We went back to Devil Tavern today with Jem’s advice (bring family rings, show to bartender, gain access to secret room). I don’t know, the Devil Tavern seems to really like elaborate ways of getting in places? So we went in and there was some confusion because when we were there before I heard one of the customers call the bartender “Ernie,” so we asked one of the waitresses for Ernie, and she said there was no Ernie. But then, because we were Shadowhunters she thought we were there to question Ernie about something, so I figured she was just covering up for Ernie and I said, “No, it’s okay, you can tell Ernie he’s not in any trouble,” and the waitress looked even more baffled and said there was no Ernie…we went around like that a few times.
Anyway eventually the bartender comes back up from the basement or wherever he was, and he explains that he is Fred, not Ernie, but that for many many years the bartender was named Ernie, his grandfather and his great-grandfather at least were both named Ernie. So most of the vampires and faeries who have been coming since the Time of Ernies have just stubbornly refused to learn any of the newer bartenders’ names. He tried, when he was a younger man, but they just laughed and said, “That’s a good one, Ernie.” He sounded kind of sad when he said it. I guess everyone has their weird stuff they have to deal with.
We explained to Not Ernie about what Jem had told us, and we showed him our rings. He said yeah, there’s an old room that used to be used by Shadowhunters for clandestine meetings, upstairs. There are instructions left that go back a hundred years that say the room has to be maintained for the use of Shadowhunters, even though none have come around for a long time. They take it really seriously though.
He brought us the key from somewhere—one of those old skeleton key type keys you never see anymore—and we went upstairs and let ourselves in. Let me tell you, Bruce, they do not think being obligated to “maintain” the room means they are obligated to “dust” the room. Absolute nightmare for an asthmatic.
The room is still intact, though—actually, it’s more like a tiny apartment (a “bedsit,” Julian adorably called it), with a tiny bedroom off of a sitting area with a table in the middle and a rather shabby couch. It’s not like the rest of the tavern at all, it feels like you’d imagine a study room in the oldest library at the oldest college in Oxford would feel. Books everywhere, lots of big chunky carved wood, people’s initials carved into the table (note for people scratching their initials into tables: include your last initials! It makes it much easier for your descendants to figure out who you were! There could be a million people named “J!”).
There was nothing obviously ghostly, so Julian used the Sensor we got from Ty. It didn’t find much, but eventually it reacted near a particular book on one of the shelves built into the wall. We pulled it out and it seems to be a handwritten book, with a really elaborate stitched cover. It was called The Beautiful Cordelia and it’s by “L.H.” I would bet any amount of money “H” stands for Herondale. But there was nothing magical about the book. I mean, I didn’t read it yet; maybe it weaves a truly magical tale. But the Sensor didn’t react much to the book itself, there was nothing in between any of the pages, the ink wasn’t sparkly, etc.
Eventually we thought to kneel down and look into the space on the shelf where the book had come from, and sure enough, there was a little nook carved deeper into the wall. Julian and I agreed that in that nook was definitely…a ton of spiders. So we rock-paper-scissorsed for it, I lost, and stuck my hand back there. Luckily, no spiders. Instead, a surprise: an antique metal flask! Like the kind a gentleman would keep in his coat pocket. It is silver—well, at least the color is silver. It might be pewter. It is also definitely not a “band.”
BUT. The Sensor went bananas. We put the flask on the table and the Sensor next to it and it wailed like crazy. It looks like a normal flask to me, kind of blackened with time, and it’s not like when we opened it, a ghost slithered out. I don’t know. It was empty, and the Sensor didn’t react to anything else in the room. We hung out there for about half an hour even after we were done, though. The place did feel comfortable, it must have been really great in its day. I thought I might go back sometime and offer to pay Fred if he would have it dusted and cleaned. There’s probably stuff in there the London Institute would want, too. But that’s for when we’re done with Blackthorn House (and its ghost).
We couldn’t think of anything to do with the flask there at the Tavern, so we left and locked it up and returned the key. We brought the flask into the house, and Julian went to get the silver polish. When we cleaned the flask up, we saw that it had a pretty, elaborate tracery pattern of leaves and flowers on it, and was monogrammed. Not a Herondale this time. Not a Blackthorn, either. The initials were M.F.
Julian is squinting angrily at the witchlight I’m holding to write this. I guess it is pretty late. Good night, Bruce. Good night, groovy bedroom. Good night, ghost. Good night, mysterious flask.
Ernie, Fred, other bartenders of the Devil Tavern and the Shadowhuters you'd expect to visit - Will, James, Matthew etc... plus some other wildcards (see tags)
Wordcount: 5,017 words
TW: mild swearing
Following Ernie, Fred and other members of the Flytebert family as they encounter Shadowhunters in the Devil Tavern, spanning from before The Infernal Devices, to the start of The Wicked Powers.
I wrote this post and then the idea kind of lived rent-free in my head all week until I had to write it.
Thanks to @dontmindmyshadowhunting for the beta-read!
