They were able to grab two seats, but it didn’t appreciably improve the situation. They sat awkwardly side by side, other people’s chatter rushing all around them. Alec was utterly silent. Magnus was fairly sure he wanted nothing more than to go home.

There were purple and blue posters staring down at them, showing elderly couples looking sadly at one another. The posters bore the words with the passing years comes . . . impotence! Magnus found himself staring at the posters with a sort of absent horror. He looked at Alec and found that Alec could not tear his eyes away either. He wondered if Alec was aware that Magnus was three hundred years old and whether Alec was considering exactly how impotent one might become after that much time.

Two guys came onto the train at the next stop and cleared a space right in front of Magnus and Alec.

One of them began to dance by swinging himself dramatically around the pole. The other sat cross-legged and started beating time on a drum he’d carried in with him.

“Hello, ladies and gentlemen and whatever else you got!” the dude with the drum called out. “We’re gonna perform now for your entertainment. I hope you’ll enjoy it. We call it . . . the Butt Song.”

Together they began to rap. It was quite obviously a song they had written themselves.

“Roses are red, and they say love’s not made to last,

But I know I’ll never get enough of that sweet, sweet ass.

All that jelly in your jeans, all that junk in your trunk,

I just gotta have it—one look and I was sunk.

If you ever wonder why I had to make you mine,

It’s ’cause no other lady has a tush so fine.

They say you’re not a looker, but I don’t mind.

What I’m looking at is the view from behind.

Never been romantic, don’t know what love means,

But I know I dig the way you’re wearing those jeans.

Hate to see you leave but love to watch you go.

Turn back, then leave again—baby do it slow.

I’m coming right after, gonna make a pass,

Can’t get enough of that sweet, sweet ass.”

Most of the commuters seemed stunned. Magnus was not sure if Alec was just stunned or if he was also deeply scandalized and privately commending his soul to God. He was wearing an extremely peculiar expression on his face and his lips were very tightly shut.

Under normal circumstances Magnus would have laughed and laughed and given the buskers a lot of money. As it was, he was profoundly grateful when they reached their stop. He did fish out a few dollars for the singers as he and Alec left the train.

Magnus was reminded again of the extreme disadvantages to mundane visibility when a skinny freckled guy slipped by them. Magnus was just thinking that he might have felt a hand snaking into his pocket when the guy gave a combination howl and screech.

While Magnus had idly wondered if he was being pickpocketed, Alec had reacted like a trained Shadowhunter: he grabbed the guy’s arm and threw him up in the air. The thief flew, outstretched arms limply wagging, like a cotton-stuffed doll. He landed with a crack on the platform, with Alec’s boot on his throat. Another train rattled by, all lights and noise; the Friday night commuters ignored it, forming a knot of bodies in tight shiny clothes and artful hair around Magnus and Alec.

Alec’s eyes were a little wide. Magnus suspected that he had been acting on reflex and had not actually intended to use force meant for demon foes against a mundane.

The redheaded guy squawked, revealing braces, and flapped his hands in what seemed to be either urgent surrender or a very good panicked duck impression.

“Dude!” he said. “I’m sorry! Seriously! I didn’t know you were a ninja!”

Alec removed his boot, and cast a hunted glance around at the fascinated stares of the bystanders.

“I’m not a ninja,” he muttered.

A pretty girl with butterfly clips in her dreadlocks put her hand on his arm. “You were amazing,” she told him, her voice fluting. “You have the reflexes of a striking snake. You should be a stuntman. Really, with your cheekbones, you should be an actor. A lot of people are looking for someone as pretty as you who’d do his own stunts.”

Alec threw Magnus a terrified and beseeching look. Magnus took pity on him, putting a hand on the small of Alec’s back and leaning against him. His attitude and the glance he shot at the girl clearly communicated my date.

“No offence,” said the girl, rapidly removing her hand so she could dig in her bag. “Let me give you my card. I work in a talent agency. You could be a star.”

“He’s foreign,” Magnus told the girl. “He doesn’t have a social security number. You can’t hire him.”

The girl regarded Alec’s bowed head wistfully. “That’s a shame. He could be huge. Those eyes!”

“I realize he’s a knockout,” Magnus said. “But I am afraid I have to whisk him away. He is wanted by Interpol.”

