Overwhelmed [3] 《SHADOWHUNTERS》

Chapter Thirteen

Magnus was rather concerned when his Shadowhunters had shown up at his doorstep thirteen minutes late than previously discussed. He could hear their bickering through the thick wood before he even reached it, the muffled voices rung with brushes of annoyance. He sighed to himself, quickly preparing with a once-over in the mirror. He had primped all that could be of his dulled yellow jacket and the purple handkerchief tucked inside. 

Affirmed that he was dressed to the nines and his sparkling sweep of eyeshadow had not fallen outside his desired bounds, he rushed to join them. Their voices raised and spoke over one another until the doorknob turned and the latch clicked. They fell abruptly silent while he came into view, Andy offering a genuine smile as her gaze landed upon him.

She was dressed beautifully in a long, dark dress that danced around her shins. Small red pinpoints dotted the fabric, a match for the freshly taped wound that followed white marks of healing on the side of her cheekbone. Magnus' expression contorted into one of worry; it wasn't her only injury, though the rest that were visible past her heavy leather jacket had already become small scratches. It was safe for him to assume she had been in a worse state originally. A healing rune poked out of the deep neckline of her gown, across from the traces of the angelic symbol stamped over her heart.

He paid no mind to the apology for tardiness that Alec offered as he looked the raven-haired man over as well. His fair skin was much more intact, although hidden by a crisp black suit. Andy answered Magnus' silent worries, though it did little to settle his confusion. "I punched my brother," she stated in her typical blunt fashion. Her gaze was unsteady. "He's worse." 

Alec's attempt to brush past whatever had them at odds faltered. He shot the woman a glare out of the corner of his eye, mouth taught as he stopped everything he was urged to say. He steadied himself with a self-defeating shake of his head that she pretended not to notice. Then, he asked if Magnus was ready. The warlock was, although suddenly a bit reluctant to walk three blocks with the two. Still, he locked his apartment door and secured his wards before leading the pair onward.

They were a patterned cloth Magnus believed he may never fully unravel, a story painted into each line that creased their expressions when they spoke to one another, each subtle drift in tone and defensive scoff. Should he ever reach the end of the scroll, he'd almost certainly find he missed something crucial and need to retrace. And while it remained tempting to stop trying to ease his trifled mind and allow himself to enjoy the story, he had plenty of experience of such things souring him in the past.

For good reason, the good company that Magnus had kept throughout his life had made clear he needed to protect himself. He had a heart in a cage. And he had fashioned a thousand keys for its lock over his time. The practice of offering them sparingly hadn't begun until the late seventeenth century. Catarina, Malcolm Fade, and Ragnor Fell had seen him through many a genuine heartbreak, often from the same few immortal individuals. And they put him to task with setting his own standards and accepting that not every soul he wanted to help was right for him.

His dear friends' words were crisp in his mind. He had to remind himself he did not owe the two behind him anything, it was dependent on what he wanted to give them. He was able to imagine Ragnor's incessant shouting from beyond the grave. "You're a problem child," he'd say, hints of the village he had been raised in rolling his r's as he got through to his friend the best way he had known to: caustic, critical teasings of reality. "This is why dear mummy never loved you."

Because he wanted to give them everything. The keys had already been traded.

The night had crested freezing, small icicles peering from the gutters nailed down to brick walls. He relished in the cracks on the sidewalk and the brakes that screeched around the corner as mundanes rushed to get home. The impurities of life would escape as soon as they entered Lorenzo Ray's home. Warlock parties were legendary and deservedly so, but this was a political affair masked as a wonderful time.