1. Ernie and Buford Branwell (1872)
2. Ernie and Will Herondale (1877)
3. Ernie and James Herondale, Matthew Fairchild (1903)
4. Ernie, Fred and Stephen Herondale (1984)
5. Maddie, Dru Blackthorn, Ty Blackthorn, Kit Herondale (2015)
--
Shadowhunters darkening the door of The Devil Tavern were an ill-omen.
Ernest Flytebert lifted his gaze from the sticky floor, the normal din and clatter dying down as he watched the two figures clear a swathe in the densely-packed pub. Thirty seconds earlier, he had reached for his Dot as she came in for another platter of drinks, whispering into her ear to get Johnny and head out the back door to her sister’s for the night. Her eyes had slid past him, her mouth tightening with fear. She nodded, wrapping an arm around him in an embrace and a quick kiss on his cheek. She slipped upstairs to their bedsit to grab their small son.
As Sighted “mundanes”, nominally under the protection of the high and holy Nephilim, it should not have been their first reaction. But Ernie’s family had been proprietors of the Downworlder haunt for two generations and Ernie knew from experience Nephilim were often… funny about humans who willingly associated with faeries, werewolves, vampires, warlocks and the rest. So the Devil Tavern found itself under more scrutiny and raids than other London supernatural pubs. And possibly… Ernie’s family didn’t show enough deference to their angelic ‘protectors’, so they took every opportunity to lord it over them, Ernie thought sourly.
“Branwell,” Ernie nodded to the dark-haired man with the neatly trimmed beard.
“Flytebert,” the right-hand man to the Head of the London Institute was cordial, if curt. His blue eyes were trained on Ernie and he stood ramrod-straight, as if on guard. In one hand, he held several rolled up pieces of parchment.
Ernie felt his back crawl with anticipation- were those warrants Branwell held? Behind him and his companion, a red-haired woman with her hair in a tight crown, Ernie could see the unease of his clientele. He knew a bunch of bigwig Downworlders - the heads of the respective clans and packs, alongside the High Warlocks had arrived in London a few days ago for important talks.
“Can you clear a place on your wall, patrician?” Branwell said, voice ringing loudly in the hushed pub. “There is some news that must be shared.”
Ernie nodded, cautiously. A request then, and not an order. “Aye, I can do that,” he said.
Branwell cleared his throat, addressing both Ernie and the pub-goers.
“As of tomorrow, a new era will begin,” he said, and with a flourish, unrolled a piece of parchment. “The Accords have been signed.”
--
The Shadowhunter darkening the door of The Devil’s Tavern looked like trouble.
He couldn’t be more than eighteen, and if Ernie was a betting man - which he wasn’t, not after his run-ins with Nigel - he guessed the boy was a few years younger than that. Should make it easier to convince him to leave. Ernie didn’t want to scare off his regulars with a wet-behind-the-ears Shadowhunter showing up to do heavens knew what at The Devil Tavern.
Said Shadowhunter swaggered up to the bar. “A pint of your best, my good man,” he said, with an exaggerated wink. Beautiful, like the rest of them - their angelic blood shining out like a beacon and separating them in the sea of grimy, soot-covered London citizens - his voice had a faint sing-song lilt of an accent. Not a local from the London Institute then.
“No.” Ernie said, crossing his arms. He gave a small nod to Sweeney, his bouncer and fellow pack member, who was standing in the corner and keeping an eye on the game of whist between several goblins, given the last game had ended with several dismembered fingers. Sweeney straightened and discretely made his way over- a surprising skill for such a big man.
Things might have changed in the past five years since the Accords were signed - and heavens knew things had changed for Ernie, now a full, upstanding member of the London Pack, thanks to the sponsorship of his wife’s family - but he still wasn’t about to let a Shadowhunter have a drink in his pub.
The boy frowned, his blue eyes crinkling in confusion at the corners. “Ahh- all right then,” he studied Ernie, with an air of affected loucheness but underneath, Ernie sensed a sharp mind, whirling away like clockwork.
“I see I miscalculated,” he said.
Ernie nodded. “Nothing against you personally, lad but we don’t serve your kind here- so clear off,” he said, gruffly.
The boy smiled slowly, dangerously - and Ernie tensed, claws starting to emerge in anticipation of a fight… but the Shadowhunter simply turned and sauntered towards the door. Ernie let out a sigh of relief, watching him exit. He turned back to the pointless task of wiping down the bar.
He had thought the matter settled, until the next evening when Sweeney tapped his elbow and pointed to the corner table. “What do you want to do here, boss?” he asked.
The Nephilim boy was sitting at a table with Nigel, and several of Nigel’s associates. Ernie studied them; the diminutive warlock and his band of hanger-ons were known cardsharps and perhaps if they fleeced the Shadowhunter, he’d learn his lesson about visiting Downworlder pubs. “Leave them,” he said. “If he doesn’t learn after an encounter with Nigel…” he shrugged, and a wolfish smile spread across Sweeney’s face.
