her mouth.
Cordelia gently broke away from him, her hand brushing away a few loose curls from his forehead. “I don’t want to think about them anymore,” she whispered. He opened his mouth to protest and she kissed him again.
She ran her hands through the strands at the back of his neck, curling and uncurling her fingers through the golden locks. “And neither should you,” she breathed as she deepened the kiss, her tongue taking to exploring his mouth again.
“Cordelia, we can’t...I-Jamie-,” he pulled away from her and she whimpered, tears beginning to burn in her eyes.
“So he can do whatever he wants in one year, but I can’t,” she cried and she hated how she sounded, broken and young, almost childlike. Embarrassed suddenly at her current position, she moved to pull away from him, but his grip on her waist tightened, keeping her in place.
“Sweetheart, look at me,” she melted as his hand cradled her face, calloused fingers brushing away her tears. “The second Grace is free of Charlie, the second your marriage is over I will marry you if that is what you wish.”
“Last night,” he went on, fingers stroking her cheek, “was both my deepest desire and greatest torment. But we can’t do that again, not as long as you’re still his Daisy.”
She shook her head, breaking away from his hold. “I’m so tired of being his second choice, Matthew,” she whispered and she saw a flash of hurt pass those green eyes before he grabbed her hand, pressing her knuckles to his mouth.
“I know sweetheart, I know. But you will always be my first choice.”
Cordelia whimpered and touched her forehead to his, ”I just want it to be over.” He wrapped his arms around her and crushed her to his chest. Cordelia allowed herself to cry and sob into his shirt, the pain of the last two months flowing out of her like a flooded river. Her mother’s death in childbirth, her father going to the Basillas, the baby’s constant sickness, Lucie’s attention being suddenly drawn elsewhere, James not showing up at the funeral, all the nights spent mourning alone in their townhouse because Grace needed him...
If Grace needed James, Cordelia thought, she needed Matthew. The one person who seemed to understand how she felt, the boy who stood by her side when he mother’s body was burned on the pyre, the boy who spilled his soul out to her when she blamed herself for no doing more to save Sona...how could she had stopped herself from loving a boy who was just as torn in half as she was?
She loved James; Angel knew she loved James. But loving James felt like worshiping a stone statue, the Mask almost never coming down. Loving Matthew though, loving Matthew felt alive. And she wanted to feel alive. She wanted to feel loved and wanted and she yearned to be someone’s first choice. Even if he was her second choice.
Cordelia broke away from his embrace, her eyes widening in realization. The hurt look that had passed his face earlier, the way he’d said over and over again that he knew what she meant... Oh, sweet, sweet Matthew.
He looked startled at her sudden retreat, his lips already mouthing an apology. “Math-“ she started, wanting to tell him what he’d done for her since her mother’s passing, tell him she wanted him, that she’d break it off with James right now if he’d ask her to.
The frantic knocking on the door sent Cordelia flying out of Matthew’s lap. She desperately tried to cover herself with the bed sheet while gathering her dress from where it lay forgotten on the floor.
Matthew swore, ushering her to the small bathroom and closing the door after her. Cordelia glued her ear to the door, her mind racing at the thought of James walking into the apartment. She heard Matthew talking with somebody, but she couldn’t make out any words, just the fact that whoever it was, they were most definitely not James.
“You can come out now.” Matthew shouted and she staggered out of the bathroom, almost tripping on the bed sheet. His hands were on her instantly, steadying her and warming her up at the same time. Her eyes met his deep green ones and she would have kissed him again right there had it not been for the worry written all over his beautiful face.
“What is it?” she asked, noticing a small piece of paper crushed in his hand.
“One of the Irregulars,” he breathed, and she realized with a painful jolt that he was shaking. “Jamie, Lucie...something horrible is going on at Chiswick. We have to go. Now.”
Cordelia closed her eyes, memories of their time together threatening to overwhelm her. She could hear James calling out to her, asking her if he could do anything to help, Alastair trying to overpower his concerns, Lucie silently sobbing again. She would have screamed at them to shut up had someone else not beaten her to it.
That scream however, high pitched and full of sorrow was not one of anger. It was desperate, pleading and terrified at the same time. The scream of a mother who couldn’t help her baby.
Charlotte Fairchild.
