Chapter 6 : THE HIGH WARLOCK'S CURIOSITY
Magnus Bane's loft occupied the top floor of an industrial building in Brooklyn that had no business looking so elegant.
I stood on the street below, studying the windows four stories up. Warm light spilled through curtains that cost more than most apartments. Faint music drifted down — something orchestral with a bass line that shouldn't have worked but did.
The building had no visible entrance. No doorbell. No intercom system.
I pulled out my phone and dialed the number I'd extracted from Institute records. Three rings.
"You've reached the magnificent Magnus Bane. Leave a message if you must, but do try to be interesting."
"My name is Alec Lightwood. I called earlier about a consultation. I'm outside."
A pause. Then: "Fourth floor. The door will be open."
The line went dead.
A door materialized in the building's brick facade — literally materialized, space folding to create an entrance that hadn't existed seconds before. Warlock magic. Casual reality manipulation.
I climbed four flights of stairs that smelled like sandalwood and old paper. The door at the top stood slightly ajar, golden light seeping through the crack.
I pushed it open.
Magnus Bane's loft was a collision between museum and bachelor pad. Silk tapestries hung beside neon bar signs. Antique furniture shared space with modern art that looked like it belonged in galleries. Books occupied every available surface — shelves, tables, the floor, stacked in precarious towers that defied gravity.
And at the center of it all, the High Warlock himself.
He was smaller than I'd expected. Television had made him seem larger than life — all theatrical gestures and glittering eyes. In person, Magnus Bane stood maybe five-ten, lean and graceful, dressed in a burgundy silk robe that probably cost more than my previous life's monthly salary.
His eyes caught me first. Golden, with vertical pupils that marked him as something other than human. Cat eyes. The sign of his demonic heritage.
"Alexander Lightwood." He rolled the name like he was tasting wine. "Acting head of the New York Institute. Son of Maryse and Robert, both Circle defectors. Parabatai to Jace Wayland." A pause. "Reputation for being the sensible one."
"You've done your research."
"I've been alive for four centuries, darling. Research is the only thing keeping me entertained." He gestured toward a seating area arranged around a fireplace that burned with purple flames. "Sit. Drink. Explain why a Shadowhunter wants to consult a warlock about runes."
I sat in an armchair that was more comfortable than it had any right to be. Magnus poured something amber from a crystal decanter — I caught hints of vanilla and something floral before he pressed the glass into my hand.
"Rune degradation," I said. "I've been observing patterns in my own marks. Stress fractures that shouldn't be there."
Magnus settled onto a chaise lounge across from me, his own drink balanced with practiced elegance. "And you think a warlock can help with angelic magic?"
"I think you've seen more magic in your lifetime than the entire Clave combined. You've worked with Shadowhunters before. You know things that aren't in our official texts."
"Flattery." His lips curved. "Accurate flattery, but flattery nonetheless."
"Is it working?"
"Perhaps." He set his drink aside and leaned forward. "Show me your arm."
I extended my forearm, sleeve already pushed back to reveal the Voyance rune. Magnus's fingers were cool as they traced the mark's edges — a professional touch, clinical despite its intimacy.
His expression shifted.
"How curious."
"What?"
"Your rune is perfectly healthy. No degradation whatsoever." Those golden eyes met mine. "But there's something else. Something underneath. Like..." He searched for words. "Like someone tuned a radio to two frequencies at once."
My heart rate spiked. I kept my face neutral.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Hmm." Magnus didn't release my arm. His magic pressed against my skin — a subtle pressure, like water testing for cracks. "You're not lying, exactly. But you're not telling the truth either."
"I came here for consultation, not interrogation."
"And I agreed to a meeting with a Shadowhunter I've never met, who contacted me through official channels despite his family's well-documented prejudices." Magnus released my arm and retrieved his drink. "We're both playing games, Alexander. The question is whether we're playing the same one."
Silence stretched between us. The purple flames crackled in their impossible hearth.
I took a risk.
"I'm not like other Shadowhunters."
"That much is obvious."
"I don't share the Clave's positions on Downworlders. Never have." Truth, technically. The person who'd died under that truck had grown up in a world where prejudice was recognized as prejudice, where casual bigotry was challenged rather than enshrined in law. "I believe the Accords should be reformed. I believe Shadowhunters and Downworlders could be allies instead of grudging coexistants."