But the night held several surprises. Not least when Ernie came back from the outside lav to find the Shadowhunter boy behind the bar, gold coins arranged in a pile beside the taps, and him awkwardly drawing down several pints. Strangely enough, Martha, one of the barmaids, was standing beside him, smiling indulgently.
“Oi, Shadowhunter!” Ernie barked. “Clear off!”
The boy smiled, seemingly unperturbed. “The name’s Will, Willliam Herondale,” he said, and then he offered a glass to Ernie. “You said you don’t serve my kind here so I thought I’d serve yourselves instead,” he said, blue eyes gleaming.
“The cheek of him,” laughed Martha.
Ernie harrumphed. “Nigel finished rinsing you already, young William?” he asked.
Will smiled slyly. “Not completely,” he said. “But I needed a break to figure out how to cheat as blatantly as he does, otherwise I will end up owing my immortal soul. And believe me, no one wants that tarnished old thing.” He laughed, the tone slightly brittle.
He turned his attention back to the taps. Ernie reached out and intercepted his eager hands. “That’s enough, lad,” he said. “You’ve proved your point.” He watched as Will understood his message, and he took a step back. Ernie studied him further, pursing his lips as he thought. “Fine - you can stay, ‘long as you don’t bring no trouble here ‘nor any other Shadowhunters.”
Will nodded in agreement but then he appeared to have a second thought. “Perhaps one other Shadowhunter, occasionally?” he asked, biting his lip. “My parabatai - Je- James Carstairs. He won’t be any trouble,” he said.
“Oh, go on, Ernie,” said Martha.
Ernie sighed. “Give me no cause to regret this, and I suppose so,” he said. Turning soft in his thirties, he was, he thought ruefully.
In William Herondale’s answering smile, Ernie saw both the angel and devil in equal measures, and wondered if he was about to regret his soft heart.
--
It was strange how Shadowhunters darkening the door had ceased to seem like an oddity, Ernie thought. He cleaned pint glasses and nodded at the two boys, who offered quick waves, even as they exchanged conspiratorial grins as they raced up the stairs.
He shook his head, and returned to his work, only stopping to repeat the nod when two other boys- one with tousled hair and spectacles and the other, a giant of a boy, also slipped in and waved their hellos to him.
Several hours later, Ernie was having to explain to a shiny-faced Matthew Fairchild why he was being cut off for the evening.
Matthew narrowed his eyes and then laughed charmingly, his blond mop bouncing attractively. Ernie could see several werewolf women, seated at a nearby table, nudge each other and lick their lips subtly.
“I see that my time this evening at this fine establishment is drawing to a close- I shall withdraw to quieter pastures- and by that, I mean a quiet salon at the Ruelle,” said Matthew, as he stood up and threw on his coat, letting it swirl dramatically around his shoulders. He smiled and swept a brief bow to the table of werewolves, who giggled appreciatively.
His parabatai gave him a fond eye-roll, as Matthew took another swig of beer at the bar and then set it down smartly, saluting Ernie.
“You coming, Jamie?”
A quick shake of the head from the quieter, dark-haired boy. “No, I should head home soon- and I promised Lucie some card games before bed.” The other two boys had left some time before.
Matthew leaned down to whisper something in his ear, before embracing him briefly and then he strode off, in a dramatic manner that drew the attention of the entire pub. Ernie watched him go - with fondness but also worry about the slight tremor in Matthew’s step he suspected most would miss. As a longstanding bartender, Ernie was sadly well aware of the signs a drink was beginning to take a man, rather than a man taking a drink.
“Not natural, that- having those stinkin’ Nephilim around here.” Ernie heard a gravelly voice proclaim. “I say we show him where he should stick his fiery sword next time.”
Ernie sighed. He leaned back against the back of his bar, ready to jump in if he needed but aware the situation would likely resolve itself, given the Shadowhunter still sitting at his bar.
“Care to say that again?” James Herondale said, his voice quiet but ringing with a deadly authority. An authority that Ernie had always wondered whether it came from his Shadowhunter father or warlock mother.
James turned around, his unearthly gold eyes gleaming in the lamp-light as he looked at the straggly, lone werewolf.
The werewolf flinched briefly but returned to bristling within seconds. “What are you, some kind of demonic cast-off from them? Your Nephilim whore mother slept with some filthy Downworlder?”
And James smiled then, and with a deliberate but subtle move, two knives appeared in his hands. Moving as quickly as a graceful shadow, the werewolf found himself shoved up against the wall, a knife at his throat. “Do not insult my mother, or my parabatai,” James said, a warning in his voice.
Ernie cleared his throat, and James looked over. The lone werewolf saw the opportunity and he kicked out. But James had already anticipated the move and the werewolf spilled onto the floor. The nearby tables roared with laughter, and Ernie walked over.
“Get out of here before you embarrass yourself further, Joseph,” he advised. He watched as his former packmate snarled but slunk out without further incident.
James had already unobtrusively sat back down, and was nursing his drink when he met Ernie’s eyes. “Apologies, Ernie - so much for a quiet night,” he said wryly.
“You did good, lad,” Ernie said. “You dealt with it quickly and viciously, well as any ‘wolf round here.”
