July 2009
It was raining in London, odd for a warm July night. People on the streets packed into any little joint who had the misfortune of being open by the dozens to wait out the rain, not wanting to get soaked by it.
Tonight was no exception.
The Blood Moon was packed to the brim. People were crowded by the bar, the tables, squeezed together in booths, leaned on any flat surface they could—a wall, a post—anything. The place was full of the sounds of people talking, cheering, beer bottles and glasses clinking together, all so loud that they seemed to blend together into one big noise.
Everyone had a partner to talk to, everyone had their own group to gravitate to, and if they didn't, everyone was drunk enough to be happy enough to talk to the stranger next to them—everyone except the person sitting silently in the farthest dark corner of the room.
A beer mug sat in front of the person, still cool, with condensation running down the glass, untouched since the moment he had sat down. The stranger did not raise his head, nor did he speak. Nobody had seen at what time he had slipped in, nobody watched as he sat still like an unmoving statue, but he did.
He watched their every single move, heard everything, observed everything and everyone from beneath his hood. He watched as the people interacted with each other, for once happy and without prejudices—the Night Children with the Moon Children, the fey with Lilith's children—all of them mixed in a single place without a single complaint.
The door suddenly crashed open, and all the noise in the room died abruptly.
"Shadowhunter."
The man with the cloak noticeably tensed at hearing the word, and as he raised his eyes to look at the man who entered, a glimpse of the gleam of unnaturally blue eyes and shaggy blonde hair escaped from beneath the hood.
A man strode in, oozing of arrogance and confidence. He was dressed in black, and familiar lines and patterns painted his hands and swirled up his arms. A stone was clenched in one of his hands, emanating a strong bluish-white light. The Shadowhunter took one look around the room, his lip curling up in a disgusted sneer at seeing the company he had, and he dropped the stone on the counter as he settled in a high stool.
"Scotch, neat," he told the bartender, and slammed a bill on the counter. "Make it quick."
The bartender took the money and set off to his task, presenting him a glass with the amber liquid not long after.
The Shadowhunter knocked the liquor back in a single gulp and slammed the cup down. "More."
The man in the cloak watched as he drank—two, three...five servings of the drink and waited, and then the Shadowhunter started talking.
"Bastards, the bloody lot o' them in–hic–that New York Institute..."
The man in the cloak leaned forward at that, tuning out the other conversations.
"Aren't all Shadowhunters?" the bartender said cheekily, and the drunk Shadowhunter glared at him.
"Careful, mongrel," he said in a low voice. "I could run ya through–hic–right now if I wan' to." He stared at his empty cup. "They allowed a bloody Morgenstern in tha' Institute, an' not just any Morgenstern—Sebastian Morgenstern, after everything he did...he puts on a good boy show, sheds a few tears. What punishment does he get? Just a slap on the wrist and a–hic–and a nice warm bed–hic–with a woman sleeping next t' him."
"Woman?" the wolf asked, and lowered his voice. "The Seelie Queen—"
"Not that crazy elf-faced slut," the Shadowhunter snapped. "Her. Ember Morgenstern."
YOU ARE READING
City of Shadows
FanfictionSEQUEL TO CITY OF SECRETS It has been three months since Ember Fairose defeated Jacob Ashwright, and the Shadow World has been lulled into a certain sense of peace, or so it seems. In the New York Institute, Ember is leading the seemingly perfect...
