𝗨𝗟𝗧𝗜𝗠𝗔𝗧𝗘 | 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐰 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝

𝐬𝐢𝐱: 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒖𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒆, 𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒖𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒏

♕

Cordelia, Dahlia and Matthew went only a short way down the alley before a door rose up in front of them. It shimmered in the side of a worn-looking wall, and Dahlia suspected that to mundanes, the opening would not be visible at all.

Inside was a narrow hallway whose walls were heavy red cloth tapestries hanging from ceiling to floor, obscuring whatever was behind them. At the end of the hall was another door, also painted red.

"When this place is not home to the salon, it is a gaming house," Matthew whispered to Cordelia as they approached the door. "There is even a trapdoor in the roof, so that if they are raided by police, the gamesters can escape over the eaves."

Dahlia suspected he was ignoring  her on purpose, oh of course he was. Now is not the time to be dense, Dahlia. she chided herself.

The door was flung suddenly open. Lounging in the space it revealed was a tall man in an iron-gray jacket and trousers. In the dimness, his hair appeared utterly white. Dahlia his face was young and sharp, his eyes dark purple.

It was Malcolm Fade, High Warlock of London. Most warlocks had a mark that set them apart, a physical sign of their demon blood: blue skin, horns, claws made of stone. Malcolm's eyes were certainly an unearthly shade, like amethysts.

"Four of you this time?" he said to Anna. 

She nodded. "Four."

"We try to limit the number of Shadowhunters in the salon," said Malcolm. "I prefer Nephilim to feel outnumbered among Downworlders, as it is so often the other way around." A woman's voice called from behind him: Malcolm didn't turn, but smiled. "You do enliven the place, though, as Hypatia reminds me." He thrust the door wide and stood aside to allow them to enter. "Come in. Are you armed? Never mind, of course you are. You're Shadowhunters."

Anna passed through the doorway and then Dahlia, then Matthew, Cordelia last. As Cordelia stepped by Malcolm, he peered down into her face. "There's no Blackthorn blood in your family, is there?" he asked suddenly.

"No—none, I don't think," said Cordelia, surprised.

"Good." He ushered them past. Inside, the salon was a series of interconnected rooms, decorated in blazing jewel tones of red and green, blue and gold. They moved down a bronze-painted corridor and into an octagonal room full of Downworlders. Chatter and laughter rose up about them like a tide.

Dahlia felt her heart flutter a bit—there was something about this night that felt dangerous. Vampires stalked by proudly, their faces gleaming in the electric light; werewolves prowled the shadows in elegant evening dress. There was music coming from a string quartet standing on a raised cherrywood stage in the center of the room. Dahlia glimpsed a handsome violin player with the gold-green eyes of a werewolf, and a clarinetist with auburn curls, his calves ending in the hard hooves of a goat.

The walls were a deep blue, and massive gilt-framed paintings hung upon them, depicting scenes from mythology.  Usually when people were naked in paintings, Dahlia found, it was because the painter believed that the Greeks and Romans had no need or use for clothing. Which Dahlia found puzzling, especially when the subjects were engaged in activities such as fighting minotaurs or wrestling serpents. Any Shadowhunter knew that in a battle, gear that covered your body was crucial.

"I simply cannot see why one would wish to picnic in the nude." Cordelia said. 

"Agreed. There would be ants in dreadful places." Dahlia nodded.

Anna laughed. "Cordelia, you are a breath of fresh air," she said, as a woman with dark hair bore down on them, carrying a silver salver. Her black hair was wrapped around an ivory comb hung about with silk peonies, and her embroidered gown was deep crimson. Glittering on the salver were crystal glasses filled with sparkling liquid.