Cordelia tore her eyes away from the shaking woman, Tessa’s arms around her in a comforting yet strong grip. For Charlotte’s brown eyes were fixed on the entrance to the Sanctuary. The moment Cordelia realized who his mother was pleading with, she almost sank out of her seat, defeated and utterly horrified.
By the Angel, Magnus was right.
Charles Fairchild stood in the doorway, his face a stoic mask of calm, as if this was any other Enclave meeting. Not his brother getting stripped of his Marks in a sadistic display of justice as seen by Maurice Bridgestock.
And there, next to Charles, was Matthew. Sweet, darling Matthew. His hands were chained in front of him, the adamas reflecting light obscenely as the metal visibly dug into his skin, droplets of blood flowing down his wrists. His burgundy jacket was gone, his waistcoat and trousers reduced to rags, shirt sticking to his skin in sweat and dirt. His hair was almost brown, the curls flattened out, wet and greased, no sign of the style he prided in so much. And on his face, right above a deep cut on his cheek, was a Quietude rune. Cordelia had no doubt who’d put it there.
She wanted to lunge at Charles, claw at his face as deep as Matthew’s cheek was cut and demand how could he. Lucie began sobbing even harder as Charlotte collapsed on the floor, Tessa going down with her and murmuring something in her ear. Alastair swore and James went stiff next to Cordelia, his hand moving to the side of his neck, where his parabatai rune was.
Her gaze followed the two brothers as Charles half dragged Matthew towards the dais. His head was lowered, in an attempt, Cordelia realized, to avoid looking at his parents. Tessa had succeeded in seating Charlotte in the chair once again, but the arms around the small woman were now her husband’s. Henry Branwell seemed to have awaken from his daze and was now whispering in his wife’s ear.
The boys were closely followed by a group of Silent Brothers and Cordelia instantly recognized Jem as he stopped in front of Inquisitor Bridgestock.
It would be advised to empty out the room before we begin the procedure.
Jem’s voice sounded stern in her head, almost angry.
The Inquisitor snorted, waving his hand at him. “Nonsense, Brother Zachariah. I am certain we would not disturb the way of the Brotherhood by merely watching. Isn’t that right, Brother Enoch?”
The said Silent Brother Brother stepped forward. The way of the Brotherhood is one of silence and shadows. We would prefer our ways to remain private, if the Law allows it.
“Surely given the circumstances regard grave acts of necromancy, an exception should be made to send a message to both Clave and Downworld.” Bridgestock glanced at Magnus as he spoke, but the warlock didn’t flinch.
Very well.
Enoch’s voice felt like a punch to the stomach. It was the signal Charles was waiting for. He shoved Matthew forward, the boy falling to his knees, his bound hands offering him no support as he landed. Cordelia saw Jem clench and unclench his fists before going as still as the other Brothers.
Cordelia closed her eyes, wanting to sprint down to the dais and throw her body in front of Matthew’s, protect him from the unfairness of the world, from his own brother.
Brother Zachariah, it is your time now.
No no no no no no
Will Herondale doubled over in his seat. Tessa went livid next to him. Charlotte let out a guttural sob. Magnus looked like he was ready to murder Enoch. James swore and Lucie whimpered. At the other end of the dais, Cordelia could see the Lightwoods muttering among themselves, Cecily glaring daggers at the Silent Brothers, Anna’s face so withdrawn and pale she looked sick. Ariadne Bridgestock stood at her side, staring at her adoptive father with so much hate in her dark eyes Cordelia was taken aback.
“Interesting,” Alastair whispered in her ear and she slapped his leg with so much force he cried out.
Slowly, one step at a time, as if delaying the moment for as long as he could, her cousin stepped onto the dais. He kneeled in front of Matthew and lifted the boy’s head to the level of his scarred face. Cordelia wished she could hear what Jem was telling him, prayed to the Angel he was whisking away the fear and abandonment. Prayed Jem would remove that awful rune from Matthew’s bloodied cheek and allow him to speak.
He never did.
“Matthew Fairchild,” Bridgestock’s voice rang out into the Sanctuary like a million cruel bells announcing doom and destruction.
“You have been found guilty of the darkest form of necromancy.”
