Crossing the Board

Summary: His voice grazed her ear like a knife. "It's a dangerous game you're playing, Shadowhunter, but make no mistake. Only one of us is a pawn, and it isn't me." / A desperate Isabelle seeks help from an unlikely source—and gets more than she bargained for. Post-2x07. Two shot.

Disclaimer: Nothing recognizable belongs to me.

A/N: Basically, 2x08 speculation. Better late than never, I guess. Enjoy.

I. En Passant

Crossing the threshold, his attention immediately swept to the patron nursing an empty glass at the corner of the bar. In this dark underbelly of downtown Brooklyn she stood out like a beacon, especially given those telltale runes marring otherwise flawless skin. Sparing her from being easy pickings for this dive's less scrupulous characters.

She carried on tracing the rim of her glass as though unaware, or at least uninterested. But her back stiffened long before he crossed her periphery.

"A bit far from the Institute, aren't you?"

Brown eyes alighted in recognition. "Of all the gin joints."

"I believe that's my line, considering this is a vampire hot spot you're slumming." Leaning against the bar, his eyes leveled an accusation. "Of which I'm sure you're well aware."

She shrugged away a curtain of ebony hair. "Maybe I felt like broadening my horizons."

"Or avoiding recognition," he parried. "Tough luck, there."

Her mouth thinned, ever so slightly. "And you? You don't strike me as the social butterfly type."

"I conduct business here, on occasion."

"All work and no play? Sounds boring."

"Does a Shadowhunter know anything else?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." Blood-red lips relaxed, curving an invitation. He stared back, unmoving, and she sighed. "You can sit, you know. I don't bite."

"I can't say the same."

"Yeah?" She arched a delicate brow. "Is that a threat or a pickup line?"

"Whichever one is less flattering to your ego." He bent his face away, scanning the room for nothing in particular. "I'm not looking for company."

"Don't tell me you're still sore about that hole I blasted through the Hotel Dumort. If you ask me, it really… brightened up the room. Plus, Camille's back under lock and key now, so might as well let bygones be bygones." A pause, and then soft laughter baited his attention. "Typical vampire. So alpha, holding onto grudges for eternity. You should relax. Have fun… if you even know how."

He studied the way her empty glass still fell victim to one idle hand; the hem of her fitted dress, the other. A portrait far more telling than any verbal repartee.

He chose his next words carefully. "In retrospect, you stealing Camille from my custody did have one upside, at least. Finally gave me an excuse to… disinvite that incompetent fledgling from my clan. Kid's been nothing but a grade-A pain in my ass since he turned."

"Saving Simon's bacon has become a recent habit of mine," she sympathized. Leaning forward, she glanced at him from beneath thick lashes. "You can thank me for cutting that cord by buying my next drink."

"Will it bring this conversation to a close?"

"Only one way to find out."

And because he didn't end stalemates with surrender, he signaled for the bartender. Claimed the adjacent seat. Didn't so much as blink.

Not even when she flashed a winning smile—a mask as fixed as his own.

She stumbled through the night, her heavy heels at war with the uneven pavement and the fire in her veins. Close. So close.

"Who knew Nephilim were such light weights?" It toed the line between annoyance and amusement, stopping just shy of the latter.

She glanced sideways. "You know, a gentleman would offer a lady his arm, at least."

"Neither of those descriptors is accurate." But he obliged her request, however reluctant. "You're hardly in any shape to discuss business," he observed, "which could have been done inside, like civilized people."

"This doesn't require an audience."

"You realize there's a reason I frequent that place, don't you? Everyone there is plied on half-priced shots. Plus, the noise is enough to drown out any… delicate information being exchanged."

The only noise she cared to drown out was the blood singing in her ears. By contrast, the alley they approached was quiet, even by New York standards. For a spell, it threw everything into sharp, alarming clarity.

Suddenly her arm dropped like lead. Her companion rounded on her. "Okay. We're alone. Talk."

But apparently she'd left rational thought behind several cocktails ago. She didn't talk. Didn't think. Just moved.

Fingers tangled in the lapels of his jacket and pulled.

The response was immediate, as though he expected the attack, but his mouth was as cold and unyielding as hers was feverish. Deliberately she fused both hands to his chest—a gesture of goodwill. Assurance that she wasn't surreptitiously reaching for a weapon.

He gave no such quarter.

Her tongue had barely scraped the tip of a fang when he spun her around, pinning her against a brick wall. Had she been a mundane, it would have knocked the wind from her.

She gasped when he dipped his head. Arched her neck, waiting. Wanting.

But felt only a breath of soft laughter. Then a voice grazing her ear like a knife. "It's a dangerous game you're playing, Shadowhunter, but make no mistake. Only one of us is a pawn, and it isn't me."

She scoffed, even as her pulse hammered against the flimsy guise of composure. "This isn't entrapment, Santiago. No breech of the Accords. In case you haven't noticed, you have my permission."

"But not mine."

Three innocuous, sobering words.

He pulled away just enough that his pale face took up her entire field of vision. She catalogued the unblinking gaze. Even breath. Not one gelled hair out of place. A predator in his element—odd, given the rejection.

"You want something," he stated with certainty. "And you're vain enough to think you can get it for free. I'll tell you what I told Camille the first and only time she attempted the same ploy: Get over yourself."

The comparison left her fuming. Had he struck her, it would have been kinder. "Whatever. Your loss."

"For the record, playing hard to get only works when you're actually hard to get." His iron grip still formed a cage around her, but it wasn't brute force that rooted her to the spot. "The signs were easy enough to read. You're jonesing. Badly. I could smell it on you the second I walked into the bar."

She inhaled sharply. "Yin fen?"

"Desperation." His eyes narrowed, swallowing darkness. "How long has it been?"

She didn't answer.

"Silence won't win you any favors tonight," he warned. "Neither will more lies."

"Almost three days." The admission stole the last of her restraint. "Look, I got an… anonymous tip that your people might have what I need. Is it true?"

A beat of silence, and then he released her. She sagged against the wall, practically boneless. "What do you think the Head of the Institute would say now if he saw one of his elite in such pathetic shape?"

"Who do you think got me hooked in the first place?"

Instant gratification: genuine surprise rippled across his features. "Is that so?"

"Can you help me or not?" she snapped. She was ready to explode out of her skin. If only she possessed the energy.

"Oh, I can," he assured her. "But you'll owe me."

"Fine. Whatever it costs. Who's your source?"

But he just stared at her, waiting. Impatient.

Without warning her knees buckled, and brick scraped skin as she slipped lower and lower down the slope. Something was wrong. Withdrawal was strong, but never this powerful before. Even aided by alcohol.

Her head snapped up as something clicked into place. As darkness peeled away the edges of her vision.

"How are you feeling?" Not concern. Mild curiosity, at best.

"What's happening? What did you do?" A garbled string of syllables, as though her voice had traveled from far away. In vain she struggled to summon the whip from her wrist. "What are you doing to me?"

"Helping." For the first time, he sounded unmistakably amused. As far from placating as possible. Part of her wondered if she should, or even could, feel fear. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

Oblivion stole whatever answer she might have given. But not before she heard the thundering echo of distant laughter.

En passant—a special maneuver in chess where a pawn is captured "in passing" by an opposing pawn. A rule added to prevent pawns from having too much power or freedom. [credit: chess dot com]

A/N: Apologies for the lazy scene setting and general lack of editing. I really wanted to get this posted before 2x08 aired… well, at least before I watch it, which won't be until tomorrow. Second part should hopefully be up around then.