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The moon is bright when Stephen finally returns home, Valentine’s passionate words swirling in his head. He blinks to chase the sleepiness from his eyes and presses a cool hand to the Stamina rune burning against his skin. It pulses gently before evaporating from his arm and he nearly collapses on the carpet in the entrance hall.
The house is dark. Silent. His parents must be out and Céline, well, Stephen hopes Céline’s done the sensible thing and gone to bed instead of waiting for him. The raid ran long again.
He groans softly as he drags his feet upstairs to the washing room. The raid’s been bad – not because they failed, they haven’t – but because it was one of Valentine’s bad ones. He was erratic, almost unfocused before switching so fast Stephen nearly got a whiplash. He became so, so intense, only thinking of finishing the job.
The others noticed it too, Maryse filling in when Valentine took off with barely a word to follow him. Stephen had been engaged in a fight then, watching with growing apprehension as Valentine didn’t wait for anyone.
A memory of a werewolf girl screaming as Stephen’s blade burned into her stomach comes to his mind unbidden and he throws it out. There is hardly any need to pity the demon-spawn.
He washes his hands under the bright, stabbing light of the witchlight. The water runs red down the sink, carrying away the proof of their victory. He scrubs his face too and disposes of his filthy shirt before his mother can take offence to it. He has weapons to clean too but right now the only thing he might succeed at is stabbing himself.
The bleak thought that perhaps his parents would prefer that crosses his mind and he doesn’t have the energy to try and push it out. He creeps out of the washing room.
A light is on in the study and he sighs deeply. Céline needs to stop worrying quite so much about him and start paying attention to her own well-being – though it is true that unlike Jocelyn, Céline seems radiant in pregnancy. Stephen had been a little worried about it at first, not sure what to expect and having no patience for the kind of dramatic mood swings Jocelyn became known for by the time Jonathan was born.
He needn’t have worried. Céline was happy and energetic, even becoming a little less quiet. He likes this new Céline’s attitude, one that is less focused on Stephen himself and more on them as a pair and their child. The thought feels like a hot stab of betrayal to Amatis every single time but it is far too late for that. Amatis has been it for him romance-wise, but he can learn to love Céline in a different way.
The door to the study is ajar and he peers inside. Céline’s nowhere to be found, there’s only the witchlight spilling light into the room for no apparent reason. He steps fully through the door and glances around the room. His dagger is laying innocently on the table.
It’s the really old one, almost a family heirloom, with herons etched into the blade. That’s why he rarely brings it to a fight. He wants to have something of the family to give his child that is not directly tied to marriage.
He has absolutely no clue how it got into the study.
He reaches out to pick it up and nearly screams when a man just… materializes in a chair behind the table. He jumps back, tired fingers closing around the hilt of his sword. He points the blade at the man’s chest, dried blood covering the gleaming metal.
The man lets out a deep sigh that seems to come from deep inside his soul.
“Put the sword down, Stephen. You can’t harm a ghost.”
“I can absolutely try,” is the best Stephen’s sleep-deprived brain can come up with. The ghost looks like he already regrets showing up. That’s good, because Stephen doesn’t want him here either.
“Always so violent,” the ghost utters as if he knows Stephen personally. Stephen should, maybe, be offended, but he can’t quite manage it. He stares at the ghost, tall and broad-shouldered in a way that reminds Stephen a little of Robert. He lets his hand with the sword fall to his side.
“I’m going to bed.”
“You do realize this is your only chance to hear what I have to say,” the ghost points out rather reasonably. Stephen knows the stories, he knows the ghost only has one visit to the Mortal world and this must be it. He’s choosing to spend his only visit on Stephen.
Stephen doesn’t want to be reasonable.
“Sorry, but you picked a terrible time.”
“Oh no,” the ghost says and this time Stephen can hear the concealed hardness and anger in his voice, “I think I picked an excellent time.”
“How’s that?”
The ghost scowls at him, though with his eyes as empty as they are it’s hard to read his expressions properly. He picks up the dagger, turning it over in his hands.
“Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness, who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter.”
Stephen blinks. Twice. Then again.
“Are you quoting the Bible at me?” he asks incredulously. The ghost watches him, entirely serious.
“Isaiah 5:20.”
“Why are you quoting the Bible at me?” Stephen demands and the ghost looks at him as if he is particularly dense.
“What you’ve done tonight is just the newest in a long line of evil dressed up as good.”
