Outcast

Chapter One - Not Your Average High Warlock

Alexander was your average High Warlock of Brooklyn. Well, he thought to himself as he made coffee and absently pet his cat, who was rolling around on the countertop in his loft, I suppose there isn't an 'average' High Warlock of Brooklyn, seeing as how I'm the only one.

"I guess I can't even really be an 'average' warlock, either," he sighed, waving a hand as the coffeemaker beeped and magicking the blue cup down the island toward him.

See, Alexander was born to two Shadowhunter parents, who were so excited to have a boy who could carry on their name, a boy who could fight with the best of them, a boy who could...

And then that boy suddenly had explosive warlock magic and cat eyes.

No good dwelling on the past, though. Alexander—well, that was his name to his clients; to those he trusted, it was simply Alec—looked out the window over the Brooklyn skyline and sighed again. He didn't necessarily hate that he was born the way he was (God only knew that his parents did), but part of him envied how his sister was raised, his sister and his adopted brother, and his parents' other son—Max Lightwood, only ten but forbidden from seeing Alec, only knowing him through stories told by Isabelle and Jace.

He had stopped aging around 20, but according to his own personal calendar, he was really around 25. Incredibly young for a warlock, but his studious and determined nature had caused his magic to progress so unbelievably quickly he was appointed to the position of High Warlock of Brooklyn six years prior. He had single-handedly outperformed the entire Warlock Council, and now took a leading position in said council.

He wondered when he would stop counting the years.

"I wonder how Isabelle is?" he said quietly. His cat, named simply The Chairman, meowed at him, nosing at his fingers. Alec pet him absently. His parents didn't like them associating with Alec, regardless of him being their kid—he was a Downworlder, they were Upworlders, and that was that. He hadn't seen Isabelle in about six years—when he took the position of High Warlock, he was kept so busy that he only had time to text Izzy once every handful of days, and longer for her to reply. Since he had gotten word of a rogue Shadowhunter named Valentine returning and leading a Circle of cruel Shadowhunters and Downworlders, plotting against the Clave, he had not heard a word from Isabelle or Jace in almost three years.

He assumed that if something had happened to them, someone would tell him. He didn't know who—Robert, maybe. Maybe he would finally meet Max.

"Wishful thinking," Alec muttered to himself as his phone rang—probably another client. "That's all that is. Wishful goddamn thinking."

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Two weeks later, Alexander woke up to a loud buzzing in his apartment. With a groan, he rolled ungracefully out of bed, brushed his black silk pajamas into a semi-presentable sort, and rolling his eyes.

"If it's the damn Girl Scouts again," Alec muttered, looking accusingly at the box of Thin Mints and empty bottle of wine on his bedside, "I'm going to jump out the window."

The buzzing was repeated continuously until Alec slammed a fist against the damned button, putting his forehead on the wall as he growled, "Whoever the hell decides to wake up the High Warlock of Brooklyn better have a pretty great reason or you'll be lucky to keep your ribs in your body."

There was a shuffling noise and then a nervous throat clearing. "W-Warlock Bane?"

Alec had taken a different last name for a couple of reasons. One was that the Warlock Council did not take him seriously with a Shadowhunter last name. Another was that every other warlock he had met had a nice, easy, single-syllable last name—Fell, Loss, Pride—and he felt like he should try to fit in, at least. The third was a pun—a very cruel, cold pun aimed quite passive-aggressively at his parents. The word 'bane' meant, quite simply, 'a cause of great distress or annoyance'. His mother had once called him "the bane of her existence". So, if he was a bane, why not accept it?