Chapter Text
The magic thrummed faintly beneath Magnus’s skin, an elusive current of power that refused to rise to the surface. It simmered there, like a frustrated whisper in the dark—present, but unresponsive. It felt like trying to grasp smoke: once so familiar, now maddeningly out of reach.
This deeply unsettled him.
Magnus Bane—High Warlock of Brooklyn, centuries-old master of the arcane—had never felt so disconnected from his power. And worse, a part of him knew exactly why.
He sat alone in his parlor, a room soaked in opulence and memories. Velvet drapes framed the enormous windows, which revealed a glittering panorama of the New York City skyline. The air carried faint notes of sandalwood and bergamot from the enchanted incense curling in the corners. Across the room, spellbooks littered a table next to half-burned candles. The soft strains of Ella Fitzgerald hummed from a charmed phonograph, but even her golden voice couldn’t soothe him.
Seated in his favorite high-backed, ornately carved chair, Magnus nursed a scotch glass filled with amber liquid—not one of his better bottles, if he was honest. But at the moment, he wasn’t reaching for refinement. He was reaching for distraction.
As he stared out over the city, the light from passing cars flickered against the glass, casting reflections that danced in his golden, slit-pupiled eyes—eyes now dimmed with self-pity and fury.
How had it come to this?
They were in the middle of a war. Jace had been missing for three months. Downworlder factions were fracturing. And his magic—his lifeblood—was a wild, chaotic mess that refused to obey him. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but the truth clawed at him: this was his fault.
He took another long sip of scotch, grimacing at the burn. The truth tasted worse.
If Ragnor were here, he’d tell him to “suck it up, Bane,” and face the facts. He’d say, “Your magic’s gone haywire because your emotions are a dumpster fire. Admit it. Fix it.”
But Magnus couldn’t bring himself to say the words aloud. Not to the others. Certainly not to Alec.
He knew, intellectually, that Alec didn’t love him just for his power. Alexander was loyal—good, strong-hearted, and stubborn in all the ways Magnus loved. But still... the guilt lingered. The shame twisted deeper every day he failed to locate Jace. Every day he failed to help.
He didn’t even hear the portal open behind him.
With the whisper of ancient energy and a shimmer of violet light, a woman stepped into the loft as if she owned it—and, in some ways, she did.
She was striking. Not simply beautiful, but radiant with that rare kind of presence that filled a room before a word was ever spoken. Her skin was a rich bronze, glowing under the loft’s soft lights. She wore an elegant crimson maxi skirt that flowed around her like liquid fire and a black lace crop top that tied around her neck, revealing a glimpse of a rune tattooed just above her sternum. Her dark hair, nearly black, was swept into a thick side braid that draped over her left shoulder like a velvet rope. Her eyes—deep, bottomless wells of mahogany—flickered with ancient knowledge and barely restrained power.
Cara Batiste had arrived.
She moved slowly, confidently, her designer heels clicking softly against the wooden floors. There was seduction in her stride, but also warning. The kind of woman who smiled like a queen and bit like a cobra.
She circled behind Magnus’s chair, pausing only to lean over the back. Then—swift as a striking spell—she snatched his glass right from his hand and took a bold sip.
“Awck!” she coughed, recoiling slightly. Her maroon-painted lips curled in distaste. “What is that swill? I do believe I raised you better than to drink anything less than top-shelf scotch, dear brother.”
Magnus tensed, startled. Then he turned, faster than he thought possible, and faced her with wide eyes.
“Cara,” he said breathlessly.
Shock warred with recognition for only a moment before giving way to a wry, fond smirk. He stepped forward, snatching the empty glass back from her hand.
“Yes, I do believe you did teach me that,” he replied smoothly. “But a man has to develop his own taste eventually.”
Cara laughed—a rich, musical sound with edges as sharp as cut crystal. “Clearly,” she said dryly. “Let’s list your refined tastes, shall we? First: cheap scotch. Second: abandoning your post as High Warlock of Brooklyn. And third—ah, yes—the pièce de résistance: choosing a Shadowhunter as your mate. Not just any Shadowhunter, mind you... a Lightwood.”
She tilted her head dramatically. “But then, I suppose no one can account for taste.”
Magnus winced, trying not to feel like he was being verbally eviscerated. Cara had never been one to pull her punches—not once in the four centuries he’d known her. And with the supernatural world on the brink of collapse, it was no surprise she had heard whispers about Alec. About him.
Maybe even about how he’d abandoned his official duties to chase after the very same Shadowhunter currently consuming his thoughts.
Allegedly.
“You know as well as I do,” Magnus said, voice rising, “that when you find your Chosen, they become your entire world. There is no one else. Just them. The need to protect. The need to love, to claim, to—” He broke off, jaw tight.
Cara’s face softened for a fraction of a second before hardening again. “Oh, little brother... I do know. I know exactly what that bond feels like. How it swallows you whole. But don’t let it make you weak. You can’t protect your mate if you’ve fallen apart.”
She stepped closer, eyes glowing faintly. Her energy flared in the room, ancient and commanding.
“If you’re too weak to fight,” she said, voice sharp, “then you’re just a heartbeat away from having a dead mate.”
The words struck like a slap.
Magnus stiffened, fury flashing behind his eyes—but before he could reply, the front door burst open.
Clary, Izzy, Simon, and Alec stormed into the loft mid-argument, only to freeze at the scene before them. Magnus and Cara stood practically nose to nose, magic crackling between them like a lightning storm.
Alec’s instincts kicked in. One look at Magnus’s rigid posture and the unfamiliar woman radiating power—and he didn’t hesitate.
Silently, Alec raised his bow. With practiced precision, he notched an arrow and aimed it directly at the stranger’s neck.
He never got the chance to fire.
Cara didn’t even look his way. She simply flicked her hand in a fluid motion—graceful, effortless—and Alec was yanked off the ground and slammed against the far wall. He hovered high in the air, arms pinned at his sides, immobilized by invisible force.
Simon shouted. Clary reached for her blade.
Cara turned slowly, her eyes now glowing a molten orange-gold. She walked toward Alec with the deliberate, deadly stride of a predator.
She stopped inches from him, staring him down as if measuring his soul.
“If you’re trying to figure out who has the biggest stele in this room,” she said calmly, lips curling into a dangerous smile, “spoiler alert: it’s me.”
She narrowed her eyes and tilted her head, as if seeing through him.
“You must be Magnus’s mate.”