Alec shot him a strange look. “Interpol?”

Magnus shrugged.

“Knockout?” Alec said.

Magnus raised an eyebrow at him. “You had to know I thought so. Why else would I agree to go on a date with you?”

Apparently Alec had not known for sure, even though he’d said Isabelle and Jace had both commented on it. Maybe the vampires had all gone home and gossiped about the fact Magnus thought one of the Shadowhunters was a dreamboat. Magnus possibly needed to learn subtlety, and Alec possibly was not allowed access to mirrors at the Institute. He looked startled and pleased.

“I thought maybe—you know you said you weren’t unsympathetic—”

“I don’t do charity,” said Magnus. “In any area of my life.”

“I’ll give the wallet back,” piped up a helpful voice.

The red-haired mugger interrupted what might have become a nice moment by scrambling to his feet, digging out Magnus’s wallet, and then dropping Magnus’s wallet on the ground with a pained yelp.

“That wallet bit me!”

That’ll show you not to steal warlocks’ wallets, Magnus thought, bending down to retrieve the wallet from a forest of sparkling high heels on the concrete.

Aloud he said, “This just isn’t your lucky night, is it?”

“Your wallet bites people?” Alec asked.

“This one bites people,” said Magnus, pocketing it. He was glad to have it back, not only because he liked money but because the wallet matched his red crocodile-skin pants. “The John Varvatos wallet bursts into flames.”

“Who?” said Alec.

Magnus gazed at Alec sadly.

“Totally cool designer,” chipped in the girl with butterfly clips. “You know, they give you designer stuff free when you’re a movie star.”

“I can always flog a Varvatos wallet,” agreed the red-haired mugger. “Not that I’d steal and sell anything belonging to anyone on this platform. Specially not you guys.” He shot Alec a look that bordered on hero worship. “I didn’t know g*y dudes could fight like that. Like, no offence. It was badass.”

“You have been taught two important lessons about tolerance and honesty,” Magnus informed him severely. “And you still have all your fingers after trying to mug me on a first date, so this was the best outcome you could expect.”

There was a murmur of sympathy. Magnus stared around and saw Alec looking a little wild-eyed and everyone else looking concerned. Apparently the crowd they had gathered truly believed in their love.

“Aw, man, I’m really sorry,” said the mugger. “I wouldn’t want to mess up anybody’s first date with a ninja.”

“WE ARE LEAVING NOW,” said Magnus, in his best High Warlock voice. He was worried that Alexander was planning to fling himself into the path of an oncoming train.

“Have fun on your date, boys,” said Butterfly Clips, stuffing her card into the pocket of Alec’s jeans. Alec jumped like a startled hare. “Call me if you change your mind about wanting fame and fortune!”

“Sorry again!” said their former mugger, waving a cheerful good-bye.

They left the platform amid a chorus of well-wishers. Alec looked as if he wished only for the sweet release of death.

The restaurant was on East 13th and 3rd, near an American Apparel store and among a row of tired-looking redbrick buildings. It was an Ethiopian and Italian fusion restaurant run by Downworlders. It was on the shady, shabby side, so Shadowhunters did not frequent it. Magnus had strongly suspected that Alec would not want to risk any Nephilim seeing them together.

He’d also brought many mundane dates there, as a way of easing them into his world. The restaurant wanted mundane custom but in the main the clientele were Downworlders, so glamours were used but fairly minimal.

There was a large graffitied dinosaur obscuring the sign. Alec squinted at it, but he followed Magnus inside the restaurant readily enough.

The moment Magnus stepped into the restaurant, he realized he’d made a terrible mistake.

The second the door closed behind them a terrible silence fell around the big, low-lit room. There was a crash as one diner, an ifrit with flaming eyebrows, dove behind a table.

Magnus looked at Alec and realized what they saw: even if he wasn’t wearing gear, his arms bore runes, and his clothes showed signs that he was wearing weapons. Nephilim. Magnus might as well have walked into a Prohibition-era speakeasy flanked by police officers holding tommy guns.

God, dating sucked.

“Magnus Bane!” hissed Luigi, the owner, as he scurried over. “You brought a Shadowhunter here! Is this a raid? Magnus, I thought we were friends! You could at least have given me a heads-up!”

“We’re here socially,” said Magnus. He held his hands up, palms out. “I swear. Just to talk and eat.”

