“This seems unnecessarily complicated. It’s your phone, Magnus; there’s no need for code names.”
“Fine. I’ll just text ‘Abort.’” Magnus reached out and drew his fingers from Chairman Meow’s head to his tail; Chairman Meow stretched and purred his enthusiastic approval of Magnus’s taste in men. “Will you help me?”
Catarina dragged in a long, annoyed breath. “I will help you,” she promised. “But you’ve called in all your dating favors for this century, and you owe me.”
“It’s a bargain,” said Magnus.
“And if it all works out,” said Catarina, cackling, “I want to be best woman at your wedding.”
“I’m hanging up now,” Magnus informed her.
He had made a bargain with Catarina. He had done more than that: he had called and made reservations at a restaurant. He had selected a date outfit of red Ferragamo pants, matching shoes, and a black silk waistcoat that Magnus wore without a shirt because it did amazing things for his arms and shoulders. And it had all been for nothing.
Alec was half an hour late. The probability was that Alec’s nerve had broken—that he had weighed his life, complete with his precious Shadowhunter duty, against a date with a guy he didn’t even like that much—and he was not coming at all.
Magnus shrugged philosophically, and with a casualness he did not quite feel, padded over to his drinks cabinet and made himself an exciting concoction with unicorn tears, energizing potion, cranberry juice, and a twist of lime. He’d look back on this and laugh one day. Probably tomorrow. Well, maybe the day after. Tomorrow he’d be hungover.
He might have jumped when the buzzer sounded through the loft, but there was nobody but Chairman Meow there to see. Magnus was perfectly composed by the time Alec ran up the stairs and hurtled through the door.
Alec could not have been described as perfectly composed. His black hair was going in every direction, like an octopus that had been dropped in soot; his chest was rising and falling hard under his pale-blue T-shirt; and there was a light sheen of perspiration on his face. It took a lot to make Shadowhunters sweat. Magnus wondered exactly how fast he had been running.
“Well, this is unexpected,” said Magnus, raising his eyebrows. Still holding his cat, he had flung himself lightly on the sofa, his legs hooked over one of the carved wooden arms. Chairman Meow was draped over his stomach and meowing in perplexity about the sudden change in his situation.
Magnus might have been trying a bit too hard to appear louche and unconcerned, but judging by Alec’s crestfallen expression, he was really pulling it off.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Alec panted. “Jace wanted to do some weapons training, and I didn’t know how to get away—I mean, I couldn’t tell him—”
“Oh, Jace, that’s it,” said Magnus.
“What?” said Alec.
“I briefly forgot the blond one’s name,” Magnus explained, with a dismissive flick of his fingers.
Alec looked staggered. “Oh. I’m—I’m Alec.”
Magnus’s hand paused mid-dismissive-flick. The gleam of city lights through the window reflected off the blue jewels on his fingers, casting bright blue sparks that caught fire and then tumbled and drowned in the deep blue of Alec’s eyes.
Alec had made an effort, Magnus thought, though it took a trained eye to spot it. The light-blue shirt fit him considerably better than the unholy gray sweatshirt that Alec had been wearing on Tuesday. He smelled vaguely of cologne. Magnus felt unexpectedly touched.
“Yes,” said Magnus slowly, and then he smiled slowly as well. “Your name I remember.”
Alec smiled. Maybe it didn’t matter if Alec did have a little thing for Apparently-Jace. Apparently-Jace was beautiful, but he was the sort of person that knew it, and they were often more trouble than they were worth. If Jace was gold, catching the light and the attention, Alec was silver: so used to everyone else looking at Jace that that was where he looked too, so used to living in Jace’s shadow that he didn’t expect to be seen. Maybe it was enough to be the first person to tell Alec that he was worth being seen ahead of anyone in a room, and of being looked at longest.
And silver, though few people knew it, was a rarer metal than gold.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Magnus, swinging himself easily off the couch and pushing Chairman Meow gently onto the sofa cushions, to the Chairman’s plaintively voiced dismay. “Have a drink.”