James nodded but he still looked troubled. After a moment, Ernie added: “I’da done the same in your shoes and after all, we get a bit reckless for those we love,” he said, gruffly. James stiffened briefly but then smiled back.
Months later, Ernie would recall the pained and faraway look in James’ eyes when he mentioned love.
Now that same look seemed to swallow up the boy’s face, as he handed back the key to the Merry Thieves’ den, stumbling over his words and asking Ernie to take care of the place.
Ernie never saw him - or any of the other London Shadowhunters - again after that night.
--
It had been several generations since Shadowhunters had darkened the door of the Devil Tavern. And yet, Fred could swear the blond boy sitting with his brother was Nephilim. He looked the part, an imperious cast to his features and a soldier’s bearing despite his feathered hair, ripped jeans and black leather jacket.
“You cannot be serious in preferring The Clash over the Sex Pistols,” His posh voice carried through the pub, and Fred looked up to see them both coming towards him. “Two pints, Freddie,” his older brother said, with a shit-eating grin that he knew would get under Fred’s skin. He tapped his fingers on the bar.
Fred shook his head sullenly. “Mum said we’re not supposed to be drinking while watching the pub.”
Ernie glared back. He hopped the bar. “Move, you muppet,” he said, nudging Fred out the way, and started to draw his own drinks.
The blond boy looked curious. “This your brother? Is he a werewolf too?” He leaned forward and Fred could see a dark tattoo of an eye on the back of his hand, peeking out from his leather jacket. His bright blue eyes were inquisitive but oddly impersonal, as if he were staring at a specimen in the London Zoo.
Fred gaped at the rudeness of the stranger. But Ernie just shrugged and said with a soft laugh. “Nah mate- it’s just me and my dad. Mum, Freddie and Gemma have the Sight though. You have to, to work in this place.”
If anything, the boy’s attention focused even further on Fred. “Oh? You ever think of petitioning the London Institute?”
Both the Flyteberts looked at him then. “For what?” Ernie asked, suspicion creeping into his voice and he moved slightly in front of his brother, almost sheltering Fred from the boy.
The boy noticed and he backed off, hands up in a mea culpa, his too-big jacket falling down his forearms to reveal more black tattoos and white scars.
He smiled. “Sorry! I just meant- your family, well- not you, as you’re a werewolf but if your brother or sister wanted to, they could attend the Shadowhunter Academy.” He looked at Fred then. “You could Ascend and become one of us.”
Fred scoffed. “Why would I want to become a Shadowhunter?” he asked.
The boy’s mouth fell open. He looked at Ernie and sputtered. “Why- because-”
“Because then you’d have someone who could share your taste in shitty music?” asked Ernie with a smile and he reached over to gently poke the other boy’s shoulder. “Leave off, Stephen- let’s go and have our drink and we can keep discussing your love of Freddie Mercury.”
“That’s your love of Freddie,” said Stephen, but he said it in such a fond and familiar way that Fred couldn’t help but wonder how long Ernie had known him. Perhaps they had met at those Soho music clubs that Ernie was always sneaking off to. Ernie grabbed the drinks and smiled at Stephen. “Shall we?”
“Oi, Ernie!” a red-faced faerie had arrived at the bar. “Pour a drink, luv- we’re parched aren’t we?” she said to her companion, while staring at Fred.
“I’m Fred,” he protested, and pointed at his brother. “That’s Ernie.”
The faerie winked. “You all look alike to me,” she said, and Stephen let out a laugh as he and Ernie walked back to their seats.
Whenever he thought back to that day, Fred could never quite shake the thought that Shadowhunters could be charming - but ultimately untrustworthy. He never did connect the dots, and his parents had begged him not to get involved… but six months later, when Ernie’s body was found two streets away from the Tavern, his throat neatly slit, Fred wondered how much of his brother’s involvement with Stephen had been a fatal misstep. He had heard rumours of some vigilante Shadowhunters in America from a passing warlock, who had warned anyone who would listen that it was only a matter of time before they arrived in London too.
It ate him up for weeks, until he took matters into his own hands.
Fred stood in front of the townhouse in a posh part of Kensington, having found the address in a not-so-well-hidden book of contacts in his brother’s room. He rang the doorbell, waiting, heart pounding as he suddenly realised he was standing in front of a Nephilim household. But when the door opened, it was only Stephen standing in front of him, his dark runes twining up his arms and his hair slightly unkempt.
It took him a moment to recognise Fred and then he blanched. “I didn’t…” he started. “Look- I didn’t know that they’d find him,” he said, helplessly. “I- I told him not to come that evening but he insisted he’d be okay.” His face was filled with fear and for some reason, Fred believed him. The anger was still burning in him but he knew that whatever he did here, now - it wouldn’t bring his brother back. Plus, what was he going to do against a Nephilim?
“For one of heaven’s warriors you’re a surprising coward,” he spat at Stephen’s feet and turned to go.