Stephen is not trying to be obnoxious, he’s really not, but he genuinely doesn’t understand what the ghost is getting at. He stares blankly, trying to make a connection that would let him understand. His eyes start slipping shut of their own accord and he forces himself to focus on the ghost.
“Who are you again?”
The ghost's expression twists into annoyance but he gets to his feet and introduces himself with a sweeping, overdramatic gesture.
“Will Herondale. Deceased since 1937.”
Introducing yourself with the year of your death is a really weird fucking thing to do, but Stephen supposes the date bears significance for ghosts. It also helps him place ‘Will’ as William Owen Herondale, the madman who got himself cursed by a demon.
And the guy who Stephen was apparently named after.
“Right,” he says to break the slightly awkward silence between them. He thinks Will is glaring at him but it’s really hard to tell. “And why are you here?”
“I am here, Stephen, because you are a liar and a hypocrite.”
A wave of indignation rises inside of Stephen and dies a swift death when his vision blurs momentarily. Stephen steadies himself on the door frame, the sword slipping out of his grip and landing with clatter on the floor.
“Bit harsh…” Stephen brings a cold hand up to his forehead but it does nothing to wake him up. “You really picked a bad time, Will.”
Will has somehow moved across the room and is peering at him with a look Stephen probably wouldn’t be able to decipher even if he wasn’t on the verge of fainting.
“What have you done to yourself?” Will questions with disapproval and something else that Stephen doesn’t have the mental capacity to dwell on. Stephen does not tell him that he’s become closely familiar with the absolute limit of runes one can place on themselves before their angelic essence starts eclipsing what makes them human. He, likewise, does not explain that the aftershock usually sends them straight into unconsciousness the moment they drag themselves home.
What he does instead is slide down the door frame before his eyes roll into his head and he knows no more. It’s probably not very reassuring.
One thing Stephen knows with absolute certainty is that unconscious people don’t dream. Which is why it’s so fucking surreal to find himself in what is clearly a dream version of the London Institute – he knows it's a dream because his room has mundane posters plastered all over the walls. Posters he’s gotten rid of ages ago.
“Was that truly necessary?” a voice asks behind him and Stephen can’t help but groan. Of course, Will would find a way to follow him into his blissful unconsciousness and ruin it.
“I can hardly control whether I collapse or not,” he bites back and earns himself an unimpressed look that reminds him too much of his father. He elects to stare outside the window instead. Somehow he sees the manor’s gardens instead of a damp London back alley.
“Céline will worry when she finds you,” Will points out and he’s right. Céline will worry though likely not for the reasons Will thinks. She’s well aware of how far one can push their runes.
Stephen says nothing, gazing outside motionlessly as if it could make Will leave. He suspects the ghost will remain until he’s said everything he’s desired to.
“I was surprised when they named you for me,” Will says lightly, changing the topic completely. Stephen gets the feeling that he’s trying to get a reaction – any reaction – out of him and remains as still as possible. “Owen’s wish, certainly. Your father and grandmother would rather chew nails.”
Stephen bites his inner cheek hard to keep from defending his grandmother. He closes his eyes and breathes evenly, wishing Will would just get on with it.
Will does not get on with it. He falls silent. Stephen feels the weight of his gaze on the back of his head. He takes a steadying breath before he speaks.
“Just say your piece and leave.”
“You need to stop pushing people away,” Will says and Stephen is absolutely certain this is not what he’d originally intended to say. He’s sure this whole conversation is not going the way Will had imagined it would at all.
Stephen does not dignify that with a response beyond a snort and tired look shot over his shoulder. Will has perched on top of his table and is turning the family dagger in his hands again. He stares at Stephen with his head cocked.
“How was the raid, Stephen?”
“Fine,” Stephen responds blandly on reflex. Will’s eyes narrow, his voice taking on a dangerous undertone.
“ Fine,” he repeats as if the word itself made him sick. “Sixteen people dead, among them three children and a teenager, but you say it was fine .”
Stephen realizes at that exact moment what William has been getting at this whole time, why he looks like he wishes Stephen’s never been born. He, much like Stephen’s parents, doesn’t agree with the Circle.
“Do you have no shame?” William demands, getting to his feet. He steps closer, glowering at Stephen. “No regret in you at all?”
Stephen rolls his eyes and turns his back on William. He has no need to listen to this lecture from yet another person. He certainly doesn’t need another person feeding his traitorous thoughts.
