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Alec Lightwood is desperate.
Max is dying, and the angels won't answer his family's prayers. Alec has prayed to every angel and god he knows, even the ones he wasn’t sure existed. None of them answered, and Max keeps getting sicker. Alec begged every heavenly being he could think of, devoted himself entirely to their will, to no avail. So now, desperate beyond belief, he resorts to praying to a different kind of being altogether; forces a little less holy.
Alec lights the the last candle, setting it alongside the others he's lined up against the wall. The abandoned warehouse he chose for this doesn’t have electrical lighting so Alec had bought a couple dozen candles and lit them all. It’s not bright, by any means, but it’s enough to see by. Enough for Alec to draw a decent pentagon in the center of the warehouse.
Every hair on his body seems to be standing on end, warning him not to do this. How many times has he been called out to clean up the aftermath of summonings gone wrong? How many demons has he killed because desperate mundanes hadn’t understood the forces they were messing with? Alec has the advantage of knowing demons are real, as well as having a seraph blade at his hip, but that doesn't make this decision any smarter.
If he does this, even as prepared as he is, Alec will be as foolish as those mundanes. But if he doesn’t, Max might die.
Alec sinks to his knees and clasps his hands together in front of him. “O Dark Lord who sets the souls of mortals on fire. Your power lights the path to hell, your will the way to undoing. Please hear my prayer, please help my brother. Ave Satana.”
The words feel odd on his tongue, unfamiliar and a little silly, like he's reciting lines for a play. He’d googled the words to say and he’s not sure how helpful they are, but usually intent matters more with stuff like this, and Alec has plenty of intention.
“Please,” he tacks on desperately, when nothing happens. “I need help.”
The candles flare bright as the white chalk pentagram burns red before the warehouse is pitched into sudden darkness. Alec reaches for his seraph blade with one hand, his witch light with the other, but it turns out he doesn’t need to. Only seconds later, delicate red lanterns appear at the edges of the pentagram, casting soft golden light across the building.
A figure stands in the center, bathed in warm light. If he’s a demon, the Bible was right about them being gorgeous. He looks pretty human, no horns or a tail. The only give aways are his bright gold cat eyes. He's a force from Hell, no doubt, but his gold silk shirt and leather pants tucked into tall boots make him look like he belongs on a runaway.
“You came,” Alec breathes, in awe that one of his prayers had finally been answered.
“You called.” As if it was that simple. “Is this a warehouse? The decor is abysmal.” A wave of his hand and twinkling fairylights are suddenly strewn around the room, casting little light but making the place much more aesthetically pleasing. The candles reignite as well, and the warehouse is truly bright for the first time since Alec found it. Somehow, it looks almost homey. It's odd to feel almost comfortable with a force of evil standing mere feet away.
“You’re a warlock.”
The warlock does a dramatic little bow, necklaces fluttering with the movement before settling against his chest once more. “Magnus Bane, at your service.”
“You… I—can you help me?”
“That, pretty boy, depends on what you need help with.” Magnus studies him and then steps easily out of the pentagram. It was drawn to keep in demons, and apparently doesn’t work on warlocks.
Alec stays on his knees out of respect. He doesn't think Magnus intends on hurting him, and Max is worth the risk anyway. “My little brother is dying.”
“And your precious angels didn’t answer?” His silence must be enough of a response because Magnus chuckles, stepping closer and carding his fingers through Alec’s hair. “What’s your name pretty boy?”
“Alexander Lightwood.”
“A Lightwood, turning to demonic forces for help. How intriguing.”
Alec swallows hard. The hand in his hair is unfamiliar and unsettling, but the motions are calming. It’s hard not to lean into the touch. “Please help him.”
“And what can you offer me in exchange?”
Alec tilts his chin up just enough to meet Magnus’ bright gaze. “Anything you want.”
Magnus’ lips tick up in the corner, somewhere between a smile and a smirk. His eyes glow with something mischievous. “Then I believe we have a deal, Alexander Lightwood.”