He pushed his own drink hospitably into Alec’s hand; he hadn’t even taken a sip, and he could make himself a new one. Alec looked startled. He was obviously far more nervous than Magnus had thought, because he fumbled and then dropped the glass, spilling crimson liquid all over himself and the floor. There was a crash as the glass hit the wood and splintered.
Alec looked like he had been shot and was extremely embarrassed about it.
“Wow,” said Magnus. “Your people are really overselling your elite Nephilim reflexes.”
“Oh, by the Angel. I am so—I am so sorry.”
Magnus shook his head and gestured, leaving a trail of blue sparks in the air, and the puddle of crimson liquid and broken glass vanished.
“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “I’m a warlock. There’s no mess I can’t clean up. Why do you think I throw so many parties? Let me tell you, I wouldn’t do it if I had to scrub toilets myself. Have you ever seen a vampire throw up? Nasty.”
“I don’t really, uh, know any vampires socially.”
Alec’s eyes were wide and horrified, as if he was picturing debauched vampires throwing up the blood of the innocent. Magnus was prepared to bet he didn’t know any Downworlders socially. The Children of the Angel kept to their own kind.
Magnus wondered what exactly Alec was doing here in Magnus’s apartment. He bet Alec was wondering the same thing.
It might be a long night, but at least they could both be well-dressed. The T-shirt might show Alec was trying, but Magnus could do a lot better.
“I’ll get you a new shirt,” Magnus volunteered, and made his way to his bedroom while Alec was still faintly protesting.
Magnus’s closet took up half his bedroom. He kept meaning to enlarge it. There were a lot of clothes in it that Magnus thought would look excellent on Alec, but as he riffled through them, he realized that Alec might not appreciate Magnus imposing his unique fashion sense on him.
He decided to go for a more sober selection and chose the black T-shirt that he had been wearing Tuesday. That was perhaps a little sentimental of Magnus.
The shirt admittedly had BLINK IF YOU WANT ME written on it in sequins, but that was about as sober as Magnus got. He tugged the shirt off its hanger and waltzed back into the main room to find that Alec had already taken his own shirt off and was standing around somewhat helplessly, his stained shirt clenched in his fist.
Magnus stopped dead.
The room was illuminated only by a reading lamp; all the other light came from outside the windows. Alec was painted with streetlights and moonlight, shadows curling around his biceps and the slender indentations of his collarbones, his torso all smooth, sleek, bare skin until the dark line of his jeans. There were runes on the flat planes of his stomach and the silvery scars of old Marks snaked around his ribs, with one on the ridge of his hip. His head was bowed, his hair black as ink, his luminously pale skin white as paper. He looked like a piece of art, chiaroscuro, beautifully and wonderfully made.
Magnus had heard the story of how the Nephilim were created many times. They had all left out the bit that said: And the Angel descended from on high and gave his chosen ones fantastic abs.
Alec looked up at Magnus, and his lips parted as if he was going to speak. He watched Magnus with wide eyes, wondering at being watched.
Magnus exercised heroic self-control, smiled, and offered the shirt.
“I’m—sorry about being a lousy date,” Alec muttered.
“What are you talking about?” Magnus asked. “You’re a fantastic date. You’ve only been here ten minutes, and I already got half of your clothes off.”
Alec looked equal parts embarrassed and pleased. He’d told Magnus he was new to all this, so anything more than mild flirting might scare him off. Magnus had a very calm and normal date planned: no surprises, nothing unexpected.
“Come on,” said Magnus, and grabbed a red leather duster. “We’re going to dinner.”
The first part of Magnus’s plan, getting the subway, had seemed so simple. So foolproof.
It had not occurred to him that a Shadowhunter boy was not used to being visible and having to interact with the mundanes.