Luigi shook his head. “For you, Magnus. But if he makes any moves toward my other customers . . .” He gestured at Alec.

“I won’t,” Alec said, and cleared his throat. “I’m . . . off-duty.”

“Shadowhunters are never off-duty,” said Luigi darkly, and dragged them to a table in the remotest part of the restaurant, the corner near the swinging doors that led to the kitchen.

A werewolf waiter with a wooden expression that indicated either boredom or constipation wandered over.

“Hello, my name is Erik and I will be your server this eve— Oh my God, you’re a Shadowhunter!”

Magnus closed his eyes for a pained moment. “We can leave,” he told Alec. “This may have been a mistake.”

But a stubborn light had come into Alec’s blue eyes. Despite his porcelain looks, Magnus could see the steel underneath. “No, that’s fine, this seems . . . fine.”

“You’re making me feel very threatened,” said Erik the waiter.

“He’s not doing anything,” Magnus snapped.

“It’s not about what he’s doing, it’s about how he’s making me feel,” sniffed Erik. He slammed down the menus as if they had personally offended him. “I get stress ulcers.”

“The myth that ulcers are caused by stress was debunked years ago,” said Magnus. “It’s actually some kind of bacteria.”

“Um, what are the specials?” Alec asked.

“I can’t remember them while my emotions are under this kind of strain,” said Erik. “A Shadowhunter killed my uncle.”

“I’ve never killed anyone’s uncle,” said Alec.

“How would you know?” demanded Erik. “When you’re about to kill someone, do you stop and ask them if they have nephews?”

“I kill demons,” Alec said. “Demons don’t have nephews.”

Magnus knew this to be only technically true. He cleared his throat loudly. “Maybe I should just order for both of us, and we can share?”

“Sure,” said Alec, throwing his menu down.

“Do you want a drink?” the waiter asked Alec pointedly, adding sotto voce. “Or do you want to stab someone? If you absolutely have to, maybe you could stab the guy in the corner wearing the red shirt. He tips terribly.”

Alec opened and shut his mouth, then opened it again. “Is this a trick question?”

“Please go,” said Magnus.

Alec was very quiet, even after Erik the annoying waiter was gone. Magnus was fairly sure he was having a horrifying time, and could not blame him. Several of the other customers had left, casting panicked glances over their shoulders as they paid hurriedly.

When the food arrived, Alec’s eyes widened when he saw Magnus had ordered their kitfo raw. Luigi had put in an effort: there were also luscious tibs, doro wat, a spicy red onion stew dish, mashed lentils and collards, and all of it laid out atop the thick spongy Ethiopian bread known as injera. The Italian part of Luigi’s heritage was represented by a heap of penne. Alec did make short work of the food, and seemed to know he was supposed to eat with his fingers without being told. He was a New Yorker, Magnus thought, even if he was a Shadowhunter too.

“This is the best Ethiopian I’ve ever had. Do you know a lot about food?” Alec asked. “I mean, obviously you do. Never mind. That was a dumb thing to say.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Magnus said, frowning.

Alec reached for a bite of penne arrabiata. He immediately began to choke on it. Tears streamed from his eyes.

“Alexander!” said Magnus.

“I’m fine!” Alec gasped, looking horrified. He snatched at his piece of bread first and only realized that it was bread when he tried to dab his eyes with it. He dropped the bread hastily and grabbed his napkin up instead, hiding both streaming eyes and scarlet face.

“You are obviously not fine!” Magnus told him, and tried a very tiny bite of the penne. It burned like fire: Alec was still wheezing into his napkin. Magnus made a peremptory gesture for the waiter that might have included a few blue sparks snapping and crackling onto other people’s tablecloths.

The people eating near them were edging their tables subtly away.

“This penne is much too arrabiata, and you did it on purpose,” said Magnus when the surly werewolf waiter hove into view.

“Werewolf rights,” Erik grumped. “Crush the vile oppressors.”

“Nobody has ever won a revolution with pasta, Erik,” said Magnus. “Now go get a fresh dish, or I’ll tell Luigi on you.”

“I—” Erik began defiantly. Magnus narrowed his cat’s eyes. Erik met Magnus’s gaze and decided not to be a waiter hero. “Of course. My apologies.”