SENTINELS | Alec Lightwood²

TWO

He pulled her onto a bridge and led her up a ladder and to the main floor where she could finally the natural light from a window.

She basked in it, taking in the realized of it even from a distance... even if the sunlight disintegrated touch her skin.

A hard nudge in her spine had her moving again before they stopped at an open door.

There were large windows inside that showed a view of New York City. The city soaked in the sun not too far from where the boat seemed to be floating undetected.

She could see the shoreline. It wasn't too far. She could make it.

She was desperate enough.

She stopped to look at the view, not walking into the observation deck. She was shoved again, hard, stumbling into the room roughly. With a growl of frustration, she spun around, ready to start a fight when the metal door shut in her face with a thunderous slam.

"Piece of shit!" She seethed, slamming her hard fist on the door. She let out a fuming scream... her anger brought her fist down the door mercilessly, trying to open it.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk..." Someone clicked their tongue disapprovingly, making her jump.

She wasn't alone.

In the corner, look out at the view himself was a man. He was tall, lanky-- his clothes hung on him like a scarecrow that lacked his stuffing. He held a mug in his hand slim, veiny hand.

A man with nothing spectacular other than his hair. Bright silver hair that if Mayla wasn't on verge of hypothermia and her vision was fuzzy she would have sworn... shimmered like a brand new coin.

He turned away from the window and it shimmered once again, reflecting the bright lights above him. She wasn't seeing things. She saw it as what it was. 

A warlock mark.

The man had a long face and eyes she feels like she needed to shrink down, away from him. His face had a familiarity to it... like she has met this man before. Like she knew him.

"You're here." His tone was admiring and loving. It made Mayla's stomach churn sickly.

He took a step closer to May, his hands reaching to cup her face and she backed up, right into the door.

He stopped in his tracks, a hurt look flooding his pale, sharp features. A long nose and sharp eyes as dark as coal looked her over, his hands reaching out but never really touching her. His intimidation lacked in strength but rather in height.

He was tall. Towering over her in a way that made it feel like he had the higher ground. Deep in inside, her stomach churned.

Something about him seemed familiar. Something about the way he spoke, the way he seemed to be approaching her as if he knew her.

He took her in for all that she was, a euphoric sigh of relief. "You... my little warrior, look what you've become."

Chills burned her skin. Hairs stood up at the back of her neck. She knew that voice. The voice that spoke behind the blinding light. The man with the rubber gloves and painful needles.

She didn't know she knew. What in her mind told her this information but it was clear as day, the answer in her mind. The warlock that took the ashes of hell and graced it with the blood of Archangel Raguel.

He was the one that brought the prophecy to life. The madman thought he could control the uncontrollable. And he was stepping closer to her.

"You godly being..." he awed. "Look so much like your mother." He reached out and touched her hair. The fiery red locks. "It's putrid." He spat.