Bloody Lining ➳ Alec Lightwood

chapter nine

laconic 

adjective | luh - kah- nik | meaning - concise to the point of seeming rude or mysterious 

chapter nine 

Beckett raced down the streets of Brooklyn in his wolf form, weaving semi-gracefully in between cars as the werewolf desperately tied keeping up with the car that held Clary and Simon. 

The giant black streak that was Beckett Jackson lept on top of a taxi cab, and then bounded from car to car, denting a roof or two just with his sheer force. He had no idea what the mundanes thought they saw as the giant wolf ran past dozens of them, but he also didn't really care what they thought. At the time, his only concern was not losing sight of the car he was desperately following. Unfortunately, not all went to plan. 

A car shifted underfoot just as Beckett went to leap, messing up Beckett's balance. He missed his next target ever so slightly, and next thing he knew he was colliding with the street pavement. Pain radiated through his body as he tried forcing himself back to his feet. The oncoming traffic was a rather persuasive means of motivation to get the werewolf moving again, and Beckett managed to force himself to over to the sidewalk before he could become road kill, because he knew better then to trust a New York driver to swerve to avoid him. 

Beckett tried to collect himself as fast as possible, pushing aside the pain radiating from his hind leg to deal with later. But he didn't pull himself together quite fast enough. By the time he was back on his feet, the car with Clary and Simon were long gone, masked by the mess of New York city. Beckett tried to catch their scent, but his head felt foggy. Maybe he'd hit it, too, in his fall. 

Too pissed off with both himself and the entire world to be able to deal with others, Beckett dragged his body into a nearby alley. Once he was alone to deal with his pain and misery, Beckett's bone's began cracking and shifting, his shaggy pelt peeling away as he changed back into his human form, which was no easy task, especially with an injury. Luckily, Beckett was to busy cursing at himself for letting Clary and Simon get taken again to really give his pain a second thought. 

Beckett propped himself up against a dumpster, ignoring the smell coming from it to the best of his ability. After allowing himself only a moment to catch his breathe, he reached for his phone, relieved to see he still had it on him. Beckett groaned as he moved his leg in the proper direction it should be in, and then dialed Luke's number as he hoped for a speedy recovery for himself. 

The phone only rang once before Luke picked it up. "Seeing as how our last conversation went, I'm guessing this is an emergency." 

"Alaric took Clary. And Simon," Beckett grunted, half in pain and half in anguish. 

"Alaric?" Luke only sounded mildly stunned. "When?" 

"Just now, at Clary and Joclyn's loft," Beckett explained. "I was following them for a while, but I lost them. You've been working with Alaric longer then I have, where do you think he would've taken her?" 

There was silence on Luke's end for a moment, and then the sound of hurried movement, as if he had started rushing somewhere. Beckett waited impatiently for an answer.