“You’re right,” he heard Stephen say. “I’m sorry- I’m so sorry Freddie- for you, your parents…”
Fred left without another word. Years would go by, and his white-hot rage cooled to an old scar but Fred remained on his guard, keeping his distance from the Nephilim.
When two young Shadowhunters appeared in his pub, he was perfectly polite to them, handing them the key to the old deserted rooms upstairs when they showed their rings. But he was glad when they visited a few times, asked some questions and vanished again into the slightly soggy London air.
--
Maddie heard a thump and old gears groan. The lift began to slowly descend down into the floor of the Tavern and she cursed under her breath.
The first time her dad had trusted her to run the late afternoon shift alone and she was going to have to baby-sit. She was going to kill Dave – she was fairly sure it was the vampire who had dropped the tip and whoever his friend was who worked at Lonely Planet - for slipping in the instructions to Devil Tavern in the list of ‘Best hidden pub gems’. It meant a steady stream of mundanes had been dropping in all summer, causing her family no end of trouble trying to keep the Downworld aspect of the pub hidden. Although she had heard her dad grudgingly admit that their custom had helped pay for the new coat of paint and fixing the leaking roof.
“Hey- Philly, can you cut the sparkles?” She called over to the warlock who was demonstrating a spell to an avidly-watching Pickles, whose retirement dream had lasted as long as he hadn’t realised his ready supply of gin wouldn’t be coming with him.
The warlock gave her an offended look but acquiesced and also cast a quick glamour over Pickles. Which Maddie was thankful for, given there were a lot of things she could spin but a talking water horse was usually a challenge, even for her expert blagging skills. The small group of brownies in the corner hid their stacks of gold, while Dirk the werewolf covered his raw steak with his large ham of a hand.
The lift door slid open, and out walked literally the hottest two people to have graced the sticky floors of the Tavern in months. It had been slim pickings for eye candy, ever since Jezza and his pack had left for Croatia, Maddie admitted.
But suddenly she froze, as she took in the almost too-sharp beauty of their features and their martial stance - she never had seen one up close… but were those Shadowhunters walking towards her?
They were wearing regular clothes, jeans and light jackets but there were clues - Maddie covertly checked - yes, she could see the iconic eye-shaped mark on the back of their hands. Plus, the glamoured weapons belt that Maddie, with the Sight, could see anyway. She nervously eyed the short swords on their hips and wondered if this was a situation where she should phone her dad... but then she thought better of it- she could handle it, she thought, straightening up.
Nephilim weren’t frequently found in London - particularly compared to past years - however Maddie had seen a few at a distance, entering the London Institute, when her friends had dared her to get as close as possible. But this was her closest encounter yet, as her parents had encouraged her to keep well away from the Institute and the eye of any Shadowhunter, given the aggressive recruitment tactics they had taken after the Dark Wa-
Out of the corner of her eye, Maddie could see the two Nephilim, a girl and boy around her age, approach the bar. She closed her mouth and rearranged it in a slight scowl.
“You’re not Fred. Or Ernie,” the dark-haired boy said without preamble, his voice slightly puzzled. His eyes were an unusual dark grey, almost like the heavy pewter jugs that her dad insisted they use as part of decor to suit one of ‘London’s oldest Downworlder’ pubs. But this Shadowhunter didn’t meet her eyes as he asked the question, his gaze almost looking past her.
“No shit, Sherlock,” she drawled, needled he thought himself so high and mighty that he needed to stare past her. “I’m Maddie Flytebert - Fred’s daughter.” The boy flinched slightly at her response.
Maddie didn’t have enough time to ponder it further before the normal, regular-as-clockwork response followed. “You’ll always be Ernie to me, my lovely-” Philly called from the far table and the few scatterings of similar calls came from tables around the sparsely-filled pub. Maddie rolled her eyes and gave them all the finger.
She noticed the boy’s companion hiding a smile, and Maddie’s heart skipped the beat, as she fully took in the girl’s appearance - dark-brown wavy hair, generous curves that filled out her high-waisted jeans, chunky black Docs, with a short black jacket over a t-shirt that seemed to be an old horror film poster print.
Her blue-green eyes were sympathetic as she glanced over the boy, who was frowning slightly and Maddie wondered at her relationship to him. She noted the similar casts to their jaw and tilt to their head. Siblings - or cousins, she thought, noting their difference in colouring.
“Maddie then,” the girl said, smiling and Maddie tried not to stare at her full, bow-shaped lips. She lowered her voice as she leaned forward on the bar. “My brother Julian was here about a year ago, and he mentioned that there’s this room that’s maintained for Shadowhunters? And that we need to show you this,” she dropped a chunky silver ring on the sticky countertop. “And tell you our name- Blackthorn.”
