𝗨𝗟𝗧𝗜𝗠𝗔𝗧𝗘 | 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐰 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝

𝐨𝐧𝐞: 𝒕𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒔, 𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒔

♕

Dahlia Bridgestock nearly fell off a rooftop fighting a demon.

She really didn't know why she was here, she would much rather be with her sister who was most likely dying of boredom with Charles Fairchild in her presence.

If Dahlia was there he would be running away his trousers on fire, and a pie stuck in his annoying bright red hair.

But here she was at the request of Christopher Lightwood. There weren't many people Dahlia listened to but Christopher was one of the few people she did listen too.

How glamorous the life of a Shadowhunter was, indeed. It sounded good, she thought, gazing down at the empty alley below her: a narrow space choked with rubbish, lit dimly by the half-moon overhead. A special race of warriors, descended from an angel, gifted with powers that allowed them to wield weapons of shining adamas and to bear the black Marks of holy runes on their bodies—runes that made them stronger, faster, more deadly than any mundane human; runes that made them burn brightly in the dark. No one ever mentioned things like accidentally kneeling on a dead bird while waiting for a demon to turn up.

That would be gruesome. Well whatever gruesome meant to Shadowhunters.

A yell echoed down the alley. Dahlia was distantly aware of James rushing to the shout. THen realization flickered in her head, it was probably Matthew Fairchild. The one person Dahlia hated more than Grace Blackthorn.

Matthew and James were parabatai. James was sworn to protect him, not that it mattered: he would have given his life for Matthew's, vows or not.

Dahlia had her own parabatai, someone she was bound to forever, and she would easily give up her life for him.

Movement flashed at the end of the alley, where it curved behind a narrow row of houses. James spun as a demon emerged from the shadows, roaring. It had a ribbed gray body, a curving, sharp beak lined with hooked teeth, and splayed paw-like feet from which ragged claws protruded.

A Deumas demon.

Dahlia launched herself off the roof landing softly behind James, her black dress fluttering quietly. He glanced at her, he looked grim, then he noticed her attire and raised a questioning eyebrow. Dahlia looked at him, challenging him with her eyes to say a word about her wearing a dress in battle.

It wasn't too puffy or really grand, it was just a simple black gown, no corset, with black tights under it. Her gear belt was strapped on around her waist, and Dahlia really couldn't bother tying her hair. It wasn't that she wanted to be different from the other female Shadowhunters, she just found tunics awkward.

The Deumas roared again and lurched toward them, drool spilling from its mouth in long strings of greenish slime.

James swung his arm back, ready to throw his first knife. The demon's eyes fixed on him for a moment. They were coruscating, green and black, filled with a hate that turned suddenly into something else.

Then James lurched forward, his figure flickering. He closed his right hand around his knife—not the handle, but the blade. Dahlia wasn't sure if she wanted to yell at him or make sure he was okay.

Only then did Dahlia register that the Deumas was in midair, claws extended toward him, when a swirl of cords whipped through the sky, entangling the demon's leg and yanking it backward.

A slow smile crept up on Dahlia's face.Thomas Lightwood, she thought and Thomas had appeared behind the demon, armed with a bolas. Behind him was Christopher, armed with a bow, and Matthew, a seraph blade blazing in his hand.