When Matthew and Cordelia had reached Chiswick House, the place smelled like death, the energy it emanated making Cordelia’s stomach turn upside down. And in the middle of it, the Black Book torn open at her feet, had been Lucie.
“You have disturbed the eternal sleep of young Jesse Blackthorn.”
Grace had been clutching a boy with jet black hair to her chest, crying and sobbing his name over and over again. “Jesse, Jesse, Jesse.”
“You have corrupted the heart and clouded the judgement of his sister.”
James had been starring absently at the banks of the Thames, where witchlight shown and the shouting of Shadowhunters could be heard.
“You have disgraced your family name and committed the greatest blasphemy there is to us Shadowhunters.”
“You have to go,” Matthew had said frantically, dragging an unresponsive James away from the river and throwing him in Cordelia’s arm. Lucie had been shaking from head to toe as Matthew tried to stop her from yanking Jesse out of Grace’s arms.
“Take my car, and go, Cordelia,” he’d begged her, green eyes pleading and full of fear. “They can’t find all of us here, we’d never see the end of it.”
“I’ll stay with Grace, please, Cordelia, go!”
Angel, she shouldn’t have left him. She shouldn’t have left him with that snake who now stood like a statue next to Mrs. Bridgestock, utterly emotionless at the scene folding right before her eyes. Whatever she’d said, whatever she’d done, it had been enough to convince Charles, convince everyone, that Matthew was guilty of raising her brother from the dead.
“You are no longer worthy of bearing the Marks of the Angel.” Bridgestock’s eyes were fixed on Charlotte as he said those words, and Cordelia noticed how tightly Henry was holding her. Keeping her from falling to her knees next to their boy.
“Charles, if you would like to say something on behalf of your brother,” the Inquisitor gestured to the lectern and Cordelia had never been more disgusted in her life.
“Thank you, Maurice. There isn’t much to say, really,” his hazel eyes were locked with his father’s as he spoke, and Cordelia wanted to drive Cortana straight through him. “For the longest time, I have held hope my younger brother would recover from this disease that has been slowly corrupting his body and mind. Even when he caused my beloved mother to lose her third child, with vile Downworlder poison, my hope for his recovery was still there-”
“No,” Cordelia said out loud, Alastair’s nails painfully digging into her skin in an effort to shush her. This could not be happening. Not now. Not like this. Charlotte had gone utterly white, Henry’s arms dropping from her shoulders, body going stiff as he stared back at his eldest son.
Enough. Jem’s voice echoed through the room with such intensity, Charles almost fell from the lectern in surprise. You are wasting precious time, Charles Fairchild. My Brothers and I are not here to witness your accusations-
“You were there when he bought the poison, I know you were,” Charles said, eyes piercing through Jem’s sewed eyelids. “I know he told you what he did.”
Brother Zachariah is right, Inquisitor. I will not have mine nor my Brother’s time wasted any longer.
Cordelia wanted to cry out in relief at Brother Enoch’s words, yet the damage had already been done. She couldn’t begin to comprehend what Matthew must be feeling right now. She desperately longed to see his face, hold him close and tell him it was alright, that no one had believed Charles. But as she stared at his slumped shoulders, head bowed in defeat, Cordelia knew the truth.
Angel, he didn’t deserve any of this.
“As you wish, Brother Enoch,” Bridgestock said before turning to address the room. “However, there is more justice to be served, before the procedure can begin.”
“What in the world,” Alastair murmured his eyes darting from Charles to the Inquisitor.
“Grace Blackthorn has told us Fairchild was not alone when he performed the ritual,” the Inquisitor went on, and Cordelia’s vision darkened. She felt James go rigid next to her, heard Lucie’s loud whimper and then-
“Thomas Lightwood,” Charles’s voice was louder than before, hazel eyes fixed on Alastair as he spoke the name.
Cordelia whirled her head and met James’s golden eyes, full of fear and rage. Thomas, who hadn’t even been there. Thomas, who didn’t even know what had taken place at Chiswick. Thomas, who had been with Alastair that night. Thomas, whose only witness was Alastair. And for her brother to voice what he knew, it would mean ruining their already ruined family forever.