Maddie studied the ring through narrowed eyes. It didn’t ring a bell and she highly doubted her father would allow Shadowhunters to use their rooms but there was a surefire way to find out- “Hold on-” she said, and she grabbed her dad’s thick moleskin cheatsheet of arcane rituals and antiquated customs necessary to run the pub. Maddie had only just been granted access to it on her 18th birthday, a few weeks ago. She hadn’t had time to go through it all but it was fairly well organised and flipping to ‘S’ in the book, she could see in old, looping cursive, the proclamation that the old, dusty rooms upstairs were reserved for Shadowhunter use. Huh, her dad had never mentioned that- good thing her and her friend Saera, hadn’t actually gone through with their plan to sneak off there for privacy when Saera was last visiting from King Kieran’s court.
“Right,” she said, digging around in the side drawer. She tossed the heavy skeleton key to the girl’s rude brother, who caught it with an unnerving speed.
“Nice catch,” she said, and he gave her a surprisingly sweet smile but still didn’t meet her eyes. Maybe he was shy, she thought- although with features like his, as delicate and sharp as any High Fae, she didn’t know why.
“The room’s upstairs,” she said. “Do you need me to show it to you… Mr and Ms Blackthorn?” she asked probingly,
The girl grimaced. “It’s Dru. And this is Ty- Tiberius, my brother,” she said, just as Maddie had hoped. “We’ll be fine- but thank you.” She gave Maddie a friendly grin, The Shadowhunter siblings went upstairs and Maddie’s heart started beating normally again.
Then she shook herself, she should not flirt with a Shadowhunter, no matter how thirsty she was, she told herself sternly. Not to mention, it’d probably give her dad a heart attack. This wasn’t New York, where Shadowhunters and Downworlders mixed freely, or so Maddie had heard from visiting Downworlder tourists.
And yet, she broke that rule almost ten minutes later.
To be fair, this Shadowhunter was definitely flirting back, or at least happy to play along. He was American, like the other two but some of his phrasing and familiarity with British customs, even in the initial five minutes they had been chatting, made Maddie think he had been in London, or at least the UK for a while.
“Right,” he said, tucking back the fringe of blond hair that had fallen in front of his blue eyes. “The real reason I came- not that I wouldn’t want to visit the famous Devil Tavern - but I’m afraid I’m here with an ulterior motive,” he said, with a sunny smile.
For the second time that afternoon, a signet ring rolled in front of her. Maddie sighed internally. What was this, Shadowhunter Game of Thrones?
“Right- what’s your family name then?” she asked, adopting a business-like tone.
“Herondale. Kit Herondale,” the blond boy said promptly.
Maddie shrugged. “Cool,” she said. “Go ahead upstairs then- but you’ll have to knock. We only have one key.”
Kit’s easygoing manner of the past few minutes vanished instantly, his eyes going cold and his stance changed. Maddie skipped back at the sudden change in demeanor. “Who’s already here?” he asked her, his hands hovering above his weapons belt.
Maddie shrugged, trying to remain nonchalant; she wondered what the hell was going on in his life. “A brother and sister- Blackthorns, they said their name was.”
For a second Kit looked reassured, then his face drained to a pale colour. “Ah, I see,” he said. He looked up at the stairs, back at the lift he had come in from and let out a big sigh. “Was gonna have to face it sooner or later,” he said. He muttered a quick thanks to her, and took the stairs two at a time, almost as if he was daring himself to get upstairs before he chickened out.
Maddie raised her eyebrows and shook her head. She had really only known them now in close proximity briefly but she decided that Shadowhunters were hot but weird.
“What was that?” Dirk asked, he had been lingering at the other end of the bar while she and Kit had been talking. “That seemed kinda strange,” he said. Maddie nodded in agreement as she refilled his glass with lager. “Herondale seemed to have a problem with those first two Nephilim- wonder what that’s about,” he added casually.
Maddie did a double take. “What- how do you know him? I’ve never seen him at the Tavern before.”
Dirk smiled. “Just briefly- I don’t think he recognised me. He was here with some of the Dartmoor pack a couple of months ago; he’s seeing one of them, I think. Seemed like a nice kid - or at least, for a Shadowhunter. Must’ve been off your shift,” he said, nodding his thanks as he paid.
“Yeah,” Maddie said, frowning as she looked again towards the stairs. Should she check on them? “I wonder what’s going on up there.”
“A long overdue reunion,” came the voice behind them.
Maddie jumped, and then quickly composed herself. Dru stood at the bar - she must have sneaked down while Maddie had been serving Dirk.
Dru smiled again at Maddie. “A reunion that I’m not invited to- or, more accurately, that I don’t want to have front seats to, so I’m standing well clear,” she said, scooting onto a bar stool. Dirk snorted under his breath and went back to his seat.
“Er-” Maddie thought about Kit’s reaction to hearing the name Blackthorn. She looked up at the ceiling, now slightly worried. “Are they about to like- kick off with lightsabers or whatever? I’m only just looking after the bar until my dad gets back for the evening shift.”
“Nah-” Dru shrugged, and reached over to grab a pack of peanuts from the bowl on the bar’s counter. “I give it even odds of it ending up in a punch or a kiss,” she said, ripping open the tab and tossing a couple into her mouth. She shrugged, clearly unbothered by the implications.
