mirror shards // matthew fairchild {1}

nine // hostility and hospitality at the hell ruelle

Sydney makes it about three feet down the alley before Matthew stops her in front of a shimmering glamoured door in the brick side wall. He ushers Cordelia ahead of him, takes Sydney's hand, and pulls her through.

Sydney's assumptions are correct. This looks nothing like the salons of Romania with their painted stucco walls, expensive patterned carpets hung between the paintings. The walls of the front hallway are draped in lush red velvet hangings, illumination pouring in from no discernible source. A red door at the far end provides the only other visible way in or out.

"When this place is not home to the salon, it is a gaming house," Matthew explains. "There is even a trapdoor in the roof, so that if they are raided by police, the gamesters can escape over the eaves."

Sydney can see Cordelia beginning to formulate a response when the red door flies open. A man fills the frame, tall and thin was warlocks often are, with a sly, sharp face, salt-white hair, and violet eyes. This is Mr. Malcolm Fade, owner of the Hell Ruelle and High Warlock of London.

"Four of you this time?" he asks Anna.

She nods. "Four."

"We try to limit the number of Shadowhunters in the salon," says Malcolm. "I prefer Nephilim to feel outnumbered among Downworlders, as it is so often the other way around."

A woman's voice calls from the room beyond, interrupting his speech.

Malcolm smiles. "You do enliven the place, though, as Hypatia reminds me." He throws the door open and steps aside to let the Shadowhunters in. "Come in. Are you armed? Never mind, of course you are. You're Shadowhunters."

Anna steps through the doorway, Matthew and Cordelia following behind. As Cordelia steps into the Hell Ruelle, Malcolm peers down into her face. "There's no Blackthorn blood in your family, is there?" he asks suddenly. His eyes sweep Sydney in the same moment, asking the same question.

"No – none, I don't think," says Cordelia, surprised.

"Good. And you?"

"I'm clean," says Sydney, abandoning Aunt Tatiana.

Malcolm stares into her eyes in a manner that's distinctly threatening. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Go in, then," he says, ushering her through.

They pass through a series of jewel-toned rooms and down a bronze hallway that makes Sydney think of the halos on the icons in the churches in Târgoviște. Strange how easy it is to connect anything to that city. Sydney's memory has always been funny like that, but especially these days.

They're ushered into the main party, an octagonal room packed to the gills and glittering like the jewels on a lady's throat. Sydney scans the art on the walls. Much more nudity here, but fortunately, less violence. She's seen enough fire-spitting dragons to last her a lifetime.

"I simply cannot see why one would wish to picnic in the nude," says Cordelia. "There would be ants in dreadful places."

Anna laughs. "Cordelia, you are a breath of fresh air," she says.

A slim vampire with dark hair approaches carrying a silver tray holding champagne in crystal glasses. Her black hair is wrapped around an ivory comb hung with silk peonies. Sydney studies the style, trying to figure out how it's done. She could do that with the comb Agasha gave her, and it would be much more startling at parties.

"Champagne?" the vampire says with a smile. Her fang teeth press against her lower lip.

"Thank you, Lily," says Anna, taking a glass. Matthew did the same, and after a moment's hesitation, Cordelia follows. Sydney declines.