The chaos that erupted from the Lightwood side of the room overpowered anything Charles or the Inquisitor might have been saying. Cecily jumped to her feet and Gabriel had to hold her back as she tried lunging at Charles. Sophie Lightwood stared from Matthew’s bent form to her son, who had lost all the color from his cheeks. Gideon slumped further into his chair, head in his hands. Anna was at her mother’s side, shouting obscenities at the Inquisitor, while Christopher seemed utterly lost next to Thomas.
“And how,” Eugenia inquired, her voice surprisingly strong as she fought to overpower her family, “do you know that Grace is telling the truth?”
“We’ve tried her with the Mortal Sword of course,” Bridgestock waved his hand at her, completely dismissing the protests of the Lightwood family.
“No they didn’t,” Lucie breathed out, voice barely audible thorough the raspiness. “If they did, they would know about me.”
Cordelia turned to her brother, whose knuckles had gone white where he gripped the chair. His gaze was fixed on Charles, who was returning the glare with a defiant smile forming at the corner of his lips.
“Vile and heartless brute,” Alastair growled, and Cordelia could tell he was so close to snapping, so close to calling out Charles and Bridgestock’s lies. Even if it meant ruining his own life. Even if it meant ruining hers.
“And Matthew and my brother do not deserve a trial by the Mortal Sword?” Eugenia hissed, her voice cold, the venom displayed on her beautiful face. That, Cordelia realized, was a woman who had nothing more to lose.
“As the Carstairs trial earlier this year has thought us, Jenny dearest, the Mortal Sword doesn’t work on a drunk.”
Alastair doubled over and Cordelia could swear Charles smiled at them as the words left his mouth. “Alastair, joon,” she whispered in her brother’s ear, her hands moving to rub circles on his back. His face was hidden in his hands, but she could fear his body jerking under her hand. Her brother was crying.
“As for your brother, Maurice and I do not see the point of repeating a trial already so successfully performed on my fiancée.”
Maurice and I. As if he were the Counsel, not his mother, You two deserve each other, Cordelia thought, turning to watch James over her brother’s shoulder. He was staring at the bracelet on his wrist, brows furrowed, and Cordelia gazed away. Angel, he still wants to marry her.
“Thomas Lightwood,” Bridgestock stated, “is to be sent to the Scholomance, in hopes of returning him to the ways of the Angel. At the end of his time there, assessing his reformation, a decision will be made, should he be stripped of his Marks or not.”
The Scholomance. It wasn’t the worst option, Cordelia thought, stealing a glance at Matthew, kneeling on the dais, his face turned away from them. And yet, Cordelia knew what this was. Alastair knew it too, as he silently wept into his hands. This was Charles getting back at him, Charles trying to break him and Thomas apart.
“You may begin the procedure, Brother Zachariah,” the Inquisitor declared, and Cordelia felt cold all over. She could not see Matthew’s face, but she could see Jem, as he pressed a stele to the boy’s cheek. No, not a stele, Cordelia realized. It resembled a stele, yes, but the tip had a slight curve to it. Cordelia shivered, as Jem’s hand moved over Matthew’s face.
Nothing happened at first. The room was dead silent now, waiting. For a split second, Cordelia dared to hope. Maybe Jem wasn’t going to go through with it, maybe they would be able to sort this out, maybe she would get to wrap her arms around Matthew again and never let him go.
And then the screaming started. The Quietude rune had gone first, Cordelia realized. Matthew trashed in his bonds, desperately trying to get away from Jem’s stele. James’s breathing had become labored and Cordelia gripped her husband’s hand, trying to comfort both his and his parabatai’s pain.
Matthew screamed as if he were being torn in half, as if all the bones in his body were being broken one by one. Lucie covered her ears with her hands, sobbing intensifying, whispering over and over that it wasn’t fair, that it should be her screaming, not him.
Charlotte sank to the floor once again and Henry went down with her, cradling he head in his chest, trying to shield her of the sight of their son’s torture. Charles was blissfully staring straight ahead, as if unbothered by his brother’s pain.
Then came the parabatai rune. James’s scream matched Matthew’s as he went down, nails clawing at his neck, where the parabatai rune was beginning to fade. Both boys were agonizing and sobbing now, in a strange harmony that made Cordelia want to block out the sounds like Lucie had done.