William scoffs. “I told James Lydia was a terrible influence on Owen.”
“Stop,” Stephen snaps and whirls around to glare at William. He can listen to people slandering him all day, Angel knows he’s used to it, but Lydia Herondale has never been anything but kind to Stephen. She was kind when no one else in this god-forsaken Institute would.
“Grandmother was the only one who was ever on my side and I won’t let you—“
Stephen cuts off his emotional outburst with a snarl and stalks out of the room, his childhood memories suffocating him. He needs to get away – from his memories, his doubts and most of all, William.
Naturally, William follows him.
“I am aware,” William mutters and Stephen’s not sure if he was supposed to hear that. “A great tragedy for all of us.”
Stephen pays him no mind and all but runs to the front door of the Institute, hoping to every angel that whatever he finds on the other side wouldn’t be London. He nearly trips over his feet with relief when the door lets him out at the Academy. Without pause, he hurries away from the buildings onto a nearby hill.
“Stephen, wait!” William calls after him, prompting Stephen to walk faster.
A hand lands on Stephen’s shoulder, freezing cold and barely there, and he flinches . William immediately drops it, a look of regret crossing his face briefly.
“Get away from me!” Stephen yells at him and hates, loathes , that his voice shakes. He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms painfully. They’re back in London, his mother’s office closing in around him.
He’s thirteen again, his father’s claw-like grip on his shoulder holding him in place as his mother’s shrill voice berates him about something he can’t remember or hear. She asks something, he knows because his father lets go of his shoulder long enough to smack the back of his head hard for not answering.
His father’s hand doesn’t return to his shoulder and soon his mother’s voice fades away. Stephen’s back at the hill behind the Academy, somehow already on the top, trembling in the freezing wind whipping at his face. William is back too, standing in front of Stephen with his back turned on him. Stephen manages to somewhat compose himself before William turns around.
“I know you want me to get out,” William says quietly but with great accuracy, “but you need to know the truth.”
Stephen turns away and crosses his arms over his chest. What he wants is to turn off his brain, possibly permanently.
“Your father and grandmother have gone to great lengths to keep a piece of family history from not just you but everyone in the Shadow World. I suppose it has kept you safe but if the wrong people find out you’ll be in more danger now than if everyone had known from the start.”
“Just spill it.”
William pauses, almost as if thinking how best to word it. Clearly, his solution is to throw any sensibility out of the window because instead of a comprehensive explanation he settles for a simple sentence.
“My wife is a warlock.”
Stephen slowly turns to stare at him, incredulous. He does his best to ignore the dread pooling in his stomach. William’s previous words about Stephen’s supposed hypocrisy are beginning to make too much sense for Stephen’s liking.
“I think I heard you wrong.”
“My wife, Tessa,” William repeats himself with more information than Stephen has ever wanted to have about his wife, “is a warlock.”
“No,” Stephen immediately denies, his voice flat. He takes a step away from William. Stephen’s not descended from a warlock – from a demon . He can’t be.
“Your grandmother had much the same opinion you do,” William informs him unhappily. “She convinced your father it was shameful; something to hide.”
It is both of those but Stephen thinks William wouldn’t appreciate hearing that. He takes another step away from William and watches his expression twist into something unbelievably sad.
Perhaps this is why he’s always been so tired after raids, Stephen realises. Why everyone else seemed better off, their limits farther than his. If some small part of him is demonic then of course the angelic marks would take their toll. And… he’s related to Robert somehow, isn’t he? Surely that incident with Robert’s first mark—Was Robert’s blood tainted too?
“Stephen, stop,” William orders, reaching out. “I know what you’re thinking and you need to stop.”
Stephen steps back. Again.
“Leave,” he all but begs of William. William looks like he has more to say but he doesn’t. He watches Stephen with a look that is somehow sad, pitying and annoyed all at once.
“Promise me you won’t target Tessa. Her death won’t erase your blood.”
Stephen wishes it would. He wishes he could drain her blood out of his veins; his child’s veins. The thought of the child Céline carries makes him nauseous. What had he done to the poor child? Stephen’s filthy blood drew a target on his child’s back before they could even be born.
“Promise me, Stephen,” William insists and Stephen despises him for caring more about his demon-spawn of a wife than the descendant whose life he’s ruined. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised; Stephen never came first to anyone. Not his parents, not his grandfather, and certainly not this random ghost who has made it quite clear that he hates Stephen and everything he stands for.
