Chapter Text
Shane Hollander had been head of the Montreal Institute for all of ten hours when J.J. Boiziau, one of Montreal’s Shadowhunters, knocked on his office door. Shane had met J.J. on his travel year, making him the only member of Montreal’s Conclave that Shane had actually known well before this morning. Well, he supposed Hayden counted as part of the Montreal Conclave now too, but Hayden Pike was Shane’s parabatai and had made the move from Ottawa to Montreal with Shane this morning. Shane had gotten straight to work, but Hayden was moving his entire family into the Institute. He and his wife, Jackie, were probably still busy refereeing their kids’ fights over who was getting which room on the residential floor.
“That asshole from the Praetor Lupus is here,” J.J. said in French, breaking through Shane’s thoughts.
‘That asshole from the Praetor Lupus’ was a big reason Shane suddenly found himself the brand new head of the Institute. He had appeared in Montreal a month ago with what sounded like every possible loophole in Shadowhunter Law and the Accords memorized, ready to jump in every time Montreal’s Shadowhunters tried to do their jobs in Downworld. The whole thing had led to the exposure of Montreal’s shockingly lax record of paperwork regarding Downworlder incidences, the previous head’s hasty recall to Idris, and Shane’s promotion from the smaller Ottawa Institute his mom had been the head of for his entire life to Montreal.
“Ottawa has always been a shining example of an Institute that’s never had a problem with its files,” Consul Crowell had written in the letter delivering Shane his new assignment. “I’m sure you’ll whip Montreal into shape in no time. There’s a lot of good talent in Montreal that just needs a good leader to show them how to do things right.”
Shane sighed and dropped the stack of papers he was trying to sort through back in their box, taking off his glasses and hooking them on the collar of his shirt. He’d have to meet this guy sooner or later, so might as well get it over with. He reached the bottom of the stairs and paused, observing the chaos in front of the interior door to the Institute’s Sanctuary.
“It was entirely consensual, I checked the waiver myself,” a man with his back turned to Shane was saying loudly, a strong accent wrapping around the words in a way that seemed oddly familiar. It was Russian, wasn’t it? Did Shane even know any Russian werewolves? Shane racked his brain, trying to remember. Could it be someone he met in a Shadow Market once?
“We can’t just let vampires drink from people,” Patrice Drapeau, another of the long-time Montreal Shadowhunters, said, arms crossed, planted in front of the Sanctuary door. The Sanctuary was only part of the Institute not built on hallowed ground, and therefore the only safe place vampires could enter the Institute. Shane gathered from the scene playing out in front of him that a vampire must have been arrested and was currently being held inside.
“He signed a waiver from a legal establishment, you did not even look at it,” the man insisted.
“Do you have the waiver?” Shane asked.
The man didn’t startle, werewolf senses probably alerting him to Shane’s presence the second Shane had gotten anywhere near him, but Shane nearly did. He recognized this man, but not in this setting. “Ilya Rozanov?” he blurted out, probably failing to hide his shock.
“I am impressed,” Rozanov said, dripping sarcasm thick enough for even Shane to pick up. “One of you finally bothered to learn my name.”
Shane had not learned Ilya Rozanov’s name in this context. No one in the Montreal Institute had ever spoken about That Asshole From the Praetor Lupus as anything but the full formal title they had assigned him. Shane had learned Ilya Rozanov’s name six years ago when he was the most talented rookie who had joined the NHL (drafted first, of course, by the Boston Bears, which had been a disappointment for Shane who had been hoping a Canadian team would get him) in years. Ilya Rozanov, who had disappeared from the world of hockey before the end of that rookie season, just shy of making good on his over-the-top promise to score fifty goals by the end of the season.
Shadowhunters were discouraged from taking an interest in the mundane world, but everyone had their vices and Shane’s was hockey. Something about the very human display of athleticism, free from runes and supernatural ability, had always fascinated him. And no individual player had ever captivated him the way Ilya Rozanov had. Ilya Rozanov, who had been a menace on the ice, all speed and strength and sharp humor getting under opposing players’ skin in a way Shane had never been able to look away from. The broad shoulders and golden brown curls and the way his eyes glittered with amusement when his full lips tilted up in that crooked grin during his (often shirtless) interviews hadn’t been a factor at all. Obviously.
