City of Redemption

Eight

The temperature had dropped drastically in the last hour. Jonathan stood shivering in his trench coat and jeans, cursing himself for not thinking of bringing a scarf. It was Los Angeles, but it was also midnight.

He was at 999 Montana Street in an abandoned warehouse. Three hours ago, Wells had sent them this location with the words "BE HERE". They could only assume this was where they would meet. He'd taken Mia's car, after Miri giving him a quick crash course on driving and Magnus had procured a fake driver's license. "Less conspicuous," Nick had reasoned. Right about now, Jonathan was seriously debating whether or not to drive the car through the wall so he could wait in it with the heat on.

The shadows in the building were alive in the night. They seemed to shift and twist like tortured souls in Hell and leer like monsters from a child's nightmare. Alone in the centre room, even the windows looked threatening to Jonathan. To him, they appeared to be the yellow eyes of a predator, the doors its gaping jaws, and the room its stomach. Stop it, he chided himself. He'd agreed to this. He'd agreed to be bait. There was no going back now.

He blew out a breath, watching it mist in the cool, humid air. Suddenly, a thump resounded from behind him, and he jumped. Jonathan's pulse raced a little faster. His fingers itched for his camera. Playing with the knob always calmed him down. But that wasn't an option.

Thump.

His heart pounded in his ribcage as if trying to escape his chest and this suicidal plan. The shadows seemed to lengthen. The temperature seemed to drop. Jonathan blew out a breath, humming "Stairway to Heaven" under his breath. He fought against the terror.

Thump.

The sharp clack of heels on concrete cut through the sound of blood rushing in his ears. He raised his head, turning in a full circle, trying to find the source of the sound. Why had he agreed to this?

Thump.

Someone cleared her throat behind him.

He whipped around, adrenaline and years of battle experience setting in. His heart steadied just a touch, his breath evened out. His eyes focused on the figure before him.

Serafina Wells.

The warlock was dressed in a business jacket and pencil skirt. On her feet were black heels. Caramel hair tumbled down in waves, the only remotely bright thing in the monotone blackness of the warehouse. She had piercing grey eyes and a pointed nose that resembled a beak. She lifted her chin haughtily when she caught sight of him.

Too late to go back.

"Jonathan Morgenstern." Her voice reminded him of the time he and Clary had borrowed Luke's truck to go to Québec in February. As beautiful as it had been, it had been freezing cold, the kind of cold that cut like broken glass and burrowed deep in your bones. Wells' voice was nearly as cold, if not colder. She spoke with a lilting accent and a victory march in her voice. "After so many months planning, here we stand."

He swallowed hard. "Serafina Wells. Well, I must say, you don't really live up to your reputation. I was expecting something black and bold, and big eighties' hair. Skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, the gener—" She snapped her fingers and he stopped, choking. Gasping for air, he took the opportunity to look around for Matthias and Emma.

There.

They knelt, huddled in a ball, behind Wells. Emma's blond hair was matted and so dirty it was practically brown, but beside that, she seemed uninjured. Mathias was a different story. His clothes looked like they'd been fed through a shredder and his shoes were gone. Mathias himself looked like he'd been run over by a lawnmower. He had a black eye and scrapes all over his face. His arms were covered in cuts and bruises, and there was a scabbed gash on his side. Despite all that, Matthias' eyes betrayed no emotion but a fiery hate for Wells. Jonathan was surprised Wells couldn't feel Matthias' eyes burning holes in the back of her neck.