“Stephen—”
“Fine!” Stephen spits and feels like he might throw up. This time it’s William who steps back. His form is blurry in Stephen’s sight but it’s clear that he’s not ready to leave yet. He moves closer again and Stephen moves away.
“Go.”
“Stephen…”
“I promised, didn’t I?” Stephen shouts at him, voice cracking every other syllable. “Get the fuck out of here!”
He wishes it was grandmother talking to him – but of course, she lied to him about the rumours all over the London Downworld, didn’t she? She too cared more about her reputation than about Stephen. That’s possibly the bitterest pill to swallow.
Stephen turns away from William and closes his eyes against the sting of tears threatening to roll down his cheeks. He knows the exact moment William obliges his desire to be left alone and returns back to wherever ghosts go.
The world’s never felt as cold as when Stephen’s left in his dreams completely and utterly alone. He wishes he wouldn’t wake up again.
The angels are not so kind as to allow Stephen his peace. He wakes, briefly, when Céline finds him in the early morning, crumpled in the study door. He helps as best as he can while she half-drags half-carries him to their bed.
The second time he wakes, this time properly, the sun’s already setting and the house is silent. Dried tears are crusted on his face and Stephen sits up in confusion. The Herondale family dagger sits on his nightstand and last night comes crashing down on him. He sinks back down and tries to convince himself that William Herondale’s ghostly visit was nothing but an exceptionally bad dream.
He doesn’t have time to dwell on it because the door opens and Céline comes in, a pile of books in her arms. She blinks at him before laying her load down on the table.
“Rough night?” she jokes and Stephen thinks he might genuinely love her for not asking him to explain.
“Very,” he agrees and forces himself to sit. His head pounds with the headache of someone who cried themselves to sleep. He’s pretty sure he hadn’t done that or at least he has no memory of it.
“My parents—“
“They left an hour ago. They think you’re out too.”
Stephen nods, relieved. He can’t handle seeing them right now. He’s not sure he’ll ever be ready to face them again.
“Valentine sent a message,” Céline continues, clueless of the chill that runs down Stephen’s spine. Valentine and the Circle are yet more people he finds himself downright terrified to face.
“And what does our esteemed leader want?” he makes himself joke. Céline grins lightly.
“He’s cancelling the meeting tonight. He’s got ‘other duties to attend to.’ His words, not mine.”
“Ah, good,” Stephen says before he can consider it. Céline shoots him an odd look and he scrambles for an excuse.
“I need to talk to Robert,” he tries and Céline doesn’t look convinced at all. Stephen doubles down. “Privately.”
“Well,” she picks up one of the books she’s brought and makes herself comfortable on her larger half of the bed, “you’d better wash your face first.”
“Right,” Stephen says, flushing. He leans over and brushes a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. Trying to love Céline is nothing like loving Amatis but perhaps that is a good thing. There would only ever be one Amatis.
He gets ready while Céline reads in their bed. Sometimes she reads bits and pieces out loud to him and he laughs as she compares characters to their friends. It’s nearly as good as listening to her recite bad poetry from old family journals with all of the seriousness and pathos of an ancient philosopher. Before he goes, he leaves a kiss on her growing stomach and pretends he doesn’t hate himself for being the child’s father.
On his way to the Lightwood home, Stephen entertains himself by wondering what other duties Valentine could possibly have. Anything to avoid thinking about anything too closely related to last night’s revelations. It’s thanks to this effort only that he arrives on Robert’s doorstep coherent and not looking like he’s on the verge of a mental breakdown.
There still has to be something off about him because Robert’s eyes narrow the moment he lays them on him.
“Can I come in? I’m looking for something and I think I need your help.”
Robert frowns but lets him in without complaint. There are dark circles under his eyes and he stands hunched in a way he only does in the privacy of his home, no matter how exhausted he is. Little Alec’s probably been acting up again. He and Valentine’s Jonathan always found a way to mildly inconvenience their parents. Michael’s boy will soon join them and Stephen can’t wait to see what the Waylands’ particular brand of mischief will lead to. Assuming Michael won’t ditch the Circle before that.
“It’s the middle of the night,” Robert points out, exaggerating. It’s barely past sunset. Stephen shrugs and looks around the entrance hall, suddenly hesitant to ask what he’s come to ask. He’s not sure if he should do this to Robert.
“Could I look at your family records?” he asks in the end and Robert’s eyebrows try to merge with his hairline. Stephen winces internally.