Ilya Rozanov, who was now standing in Shane’s Institite, shoving a waiver from a vampire night club in his direction, gold Praetor Lupus medallion catching the light where it hung over the top of his t-shirt. What the fuck?
Shane would have to have his crisis over this later. There were more important things to do right now. He pulled his reading glasses off of where he had hooked them on his shirt, noting how Rozanov’s eyes followed the movement. He checked the paper over carefully, sure that’s why he was being watched so closely. “Rozanov is right,” he said, pulling the glasses back off. “The waiver looks legitimate. I’d like to speak to the man who was bitten to confirm it’s his signature, then we can get this cleared up.”
He directed the last sentence at Drapeau, who looked confused. Rozanov let out an annoyed huff. “I will take you to him,” Rozanov said, a note of challenge in his voice daring Shane to try rejecting the offer.
”Okay,” Shane said easily, a little amused that the argument Rozanov had clearly been puffing himself up for wasn’t coming. He deflated a little, but recovered quickly.
“Your Conclave would drown if they looked up during a rainstorm,” Rozanov muttered, just loud enough for Shane to hear as they left the Institute.
Shane coughed to cover his surprised laugh. He had admittedly had a lot of uncharitable thoughts himself today as he realized the magnitude of what his predecessor had let slide. But he was sure the Montreal Conclave was salvageable. Bad leadership didn’t mean that every individual Shadowhunter here was a lost cause. Shane was confident that he would be able to turn things around.
Shane walked next to Rozanov in awkward silence for a while, until they were well past the quiet surrounding the Institute, turning onto a street noisier with nightlife. The night air was cool, but not cold yet, fall looming, but not all the way upon them.
“So is the vampire at the Institute your assignment?” Shane asked, finally unable to take the silence. That didn’t make much sense, now that Shane thought about it. As far as Shane knew, the vampire had never been in trouble with the Institute before the incident tonight, but Rozanov had been a thorn in their sides for a month.
“No, not exactly,” Rozanov replied.
“Then what is it?” Shane had a bad feeling that getting answers out of Rozanov was going to be like pulling teeth.
“My assignment was a boy named Luca Haas.”
“That rookie who just disappeared from the Centaurs?”
Rozanov stopped to give Shane his full attention now. “Ah, you know hockey.” His eyebrows raised higher as a connection dawned on him. “That is how you knew my name.”
Shane flushed under the full weight of that intense gaze turned on him, but he didn’t look away. “You were an amazing player to watch. I’m sure you know that.”
“But I did not think Shadowhunters were allowed to watch anything fun.”
“We’re not… I mean— Hey!”
Rozanov grinned and winked at him. “Maybe if you help me I will sign something for you.”
“Fuck off,” Shane said, ears burning. “So why are you still here? Did something happen with Haas?”
“No, no, he is fine. I took him to the Ottawa pack and they are taking care of him. But it seems strange, for two NHL rookies to get bitten in Montreal. I decided to stay and investigate on my own, but your Institute is fucking useless.”
“Two? When did-“ it clicked. “You were bitten here.”
“Yes. And there may have been others. I want to make sure there are not more of us.”
Before Shane could ask any more about it, Rozanov stopped. “We are here,” he said.
The club was nondescript from the outside. Just a sign on the door with a rose dripping a single scarlet drop of blood from a thorn, the muffled thump of club music bleeding out into the street from behind it. Purple tinted light and stage smoke spilled out when Rozanov pushed the door open, the volume of the music increasing to a level that instantly set Shane on edge. Rozanov seemed unbothered, despite how much louder it must be for him with his werewolf hearing.
He led Shane past the bodies writhing in the foggy light on the dance floor and to the bar, where a young looking woman was working. The unnatural, ashen paleness of her skin told Shane she was a vampire, so in reality, she could be any age from twenty to two hundred.