Magnus's eyebrows rose. "Progressive views for a Lightwood."
"My parents made choices I don't agree with. That doesn't mean I have to repeat them."
"Your father hunted my kind. Your mother helped him."
"I know." The weight of borrowed family history pressed against my shoulders. "And I'm not asking you to forgive that. I'm asking you to consider that their son might be different."
Magnus studied me for a long moment. Whatever he was looking for — deceit, hidden malice, the stain of Circle ideology — he didn't seem to find it.
"You intrigue me, Alexander Lightwood." He swirled his drink. "Not many Shadowhunters do. You're young, you're clearly hiding something, and you speak like someone who's read ahead in a book everyone else is just starting."
Closer than you know.
"I'm trying to prevent problems before they become disasters," I said carefully. "The demon activity uptick. The tension between factions. Something's building, Magnus. I can feel it."
"Can you now?"
"Can't you?"
His expression flickered — confirmation hidden behind theatrical neutrality. "Perhaps I can. Perhaps I've felt the currents shifting for weeks now. Perhaps the High Warlock of Brooklyn keeps his own counsel about such things."
"And perhaps," I said, "two people who both see the storm coming might benefit from sharing notes."
The silence that followed was different. Evaluative rather than challenging.
Magnus rose, crossing to a window that overlooked Brooklyn's nightscape. "You're asking for an alliance. Unprecedented between our kinds. Politically dangerous for us both."
"I'm asking for a conversation. Starting small. Rune consultation for access to expertise. Both of us getting something we want."
"And what do I want, Alexander?"
I thought about the show. The loneliness beneath Magnus's glamour, the centuries of loss, the walls he'd built around a heart that had been broken too many times.
"Someone who sees you," I said quietly. "Not the High Warlock. Not the Downworlder. Just... Magnus."
He turned. The purple flames cast strange shadows across his face.
"You're either very foolish," he said, "or very dangerous."
"Why not both?"
A laugh escaped him — genuine surprise, maybe the first honest reaction since I'd arrived. "I don't know what to make of you. That hasn't happened in a very long time."
"Is that a yes to future consultations?"
"It's a maybe." He crossed back to where I sat, extending his hand. "Leave your number. I'll call when I've decided whether you're worth the risk."
I took his hand. His grip was firm, warmer than his fingers had been earlier.
"Thank you for your time, Magnus."
"Thank you for your... uniqueness." His eyes lingered on my face as I stood. "One more question before you go."
"Yes?"
"That second frequency I sensed in your aura — it's not demonic. It's not angelic. It's something I've never encountered." He paused. "Do you know what you are, Alexander Lightwood?"
A ghost. A thief. A passenger in a stolen body.
"I'm figuring it out," I said.
He watched me walk to the door. I could feel those ancient eyes on my back, cataloging details, calculating probabilities.
"Alexander."
I paused with my hand on the doorknob.
"Whatever you're figuring out," Magnus said, "do try not to destroy anything I like. This city and I have an arrangement."
"I'll do my best."
The door closed behind me. I descended four flights of stairs and emerged onto a Brooklyn street that looked exactly the same as when I'd arrived, except nothing was the same at all.
Magnus Bane was intrigued. The most powerful warlock in New York had noticed me, questioned me, and found me interesting enough to consider further contact.
In canon, their first meeting had been professional distance dissolving into reluctant attraction. I'd just started something different — a conversation between equals, or at least potential equals. Two people who both sensed something coming.
The walk back to the Institute took longer than necessary. I wasn't in a hurry.
Two weeks until Clary's birthday. Two weeks until Valentine's shadow fell across everything.
I had Magnus's attention. I had Hodge under observation. I had abilities that no version of Alec Lightwood had possessed before.
And somewhere in the Institute's library, the Gray Book waited with marginalia that no one else could see.
Tomorrow I'd start looking.
Tonight I walked through Brooklyn streets, feeling the weight of borrowed existence settle into something almost comfortable.
Magnus's final question echoed: Do you know what you are?
Not yet.
But I was learning.
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