“Sure,” Robert agrees though not without confusion. Stephen curses himself but he can’t not explain himself even if he knows Robert won’t ask.
“A ghost of William Herondale visited me last night,” he says and scrunches his nose in a grimace at Robert’s disbelieving look. “Family matter,” he tries to wave it away but can’t seem to stop talking .
“Apparently my father tried erasing William’s wife from the family history.”
“More Herondale drama.” Robert rolls his eyes as he lets him into his family’s archive. If his parents and ancestors are watching, they’re likely becoming purple in their ghostly faces at the carelessness with which Robert allows an outsider in.
Stephen offers a brief grin that fails so hard to be convincing that Robert frowns in response.
“I wouldn’t hold much hope for the record being here,” Robert warns him. It is an entirely valid warning but Stephen knows the Nephilim obsession with names as well as Robert does. If anyone in the Lightwood family married a Herondale, the nearest Herondale family will be listed.
Stephen moves straight to the late 1800s and starts going through the many papers. He finds Anna, Christopher and Alexander before he finally, finally comes across Gabriel Lightwood.
Gabriel Lightwood married Cecily Herondale.
“That’s not that long ago,” Robert notes easily, glancing over his shoulder. Stephen completely ignores him, nearly paralysed by the relief of seeing Cecily listed as William’s sister, not child. He doesn’t have to be the bearer of bad news.
“Theresa Gray,” Robert reads out loud and Stephen can hear the frown. Gray is not a Shadowhunter’s name, not in any culture. Net even in the States where the woman appears to be from.
Robert shoots him a sharp look and nudges his arm. “Whatever you do, do not tell Maryse that your ancestor married a Mundane and got away with it.”
Stephen barks a laugh that sounds so little like a laugh that Robert stares at him with worry apparent on his face.
“She’s not a Mundane,” Stephen tells him in a terse voice. It’s a good guess, a guess anyone would make with the amount of information Robert has. Unfortunately, Stephen knows the truth.
Robert tilts his head questioningly and Stephen realizes his mistake a moment too late. Robert is a clever man. He’ll figure it out and if he tells Valentine Stephen is as good as dead.
“Well, she certainly wasn’t a Shadowhunter,” Robert responds slowly, casting another look at the weathered paper. The worry returns to his face when his eyes settle on Stephen again. “Are you alright?”
Stephen shakes his head, weighing his options. He can leave right now. He can get out and leave Robert to his confusion. Robert’s likely not that curious about his family drama, he won’t look into it.
But, Robert is clearly worried and worried Robert usually doesn’t just let things go. Stephen fights the urge to draw away, to run and never come back. Robert Lightwood is nearly as bad as Valentine himself and Valentine won’t hesitate to see Stephen executed.
“Stephen, what’s wrong?”
“No one can know,” Stephen whispers and that’s likely only more worrying. He refuses to look at Robert and fixes his eyes on the paper instead. He has made a huge mistake coming here.
“Please, Robert, no one can know.”
“No one can know what?” Robert asks, now not only worried but also very confused. Stephen hates himself for resorting to begging before Robert’s even had the chance to find out. He hates that he can’t stop further pleas from spilling out.
“You’re not making any sense,” Robert informs him so Stephen makes his shaky fingers point at Theresa Gray’s information. The date of her death is missing.
“I’ve noticed, yes. We don’t keep that precise records.”
Stephen very nearly laughs. Robert is smart but so wilfully blind sometimes.
“She’s not dead,” he makes himself say. He glances at Robert in time to watch as the confusion on his face deepens. He looks between Stephen and the paper uncomprehending.
Stephen gets thirty seconds of hope that Robert won’t figure it out. Thirty seconds to stand there and stew in fear as he watches one of his closest friends understand that he’s cursed. Thirty seconds for all of his filthy blood to drain from his face as the gravity of what he’s done by coming here sets in.
Robert’s eyes widen the moment he gets it; when he puts together the whispers he must have heard in London with this new information. It takes all of Stephen’s resolve not to run away when a shocked, heavy look digs deep into his soul.
Robert’s expression starts shuttering; the way it does with people he doesn’t know or like. The way it often does with Michael these days too and Stephen panics. He panics because he doesn’t want to die and he certainly doesn’t want Robert to remember his still unborn kid. He tries to say something but stumbles over his words.