“Genevieve,” Rozanov greeted over the roar of the music, planting his elbows on the bar to lean in close enough to be heard.
“Ilya!” the vampire bartender said back with obvious relief. “Did you get Yvette out?”
“Not yet, but close,” Rozanov said, reaching across the bar to lay a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He tilted his head in Shane’s direction. “We need to speak with Mr. Duval. He is still here?”
“He’s waiting in a private room,” Genevieve said. She leaned even closer to Rozanov and hissed “Did you bring a Shadowhunter to my club?” in a voice she was probably hoping Shane wouldn’t hear. Unfortunately Shane was pretty good at reading lips.
Rozanov patted the shoulder still under his hand, his smile charming and effortless. “Just for a few questions. It will be okay, I promise.”
She cast another nervous look at Shane over her shoulder, but led them to a doorway down a hall to the left of the bar. “In here,” she said then retreated back to the safety of the bar.
Ilya knocked and then opened the door. A man sat on a comfortable looking loveseat, the cushions a deep rose-red, scrolling through something on his phone. He had two bandaids in parallel lines on his neck. For some reason, the bandaids were patterned with the yellow circle of Batman’s Bat-Signal. “Mr. Duval,” Rozanov said. “You remember me, yes?”
“Yeah, you asked me to wait here until you got Yvette. She okay?”
“A little shaken up, probably, but we will have her out soon. We just need your ID to compare to the signature on your waiver.”
The man fished his wallet out of his pocket, pulling out the card and handing it to Rozanov. Shane took the waiver and his glasses out of his own pocket and held out his hand expectantly for Rozanov to place the ID card in, the tips of his fingers grazing Shane’s in a way that sent a shiver he couldn’t explain down his spine. Shane studied the signatures, doubling down on his concentration, confirming the match. “Just to check, you were aware that you were signing up to be bitten on the neck to have your blood drained, which could result in severe injury or death, right?”
The man grinned at Shane, expression a bit dreamy. “‘Course, why else would I be here?” He frowned after a moment’s thought. “Yvette didn’t do anything wrong, she followed all the club rules. We just went for a walk after and those big guys snatched her.”
“That shouldn’t have happened,” Shane said, handing the ID card back. “I’ll make sure proper protocol is followed from now on.” Task finished, he let Rozanov lead him back out of the room.
“So you are satisfied?” Shane noted the bit of challenge back in Rozanov’s voice. He decided not to take the bait.
“Yeah, I’ll call the Institute to tell them to release your vampire as soon as we get somewhere a little more quiet. I don’t think they’d be able to hear me over whatever this,” he grimaced in the general direction of where he thought a speaker was, “is.”
Rozanov huffed a laugh, lips curving up into a crooked grin that made Shane’s stomach flip. It didn’t look like either the sarcastic smirk or the charming smile Shane had seen so far from Rozanov. It looked real. Shane wanted to make him smile like that again. “I will tell Genevieve,” Rozanov said. “She was very worried for her friend.”
Shane decided to avoid making the bartender uncomfortable again, and made his way back outside instead while Rozanov delivered the news, earning himself a delighted hug from Genevieve that Shane wished he hadn’t seen just as he slipped out the front door. He ignored the weird pit in his stomach and fished his phone out of his pocket. There was still work to be done.
Shane was just finishing up his call to the Institute when Rozanov came back outside. He leaned against the wall next to Shane and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Shane wasn’t sure how he stood the smell with a werewolf’s nose, but Shane also didn’t understand why people would consent to getting bitten by vampires or willingly dance in nightclubs either.
“You’re good with vampires,” Shane said, thinking about the easy charm and reassurance Rozanov had wielded, the way the vampire bartender had thrown her arms around him without hesitation.
“You are surprised,” Rozanov arched a wary eyebrow.
“Werewolves usually aren’t,” Shane said, realizing too late that he was probably sticking his foot in his mouth. “Vampires and werewolves have a reputation for always being at each other’s throats.”