“James,” she whispered as she sat down next to him, arms wrapping around his torso, feeling his ragged breaths as he screamed and screamed in the pain of half his soul being ripped away. Half of hers was gone as well, Cordelia thought, as she desperately tried to sooth her husband. And then it hit her.
It wasn’t him she wanted to comfort, not really. It was Matthew, her sweet Matthew, who was all alone on that dais, his pain so much greater than James’s, his sobs raging in her ears as Jem dragged that stele over his skin.
She wanted to scream out that it wasn’t true, that he wasn’t her second choice, that she’d choose him again and again if she could. But that was the one thing she couldn’t do. And in that moment, cradling James to her chest, while Matthew cried out all alone, Cordelia hated them all. Charles, Bridgestock, Enoch, Grace. Will, Jem, Tessa, Magnus. Lucie, James, Thomas, Christopher, Anna. She hated all the people who couldn’t save Matthew. She hated herself.
Magnus staggered out of the New York Institute, torn jacket over his shoulders, newly opened bottle of whisky in his hand.
“Go home, Magnus.” Clary had said, while the Silent Brothers took Bridgestock’s shaking form out of the Institute. Alec and Jace had gone out patrolling, so there was no one to stop Magnus as he slipped into Robert Lightwood’s former office and raided his whisky collection for the second time that day.
Magnus imagined Robert wouldn’t have minded, as he tried and failed to skip down the stairs and onto the darkened streets. He didn’t want to go home. Not when the night was still young, he was still drunk and had no intentions of stopping drinking. Not when home meant letting his kids and mother-in-law see him like this.
He briefly wondered when Simon and Isabelle would be back from their trip to Paris. Maybe he should go bother Lily at the Dumort. He was in the mood for destruction and vampires seemed like the perfect choice for that. Or maybe Maya and Baz, rile up a werewolf or two. It crossed his mind he should probably apologize to Jem at some point, but the though vanished as quickly as it came to be.
Maybe he didn’t want to be in New York tonight, Magnus thought. Yes, that sounded right. He could drop by the London Shadow Market and get Hypatia to share that bottle with him. Yes, Hypatia would understand how Magnus felt.
Bottle in one hand, Magnus concentrated on the Thames flowing through, London Bridge rising above, closely keeping guard of those who ended themselves in the river. A shock of blonde hair, green eyes and a bright smile passed through Magnus’s vision and he blinked, Portal shining up in front of him.
Shaking his head, the High Warlock of Brooklyn stepped through, expecting the cold London air to sober him up at least one bit. And then Magnus found himself hit by the heavy, dry atmosphere of Los Angeles.
How do the Hell did he manage to mix up London and L.A?
Letting out an exasperated groan, Magnus tried conjuring another portal. And stared out into thin air. So, he was that drunk, huh. Swearing at the bottle in his hand, Magnus began walking aimlessly through the streets of Downtown L.A. How the Hell did he make that first portal, if he was that drunk?
Taking in his surroundings, Magnus noticed he had reached a less crowded boulevard, cars lined up on either side of the road. There were small shops rising next to the sidewalk and Magnus failed to avoid running into a trash can. All buildings had the Closed sign popped up in the window, and Magnus wondered if it had been later than he’d thought when he left the Institute.
The warlock frowned as he spotted light coming out of a window just up the street. There was nobody else out there but him and Magnus attempted to cast a fire spell. Sparks briefly flew from his fingers before promptly vanishing into the air.
Just my luck, Magnus though. I’m about to either get mugged or eaten by a demon.
As he neared the source of light, Magnus noticed three things at the same time. First, this was a Downworlder shop. His magic may had been completely messed up, but he could still pick up glamours from a mile away. Second, it was some sort of clothing shop, the racks full of dresses and suits visible as he got closer. Third, there was someone inside, a blond head bowed down over a sewing machine.
Magnus stopped and stared, rubbing at his eyes. The man inside had a sickly pallor to his skin, a deep contrast to his bright clothes. Magnus felt hot and cold all over. You’re drunk, he thought. You’re seeing things.
As if sensing the warlock’s gaze on him, the vampire lifted his head, dark green eyes staring straight into Magnus’s golden ones. The High Warlock of Brooklyn dropped the bottle to the ground, pieces of glass scattering all around his feet, whiskey splattered over his new shoes.