The Tenebrous Weapons

“Mère,” Stacey had pleaded in her native French, widening her dark brown eyes to look as innocent as possible. “Please, let me go to London.”

“Stacey, we’ve been over this.” Her mother rubbed the bridge of her nose with her fingers and shook her head. “You have enough to fight here in Paris, and going anywhere else would be a waste.”

“When’s the last time I’ve gone out to the streets to kill anything?” Stacey, naturally hot-headed and impulsive, fought to keep her tone calm and collected. “It’s been weeks. In London, they get three times as many demons, and I called them-”

“You called the London Institute behind my back?!” Talia Branwell’s voice broke with anger as she shot daggers at her daughter. “Stacey, that is completely disrespectful.”

“Mère, just let me go. I’m not a little kid anymore, and you have to understand that I’m absolutely bored out of my mind here. There are greater things in London, more opportunities. I promise I will make you proud.”

And that was how Stacey Branwell found herself standing on the main steps of the London Institute, ringing the summoning bell and tapping her foot in impatient anticipation. The church that held the Institute was beautiful, and she was eager to see the inside. She’d heard that the London Institute had far more weapons than the one at home, and she could feel her body humming at the possibility of putting her hands on her weapon of choice, tiny throwing daggers.

She was just about to let herself in, as she could do with her Shadowhunter blood coursing through her veins, and go against all forms of etiquette, when the door opened. The woman who answered was certainly beautiful, with dark-toned skin and smiling eyes, but she also gave an air of authority, like she knew she was in charge and accepted the role with gusto.

“Stacey,” she breathed with familiarity, leaning forward and kissing her once on each cheek, as was the French custom. It was clear to Stacey that Tricia was trying to make the foreign Shadowhunter feel at home. “It’s lovely to see you. Let me take your things.”

“I’ve got them, thank you.” Stacey didn’t want to seem course, but she really did want to hurry to the training room. “Where will I be staying?”

Thankfully, Tricia didn’t seem hurt by the rushing. She merely stepped out of the way, admitting Stacey to the building, and shut the door behind them before leading the sixteen year old girl to where she be staying until she turned eighteen, when she would be free to travel wherever she wished.

“I hope you find everything to your liking,” Tricia introduced kindly before throwing open the door.

The room was smaller than the ones back in Paris, but it was perfectly fine. There was a bed against one wall, made up neatly, a desk with the standard Shadowhunter books against another. A closet, half-open, was clearly empty of all things besides a few sets of gear, which looked like they would fit Stacey’s small frame perfectly.

“It’s wonderful.” Maybe it was just the fact that she was set in the heart of London, but her French accent seemed so out of place, even though she’d only spoken with Tricia. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Tricia smiled, probably feeling comforted that Stacey was not nearly as brash or fresh as she’d heard, but Stacey knew it was only a matter of time before her false sweet persona dissolved. “Whenever you’re ready, would you mind heading down to the training room? My son Zayn is waiting there for you to do a little bit of training.”

Stacey’s face flushed with rage, but she bit her tongue. “That would be fine,” she agreed in a hesitant tone. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

Tricia nodded and slipped away, allowing Stacey a moment alone.

The second she was positive the woman was out of earshot, Stacey let out a grunt of frustration. The thought of some British Shadowhunter training her was absolutely ridiculous, almost to the point of being insulting. At sixteen years old, she may have been young, but she had no need of training or tutoring; she’d finished both by the time she was fifteen. Shadowhunting was something she felt like she was born to do, and nothing in the world brought her more joy or more of a rush.

But to be as pleasant for as long as possible, she left her bags still packed and threw her long, curly dark brown hair up into a ponytail as she made her way through the corridors to find the Training Room.

As she’d anticipated, it was in the same place it had been in the Parisian Institute. The place reeked of sweating and fighting, and her body revved with anticipation. Since she didn’t see anyone waiting, as had been explained to her, she took it upon herself to start her own training.

The second the daggers were in her hands, a massive grin spread across her sweet-looking face. She readied herself to throw, standing in front of a holey dummy, making sure her balance was solid.

And then she was interrupted. “You must be Stacey.”

The brunette turned to find a sullen-looking boy standing about ten feet away, his arms crossed in front of him defensively. With all dark features, including honey eyes that he somehow made look like hardened amber, there was no doubt he was gorgeous. Although, Stacey had to admit, the scowl on his full lips did detract from his beauty somewhat.

“I am,” she finally replied, reciprocating his cold demeanor. “And you must be Zayn. I have to warn you, I don’t actually need any training.”

“Well, my father says I have to train you.” He nodded toward the weapons she had hidden behind her back. “What have you got?”

“Throwing daggers.” She tossed them away from her, the knives making clanging metallic noises as they connected with the hard floor. “So what have you come to teach me, master?”

He rolled his eyes at her sarcasm. “Let’s spar first and see where you are, and we’ll move from there.” Without glancing at her, he journeyed across the room and took up a couple of broadswords, keeping one in his right hand while he threw the other one to Stacey, who caught the weapon with ease.

The two set up their sparring session, standing face to face, each of them in a proper fighting stance with their knees slightly bent. Stacey felt completely at ease and relaxed, while Zayn’s face was scrunched with concentration. He should have been alerted by her lack of focus, really, but he chose to ignore it, writing her off as a girl who didn’t take Shadowhunting seriously. He shouldn’t have been surprised at her choice, really, knowing that she was from France. Many French Shadowhunters were more concerned with the latest fashions than their training, and Stacey would be no different, Zayn had concluded.

But he was wrong. The second he finished counting, Stacey lunged forward, hooking her leg under his and completely destroying his balance. He fell flat on his back, the air getting knocked out of him as he smacked against the concrete floor, and before he could make another move, Stacey put her boot-clad foot on his stomach and pressed her sword against his throat with just enough pressure that Zayn could feel the sharp pain.

“Maybe I should be training you, hm, mon cher?”

He could sense her condescending tone, though he didn’t understand the words tacked onto the end, since he didn't much care for the French language, as he swiped her sword away from his throat and glared viciously.

“See, Zayn, that was just embarrassing,” said a voice from the doorway.

The two young Shadowhunters turned toward the door, seeing a boy that was maybe a year older than Zayn. He had a more muscular figure, in contrast with Zayn’s lanky frame, and he had a wide grin on his friendly face, his blue eyes sparkling with humor. “Beaten by a girl? And so easily.”

“Shut up, Louis.” Zayn sounded so angry that he could spit, but Louis just seemed entertained.

“And you’re Stacey Branwell,” he greeted. “By any chance, are you related to Henry Branwell? The man who invented the Sensors?”

Stacey straightened with pride. “He’s my great-to-however-many-degrees uncle, yes.”

Louis looked impressed as he nodded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Finally, someone that will actually be able to keep Zayn in line.”

She grinned back at the English boy. “We can only hope.” And right then and there, she decided she liked Louis quite a lot.

But Zayn was a different story. A girl could only take so much moodiness before it got tired, and they’d already passed that mark.