“Please,” he begs and absently wonders if Lucian pleaded with Valentine like this or if he had more fucking dignity than Stephen does, “It’s still just me, right? I’m not like them, I swear…”
He trails off and backs away from Robert’s barely readable look. He feels faint and tries again, not even sure who he’s trying to convince.
“Please, Robert, I swear nothing’s changed, I’m not a— I’m not—” Stephen can’t make himself say that word. Not in his head and certainly not out loud to Robert.
“You need to—“ Robert barks but doesn’t finish. He grinds his teeth harshly, seems to take a deep breath and his expression clears a little. He grabs the offending paper and sticks it inside the folder it has come from. He slams the folder back into its original place.
Stephen draws a breath, about to say something, maybe beg again. It’s pathetic how desperately he clings when Robert has all the reasons to hate him. When Stephen is everything they’ve vowed to destroy.
If Stephen was in any way deserving of his Shadowhunter name he’d end his life himself.
“Stop,” Robert tells him before he can utter the first syllable. Something is off in his voice but Stephen can’t see his face to read what. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”
Stephen swallows and waits for the other shoe to drop. Is Robert going to make him confess to the others on his own? Is he going to kill Stephen himself?
Robert turns and huffs with dismay at whatever he sees on Stephen’s face. There’s uneasiness in his expression and, curiously, guilt though Stephen barely notices that.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Stephen.”
Stephen has a hard time believing that. He flinches when Robert crosses the distance between them in two long steps and pulls him into an awkward hug. They’ve never hugged before, largely because neither of them is any good at it.
“No one will find out from me,” Robert promises quietly and Stephen hides his face in his shoulder. “Least of all Valentine.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Stephen begs weakly, not quite sure why Robert isn’t sticking a sword through his gut. He’s trapped in Robert’s arms though he suspects Robert would let him go if he tried to pull away.
“I’m not.”
Stephen’s resolve breaks then and he lets out something between a whine and a sob. Robert pats his back uncomfortably while Stephen trembles against him. He feels the same kind of horrid lost he did when he first came to the Academy and everyone avoided him for his interests.
It had been Valentine who pulled him out of that state back then; but back then Valentine had seemed so kind. Now Stephen worries for everyone’s health should a mission fail or not go to plan. If Valentine found it in himself to cast away his own damn parabatai, Stephen’s not sure what he wouldn’t be capable of.
He lets himself think – just this once – that sometimes he doesn’t recognize Valentine at all anymore.
“I don’t know what to do,” Stephen admits finally and Robert’s shoulders shake with laughter.
“That I believe. Have you told Céline?”
Stephen shakes his head.
“You should.”
Stephen dreads that maybe more than he dreaded telling Robert. Céline adores him in a way Robert can’t and despite how their marriage came to be, Stephen doesn’t want to break her heart. He doesn’t want to watch the betrayal in her eyes.
A small, tiny part of him, a part that he loathes, is thankful that Amatis is no longer in the picture. He doesn’t want to see the hatred in her eyes when she finds out about Theresa Gray. Hearing about what she’d said to Lucian, her own brother, was bad enough. He doesn’t dare imagine how she’d feel about bearing Stephen’s child now.
“Should I?” he asks, wondering what would happen if Céline’s loyalty to Valentine held stronger than her love for Stephen.
“Yes. She’s your wife now,” Robert tells him firmly, his voice mercifully lacking the judgement Stephen’s gotten used to. “You should tell her.”
Stephen desperately doesn’t want to.
The moon is bright when Stephen gathers the nerve to finally return home. Or when Robert finally kicks him out of his house. The house is dark and silent, a sure sign that his parents were once again not around. He makes his way upstairs and stops dead at the witchlight spilling out from the study. For a moment, he’s convinced he’ll walk in to see a ghost of yet another dead relative bearing life-altering news.
For an irrational moment, he dreads seeing William again.
Céline pokes her head out from behind the door, squinting suspiciously into the darkness and Stephen relaxes. He brushes a hand against the witchlight over his head.
“Have the Lightwoods roped you into babysitting?” Céline asks calmly. “Or have you been visiting your other wife?”
Stephen sputters and Céline laughs at him. She opens the door to the study fully and steps out onto the hallway. A light white skirt brushes her ankles, ending just over her bare feet.
“I’m just messing with you. What did you need from Robert?”
“Don’t do that again, please,” Stephen requests, putting off the conversation Robert is forcing him to have. He will tell Céline. Eventually.