The subway was crowded on a Friday night, which was not surprising but did seem to be alarming to Alec. He was peering around at the mundanes as if he had found himself in a jungle surrounded by menacing monkeys, and he was still looking traumatized by Magnus’s shirt.
“Can’t I use a glamour rune?” he asked, as they boarded the F train.
“No. I’m not looking like I’m alone on a Friday night just because you don’t want mundanes staring at you.”
They were able to grab two seats, but it didn’t appreciably improve the situation. They sat awkwardly side by side, other people’s chatter rushing all around them. Alec was utterly silent. Magnus was fairly sure he wanted nothing more than to go home.
There were purple and blue posters staring down at them, showing elderly couples looking sadly at one another. The posters bore the words WITH THE PASSING YEARS COMES . . . IMPOTENCE! Magnus found himself staring at the posters with a sort of absent horror. He looked at Alec and found that Alec could not tear his eyes away either. He wondered if Alec was aware that Magnus was three hundred years old and whether Alec was considering exactly how impotent one might become after that much time.
Two guys came onto the train at the next stop and cleared a space right in front of Magnus and Alec.
One of them began to dance by swinging himself dramatically around the pole. The other sat cross-legged and started beating time on a drum he’d carried in with him.
“Hello, ladies and gentlemen and whatever else you got!” the dude with the drum called out. “We’re gonna perform now for your entertainment. I hope you’ll enjoy it. We call it . . . the Butt Song.”
Together they began to rap. It was quite obviously a song they had written themselves.
“Roses are red, and they say love’s not made to last,
But I know I’ll never get enough of that sweet, sweet ass.
All that jelly in your jeans, all that junk in your trunk,
I just gotta have it—one look and I was sunk.
If you ever wonder why I had to make you mine,
It’s ’cause no other lady has a tush so fine.
They say you’re not a looker, but I don’t mind.
What I’m looking at is the view from behind.
Never been romantic, don’t know what love means,
But I know I dig the way you’re wearing those jeans.
Hate to see you leave but love to watch you go.
Turn back, then leave again—baby do it slow.
I’m coming right after, gonna make a pass,
Can’t get enough of that sweet, sweet ass.”
Most of the commuters seemed stunned. Magnus was not sure if Alec was just stunned or if he was also deeply scandalized and privately commending his soul to God. He was wearing an extremely peculiar expression on his face and his lips were very tightly shut.
Under normal circumstances Magnus would have laughed and laughed and given the buskers a lot of money. As it was, he was profoundly grateful when they reached their stop. He did fish out a few dollars for the singers as he and Alec left the train.
Magnus was reminded again of the extreme disadvantages to mundane visibility when a skinny freckled guy slipped by them. Magnus was just thinking that he might have felt a hand snaking into his pocket when the guy gave a combination howl and screech.
While Magnus had idly wondered if he was being pickpocketed, Alec had reacted like a trained Shadowhunter: he grabbed the guy’s arm and threw him up in the air. The thief flew, outstretched arms limply wagging, like a cotton-stuffed doll. He landed with a crack on the platform, with Alec’s boot on his throat. Another train rattled by, all lights and noise; the Friday night commuters ignored it, forming a knot of bodies in tight shiny clothes and artful hair around Magnus and Alec.
Alec’s eyes were a little wide. Magnus suspected that he had been acting on reflex and had not actually intended to use force meant for demon foes against a mundane.
The redheaded guy squawked, revealing braces, and flapped his hands in what seemed to be either urgent surrender or a very good panicked duck impression.
“Dude!” he said. “I’m sorry! Seriously! I didn’t know you were a ninja!”
Alec removed his boot, and cast a hunted glance around at the fascinated stares of the bystanders.
“I’m not a ninja,” he muttered.
A pretty girl with butterfly clips in her dreadlocks put her hand on his arm. “You were amazing,” she told him, her voice fluting. “You have the reflexes of a striking snake. You should be a stuntman. Really, with your cheekbones, you should be an actor. A lot of people are looking for someone as pretty as you who’d do his own stunts.”