“Oh. OH,” Maddie snorted as she realised what Dru was implying about her brother and Kit. “Let me guess, rivals-to-lovers? A hidden romance at school, fighting over the same girl before realising it was actually each other all along? Also, those are £2, so pay up,” she said, gesturing.
Dru gave her an odd look as she rambled on but dug obligingly into her jacket pocket and dropped exact change into Maddie’s outstretched hand. “Not quite- Kit and my brother have a history but it’s more of a -” she stopped. “Well, it doesn’t matter what it was.”
She turned her attention back to Maddie. And Maddie tried hard not to blush as Dru studied her and then nodded, as if deciding something. “But I have some questions that I didn’t find answers to upstairs- and I feel like you might know some of the old stories or could help lead us in the right direction,” Dru said, drumming her fingers across the bar.
“Oh, for sure-” Maddie also leaned in conspiratorially. She loved a good mystery. “Us Flyteberts have been around for generations running the Tavern,” she said, gesturing expansively. “Fire away.”
Dru’s eyes gleamed with approval. “Have you ever heard of a gang called ‘The Merry Thieves?” she asked. “Or of a necromancer called Lucie?”
--
Taglist: @gayforcarstairsgirls @imherongraystairstrash @elettralightwood @goodoldfashionednerd @thechangeling @lifeofbrybooks @life-through-the-eyes-of @anarmorofwords @shadowhunting-hooligans @of-same-steel-and-temper @gabtapia @starlight-in-my-eyes @starlightblackstairs @sandersgrey @lantsovs-emerald @myangelbach @herondamnn @thebookwassomuchbetter (Given the stretch of time and characters this fic covers... I kind of went for a scattergun approach, haha)
głupio mi pisać do ciebie tak niespodziewanie, ale sam powiedziałeś, że mogę się do ciebie zwrócić po radę kiedykolwiek będę potrzebowała. Zawsze dajesz dobre rady, lecz nie mogę oprzeć się wrażeniu, że oprócz tego, twoja znajomość pewnych kwestii może być pomocna.
Jak wiesz, Julian i ja podjęliśmy się ogromnego przedsięwzięcia, jakim jest wyremontowanie Domu Blackthornów. I - pewnie wcale cię to nie zaskoczy - znaleźliśmy ducha. (Piszę tak, ponieważ wszystkie osoby, które miały wcześniej styczność z tym domem, również nie są zaskoczone, że jest w nim duch.)
Dobra wiadomość: duch nie jest nieprzyjazny (a przynajmniej nie jest agresywny). Szuka tylko „srebrnej obręczy”, która go wiąże. Nic w tym niezwykłego, wiele duchów jest powiązanych z ziemskimi przedmiotami.
Zła wiadomość: nie można zidentyfikować tego ducha jako konkretnej osoby, więc może on tylko udawać, że nie stanowi zagrożenia. Poza tym, „srebrna obręcz” może oznaczać tysiąc różnych rzeczy.
Wydaje mi się, że możemy odkładać na bok wszystkie znalezione przedmioty mogące być tym, czego szuka, chyba jednak to nic nie da. (Zresztą, duch nie znalazł tu „srebrnej obręczy”, chociaż nawiedza ten dom od nie wiadomo jak dawna.)
Otrzymaliśmy od ducha pewną wskazówkę. Lubi komunikować się poprzez bazgranie na zakurzonej podłodze i jego ostatnia wiadomość brzmiała Znajdźcie Diabelską Tawernę. Ok. Po krótkim rozeznaniu okazało się, że jest to knajpa Podziemnych, kryjąca się za czarami ochronnymi i która funkcjonuje od setek lat w londyńskim Old City. (Wygląda na to, że kiedyś mieściła się tam prawdziwa tawerna, a Samuel Johnson prowadził tam klub. Szalone czasy, jak sądzę.) Jules sprawdził - najwidoczniej wciąż działa. Właściwie to znajduje się niedaleko Instytutu, nie mamy jednak pojęcia, czy ma to coś wspólnego z duchem, czy jest to zwykły przypadek.
W każdym razie, poszłam z Julianem sprawdzić to miejsce. Oczywiście to zaczarowany klub. Z zewnątrz widać bank i jedną z tych niebieskich tabliczek, którą umieszczają na obiektach historycznych.
To jasne, że przechodzący obok Przyziemni nie widzieli żadnego wejścia. Ale my widzieliśmy, oczywiście. No i weszliśmy do środka.
Jak się okazało, wewnątrz wyglądało to jak zwyczajny pub, chociaż trzeba było przebrnąć przez różne procedury, żeby dostać się do środka, oni naprawdę zachowują się jak w tajnym barze. Właściwie to teraz trzeba wejść do banku Przyziemnych, gdzie zapewne uważają, że mają najdziwniejszych klientów spośród wszystkich oddziałów banków w Anglii. Kasjerowi należy wspomnieć o „Diable”, by podał ci klucz z soli, który otwiera panel w windzie, który ujawnia mały guzik z diabelskimi rogami. Po naciśnięciu guzika, winda zabiera cię na dół do pubu. (Naturalnie klucz rozpada się po użyciu.) Nie mam pojęcia, co by się stało, gdyby Przyziemny powiedział „co do diabła stało się z moimi pieniędzmi”, czy coś.