“Do what?” Céline asks innocently and steps closer. She tilts her head up and grins. “Accuse you of babysitting?”
“I’m not meeting with Amatis.”
Céline laughs, grabs his hand and starts dragging him to their bedroom. “But you write to her,” she reminds him and Stephen’s blood runs cold. He didn’t think she knew about that.
Céline turns around once they’re through the door and rolls her eyes at Stephen. “Please, you’re not subtle. Of course, I know.”
Stephen’s not quite sure what to say to that, especially when Céline looks so unbothered. He starts getting ready for bed while Céline settles on the bed, smoothing down the covers.
“Amatis told Jocelyn,” she informs him easily. Stephen pauses in taking off his shoes but he can’t honestly say he’s surprised. Amatis and Jocelyn have always been close, even despite Lucian’s… situation .
“And Jocelyn, naturally, couldn’t help herself and told me,” Céline continues, sounding genuinely amused. “I had an excellent time ruining her day by explaining that not only I knew already but also have a bet going with Eliza about how long until Amatis writes back. She’s close to winning that one.”
That last part Céline does sound upset about. Once again, Stephen doesn’t know how to react and chooses to busy himself by putting away the books scattered over his side of the bed.
“Mon Dieu, Stephen, I’m not angry with you!” Céline groans and snatches the last book from his hands.
“Yes, that’s the disconcerting part,” Stephen shoots back quietly. Céline snorts and starts flipping through the pages. “How can you not mind?”
Céline shrugs. “Robert’s cheating on Maryse,” she informs him and Stephen blinks.
“What?”
Céline hums and pats the bed next to her. Stephen takes the hint and slides under the covers. The lights are just dim enough that he could go to sleep easily if he desired yet Céline could read her book without straining her eyes.
“Do you know Annamarie Highsmith?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Was in my year at the Academy. Freshly graduated, very English, failed Fell’s class twice.”
“Never heard of her,” Stephen says, trying very hard not to judge Robert for his life choices. “I thought they were happily married.”
“Well, Maryse is,” Céline points out and settles against her pillow more comfortably. “Robert, not so much, clearly.”
Stephen nods, already planning on how to throw this in Robert’s face the next time he decides to advise Stephen on how to behave in his own marriage. You should tell Céline, his entire fucking arse.
“I need to tell you something,” he says and Céline looks at him over the edge of her book. She quirks her eyebrow.
“This is a remarkably bad time and place to tell me you’ve been cheating.”
Stephen sputters. Again.
“I have not—“ He cuts himself off when Céline laughs again. “Can you please stop with the cheating bit? It’s not funny!”
“Well, I think it’s hilarious,” she retorts, unconcerned. “You do have another wife after all.”
“That’s not how divorce works at all,” Stephen huffs and pinches his nose. Céline pats his arm and takes pity on him.
“I promise not to joke about it in public, how’s that?”
Stephen shoots her a suspicious look. “Or in front of my parents.”
Céline winces and agrees. She puts her book down on her lap. She tilts her body to face Stephen comfortably. “So, you wanted to tell me something?”
Stephen nods, already regretting opening his mouth. “This… might still not be the time or the place,” he tries and shuts up when he’s met with a withering gaze on par with Jocelyn’s.
He sighs and adjusts his position to look at Céline straight. It’s a little concerning that there’s no way for him to get up quickly now.
“I’d prefer no one knows about this for now,” he starts, and by ‘for now’ he means ‘ever’.
“Except Robert,” Céline adds. She’s far too perceptive. Stephen shrugs non-committally.
“Especially not Valentine or the Circle,” he continues, gouging how Céline takes that bit of perceived disloyalty. She frowns a little.
“Is this where you tell me you want out?”
Stephen grimaces and shakes his head. Céline’s eyebrows furrow further. Stephen’s having trouble reading her beyond her confusion, an emotion he seems to be bringing to everyone today.
“It’s a family matter I don’t want them involved in,” Stephen tries to explain. The reason will become apparent soon enough. Céline gestures for him to go on.
“Last night,” he starts getting to the point and Céline’s expression immediately pinches. So his overuse of runes has indeed not gone unnoticed. “I saw a ghost in the study.”
Céline snorts. “A ghost. Really.”
Stephen nods seriously. Céline does not look any more convinced.
“An ancestor visited me. Followed me into my dreams. William Herondale.”
Céline hums again and Stephen’s pretty sure she’d more readily believe he did, in fact, cheat on her. With Jocelyn who genuinely seems to hate Stephen nowadays.