Alec threw Magnus a terrified and beseeching look. Magnus took pity on him, putting a hand on the small of Alec’s back and leaning against him. His attitude and the glance he shot at the girl clearly communicated my date.
“No offense,” said the girl, rapidly removing her hand so she could dig in her bag. “Let me give you my card. I work in a talent agency. You could be a star.”
“He’s foreign,” Magnus told the girl. “He doesn’t have a social security number. You can’t hire him.”
The girl regarded Alec’s bowed head wistfully. “That’s a shame. He could be huge. Those eyes!”
“I realize he’s a knockout,” Magnus said. “But I am afraid I have to whisk him away. He is wanted by Interpol.”
Alec shot him a strange look. “Interpol?”
Magnus shrugged.
“Knockout?” Alec said.
Magnus raised an eyebrow at him. “You had to know I thought so. Why else would I agree to go on a date with you?”
Apparently Alec had not known for sure, even though he’d said Isabelle and Jace had both commented on it. Maybe the vampires had all gone home and gossiped about the fact Magnus thought one of the Shadowhunters was a dreamboat. Magnus possibly needed to learn subtlety, and Alec possibly was not allowed access to mirrors at the Institute. He looked startled and pleased.
“I thought maybe—you know you said you weren’t unsympathetic—”
“I don’t do charity,” said Magnus. “In any area of my life.”
“I’ll give the wallet back,” piped up a helpful voice.
The red-haired mugger interrupted what might have become a nice moment by scrambling to his feet, digging out Magnus’s wallet, and then dropping Magnus’s wallet on the ground with a pained yelp.
“That wallet bit me!”
That’ll show you not to steal warlocks’ wallets, Magnus thought, bending down to retrieve the wallet from a forest of sparkling high heels on the concrete.
Aloud he said, “This just isn’t your lucky night, is it?”
“Your wallet bites people?” Alec asked.
“This one bites people,” said Magnus, pocketing it. He was glad to have it back, not only because he liked money but because the wallet matched his red crocodile-skin pants. “The John Varvatos wallet bursts into flames.”
“Who?” said Alec.
Magnus gazed at Alec sadly.
“Totally cool designer,” chipped in the girl with b
utterfly clips. “You know, they give you designer stuff free when you’re a movie star.”
“I can always flog a Varvatos wallet,” agreed the red-haired mugger. “Not that I’d steal and sell anything belonging to anyone on this platform. Specially not you guys.” He shot Alec a look that bordered on hero worship. “I didn’t know gay dudes could fight like that. Like, no offense. It was badass.”
“You have been taught two important lessons about tolerance and honesty,” Magnus informed him severely. “And you still have all your fingers after trying to mug me on a first date, so this was the best outcome you could expect.”
There was a murmur of sympathy. Magnus stared around and saw Alec looking a little wild-eyed and everyone else looking concerned. Apparently the crowd they had gathered truly believed in their love.
“Aw, man, I’m really sorry,” said the mugger. “I wouldn’t want to mess up anybody’s first date with a ninja.”
“WE ARE LEAVING NOW,” said Magnus, in his best High Warlock voice. He was worried that Alexander was planning to fling himself into the path of an oncoming train.
“Have fun on your date, boys,” said Butterfly Clips, stuffing her card into the pocket of Alec’s jeans. Alec jumped like a startled hare. “Call me if you change your mind about wanting fame and fortune!”
“Sorry again!” said their former mugger, waving a cheerful good-bye.
They left the platform amid a chorus of well-wishers. Alec looked as if he wished only for the sweet release of death.
The restaurant was on East 13th and 3rd, near an American Apparel store and among a row of tired-looking redbrick buildings. It was an Ethiopian and Italian fusion restaurant run by Downworlders. It was on the shady, shabby side, so Shadowhunters did not frequent it. Magnus had strongly suspected that Alec would not want to risk any Nephilim seeing them together.
The Bane Chronicles Page 36