Mniejsza z tym, wszystko wydaje się skomplikowane, jednak w praktyce poszło gładko; zamiast próbować różnych dziwnych haseł, Julian powiedział zwyczajnie: „Przyszedłem do Diabła”, a kasjerka podał mu klucz. Nie wyglądała nawet na zainteresowaną, rozwiązywała w telefonie sudoku, albo coś podobnego, i zwyczajnie podała nam klucz z tacy. Być może Londyńczycy bez mrugnięcia okiem patrzą na to, co dzieje się w starym Londynie.
Weszliśmy do środka, rozejrzeliśmy się, barman w końcu zapytał nas, czy czegoś chcemy, po czym wyszliśmy. Najwidoczniej rozpoznali w nas Nocnych Łowców i nie byli z tego powodu super zadowoleni. Jednak podczas tej krótkiej wizyty nie dostrzegliśmy na pierwszy rzut oka niczego, co miałoby związek ze srebrną obręczą, Chiswick House, czy mieszkającymi tam Blackthornami i Lightwoodami. W tym miejscu mógłby znajdować się dowolny pub z dawnych lat, bardzo stary, z ciemnym drewnem, szkłem witrażowym w oknach i przytłaczającą ilością pijanych Podziemnych. Wygląda na to, że przeszkodziliśmy w przyjęciu pożegnalnym jednego ze stałych bywalców, kelpie. Wiem, o co chcesz zapytać i tak, kelpie znajdował się w ogromnym pojemniku z wodą. Miał na imię Pickles – wiem! - i stale krzyczał, że „zaczyna nowe życie pod powierzchnią morza”. Oczywiście wzięli nas za policjantów mających popsuć im zabawę i nie chcieli nas tam. Ale nie mam pojęcia, co mielibyśmy tam robić, gdybyśmy zostali. Mieliśmy nadzieję, że zobaczymy to miejsce i przyjdzie nam do głowy jakaś myśl o srebrnej obręczy i tak dalej, ale… nic z tego.
Dlatego pomyślałam, że skoro ty i Tessa pamiętacie Dom Blackthornów z jego lepszych czasów, kiedy był Domem Lightwoodów – czy Diabelska Tawerna coś wam mówi? Czy przychodzi wam do głowy, co może łączyć zwyczajny pub Podziemnych i ludzi mieszkających dawniej w Chiswick? Jeśli nie, żaden problem, chciałam tylko spytać. Jeżeli masz jakieś pomysły, kim może być duch, w oparciu o związek z Diabelską Tawerną albo czymkolwiek innym, o czym napisałam, napisz do nas, proszę! Sprzątanie domu dotyczy również pozbycia się duchów, lecz wydaje się właściwe, żeby im pomóc, jeśli potrafimy.
Do you sometimes wish to turn to a dark corner in the street on a rainy night and find yourself in front of the Devil tavern, enter and see the merry thieves laughing in a corner table with hot drinks and then they see you and invite you to their table and matthew tries to woo you as thomas and james roll their eyes and christopher is barely paying attention, but when you ask what he is doing the rest of them groan but you listen completely as he explains enthusiastically, and then matthew takes you to dance a cheery dance in the bar with you and you have the time of your life?
I believe in you, Emma. When I see you, I see Carstairs past; I see bravery, and the flame of Cortana. Remember that you are of the steel and temper of those who have gone before you. I hope that I will see you again soon, and that when I do I will have the strength to tell you of some of them, of a girl with fire-bright hair, and her brother, and those who came before and after them.
Why Jem, whyy?? It hurts so much 😭 I'm literally crying right now 😭
So this may sound a bit wild but I think it’s worth mentioning.
I have somehow conducted this theory in my head where the denizens of the Devil Tavern, or at least some of them, are in league with Belial or knew at least who was behind all the havoc in Chain of Gold.
Do you all remember that in the first chapter James was recalling the lack of demons in London to Polly, the barmaid? Polly then remarked that the demons might be too scared to appear but wouldn’t say anything more. My question is how did she know that? All the other Downworlders had no idea what was going on, powerful warlocks among them. But a werewolf barmaid did?
Then there is the other instance at the end of the book; Thomas comes to the rooms of the Merry Thieves after finding out what happened to Christopher and brings the faithful letter with him, saying Neddy gave it to him. For all who don’t remember Neddy is the irregular we see multiple times throughout the book and also a werewolf. What confused me was that we never actually found out who gave the letter to Neddy. You would think that a letter from a Prince of Hell would be traced back to find out who is working with him.
So, yes I have a growing suspicion that at least those two knew way more than they let on. If it was fear or malice that didn’t let them say something I’m not sure. On a further note, both are werewolves. So maybe, this Downworlder-Prince of Hell alliance has nothing to do with the Devil but rather with werewolves?
Please let me know what you think! This is definitely one of my wilder theories!