“And what urgent family matter did the ghost of William Herondale have to discuss with you? Done something to upset him, haven’t you?”
Stephen scrunches up his face. He has done numerous things that seem to upset William. Then again, his entire existence seemed to have upset William but, in hindsight, that might have been Stephen projecting.
“He just wanted to tell me what my father did his damn best to hide” he settles on saying. Céline can figure out what made William think the information was essential by herself.
“Marcus hid something,” she repeats flatly. Stephen gets it because it is unbelievable. Marcus Herondale is a terrible liar. Shame, Stephen supposes, made him keep quiet. Shame and his mother. Stephen can’t help the stab of betrayal when he thinks of his grandmother.
“I confirmed it with Robert. Well, with Robert’s family records.”
Céline does not look surprised at all that Robert let him see those. She winces a little and lays a hand on her stomach, reminding Stephen why he is having this conversation in the first place.
“They tried to erase William’s wife, Tessa, from the family line,” he explains, remembering what William had called the woman. He wonders, briefly and bitterly, if she still goes by her married name. She probably doesn’t.
“Pretty sure my parents would’ve loved to do that to me,” Céline mutters under her breath and then waves away Stephen’s concern. “What did this ‘Tessa’ do?”
Stephen grimaces. “Tessa,” he starts and then sighs. Might as well rip the band-aid off. “Theresa Gray is a warlock.”
Céline stares. She stares with her sky-blue eyes as if the words didn’t register in her brain properly. The realisation dawning on her manifests in her eyebrows lifting to her hairline.
“Ah,” she says simply.
For once, Stephen is not ready to bolt. In fact, moving is the last thing he wants to do. Even if Céline decides to get out of bed and head straight to Valentine he doubts he’ll make himself move.
“I see how that could be a problem,” she adds.
Stephen can’t help it; he snorts. “Just a little.”
“Minor inconvenience, really.” Céline grins weakly.
They stare at each other, Céline rolled over on her side, one hand propping up her head and the other hugging her stomach. Stephen sits on the bed cross-legged, shoulders slumped, hands in his lap clenched around each other hard enough to dig lasting marks into his skin with his nails.
“Valentine’s going to kill us,” Céline says, entirely serious. She flops back on the bed, her head hitting the many pillows scavenged from around the house. Stephen smiles a little at her. If there’s still ‘them’ in her mind, she’s not going to rat Stephen out and that’s a relief that almost fully overshadows the very real possibility of ugly death.
Céline’s expression flickers then, eyes narrowing. “You said you don’t want out,” she says slowly and Stephen nods. Her entire face darkens.
“What do you mean, you don’t want out?”
Stephen shrugs, drawing back a little. Céline picks herself up and sits across him, a thin blanket and her discarded book the only thing separating them.
“You have to be joking. If the Circle finds out they’ll see you dead and yet you want to stay ?”
“They won’t find out,” Stephen insists firmly. He wouldn’t let that happen. He got lucky with Robert but he’ll never take that risk again. Not with anyone.
“They kill people like you,” Céline reminds him as if Stephen doesn’t know. As if he hasn’t been there for it. “They’ll expect you to kill people like you.”
“They always have.”
He does not see the slap coming but it twists his head sideways, the force of it burning on his cheek. He gapes at Céline whose dark expression has morphed into a full-on glare.
“I can’t believe you! I can’t believe you’re content to be a hypocrite!”
Stephen’s already a murderer, he doesn’t see why this of all things upsets Céline so much. She scowls then as if she can read his mind and hates what she saw there.
“You can’t keep doing this,” she informs him. Great calm replaces her irritation. She speaks as if she knows exactly what is going on inside Stephen’s head. “You’ll hate yourself if you do.”
It’s bold of her to assume Stephen doesn’t already but Stephen knows better than to voice such thoughts. He holds up his hands to try and placate her.
“Valentine won’t let me just leave.”
“Patrick Penhallow left.”
“Patrick also fled to Beijing to get away with it.”
Céline scoffs but doesn’t have an argument for that. Stephen supposes he could try and run off to London but the plan has multiple problems. Namely: he no longer belongs to the London Enclave and the London Downworld understandably hates him.
He takes Céline’s hand in his own and finds it trembling minutely.
“We’ll figure this out,” he says, far more confident than he feels. Céline offers him a hugely unimpressed look but doesn’t call him on his bullshit.