“Who else will help them?” Rozanov said, taking a drag of his cigarette.
Shane furrowed his brow, watching the cloud of smoke Rozanov exhaled dissipate into the night. “The Institute,” he said. Obviously. Their main job was hunting demons, sure, but the Institute doors were always meant to be open to any Downworlders who needed help too.
“They did not help me.”
Shane turned to fully look at him. “What do you mean?”
“When I was bitten, here in Montreal. Shadowhunters showed up to chase after the rouge werewolf, but they did not help me.”
“Who was it?” Were they still in Montreal? It had been six years after all, and plenty of Shadowhunters floated between Institutes without really settling down. Surely none of the Montreal Conclave Shane had met could be careless enough to overlook a man bitten by the werewolf they were chasing. But if there had been a report, Shane would have found it.
“I do not know,” Rozanov said with a shrug. “I could hear their voices a little, but I could not see them. They were glamoured, and I had not fully turned yet.” He took another drag of his cigarette. “And I was scared and injured. I did not know what was happening to me, and there was no one to tell me until it was almost too late.”
“I looked for you,” Shane admitted. That’s how he knew there was no report of a werewolf bite in Montreal before Rozanov disappeared from hockey. He had intended to take that secret to his grave, but suddenly he felt like Rozanov needed to know someone had tried to help, even if they had failed.
“What?” Rozanov sounded genuinely surprised for the second time that night.
“That last game you played against New York. Something was off. You were playing too aggressively, even for you, and that guy from New York who you slammed into the boards broke more bones than he should have. I checked reports for werewolf attacks in every city the Boston Bears traveled to that month, but there was nothing. And then you were just gone. I checked all the werewolf reports in the entire New England area for six months after that and never found anything.”
Rozanov stubbed out his cigarette and bent to pick up the butt, putting it in his pocket. “Svetlana saw the same thing you did,” he said after a moment.
“Svetlana?”
“Svetlana Vetrova. The High Warlock of Boston. Lucky for me, she is also a big hockey fan. She saw that there was something wrong with me too, and she found me outside of the rink after next practice. I thought I was being kidnapped by Baba Yaga herself.”
“A warlock helped you?” Warlocks were usually more solitary. They largely kept to themselves, most preferring to stay out of the affairs of other Downworlder groups. Many preferring to stay away from other warlocks as well.
“Yes. Used magic to fake medical reports, made them say I had lung cancer and could no longer play. They let me disappear quietly.” Shane eyed the pocket the pack of cigarettes was still poking out of. Maybe lung cancer had been a believable lie. At least now werewolf healing would save him from that fate, though Shane still didn’t understand how Rozanov stood the smell.
“And you found a pack in Boston?” Shane asked, trying to drag the rest of the story out of Rozanov.
“No, there are no werewolf packs in Boston right now. The city’s Downworld is mostly run by vampires. But Svetlana is old friends with the leader of the largest vampire clan. The idiots call themselves the Boston Raiders, like they’re some kind of sports team,” the corner of Rozanov’s lip tilted up into something fond. Not that Shane was watching Rozanov’s lips. “But Marley is a good person. They took me in until Wiebe came and invited me to join his Praetor Lupus.”
“Brandon Wiebe? I know him from the Ottawa pack.”
“Yes. None of them have anything bad to say about the Ottawa Institute. Is why I gave you a chance.” He turned toward Shane, the full force of those intense eyes on him again.“You know, you bothered to learn my name, but you never introduced yourself to me. Very impolite of you.”
“Oh,” Shane said, holding out his hand for Rozanov to shake. He was pretty sure Rozanov was messing with him. He’d already indicated that he knew Shane was here from Ottawa, which meant he probably already knew exactly who Shane was. But he was right, a proper introduction was the polite thing to do. “Shane. Hollander. I’m the new head of the Montreal Institute. I guess that means we’ll be seeing each other a lot.”
Rozanov gave Shane a look he couldn’t quite read, but took the offered hand, his palm warm against Shane’s in the chilly night. “Yes. I think we will.”