a/n: I've never quite understood why in all the non shadowhunter stories Clary either lives/has lived with an abusive Valentine. Yet her mother could have just as easily left him in a world without shadowhunters. I mean I've even done a story in this fashion but still…Logically, at least to me, a nonshadowhuner Jace would live with him instead. ((Don't even get me started on all of the BA Clary stories. :D)) So here is a three(Perhaps four)-shot with my view on the matter.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Mortal Instruments series or any characters affiliated with them.

Life as a Shadow

Of Soccer and Dinner Parties

"Morgenstern."

My head isn't the only one that turns towards the man who barks the name, my name. He's always had that affect on people; he's like a black hole in the middle of a galaxy, even those who he doesn't even know exist can't turn their attention away from him: not strangers in the super market, not the executives of his company, not even the boys on my team who have known him for years.

"Morgenstern." He says my name again; the demanding tone carries none of the pride that is posses when he introduces the same last name in association with himself. I know what's going to come, a rebuke for allowing one of the boys to steal the black and white ball from under my feet. "You're slacking today. Playing sloppy, I bet if I went to the kindergarten right now I could find a dozen little girls who could do better than you. Lewis." He calls towards a boy slumped on the bench who sits up with a start as his name is called. "You're in while Morgenstern does laps to try until he can figure out which foot is his right and which is his left. Maybe then he'll be able to handle the ball."

The boy awkwardly rises, we both know he never expected to play, and adjusts his glasses. I heard complaining to one of his "band mates" once about his mom forcing him to join the soccer team because she was worried that he was never involved in anything at school. How he had gotten onto the varsity team was beyond me, maybe his mother had let my father screw her in exchange for putting him on the team. "Um, Mr. Morgenstern, sir. I really think Jace is better for the team than me."

"Did I ask you how I thought you played? Now get in there!"

As I brush past Simon he mutters, "Sorry."

And I snarl back, quietly so my father doesn't hear, "Stuff it, Lewis. You and I both know I deserve to be the one playing. You ought to be at home trying to avoid the sun by playing World of Warcraft with your virtual friends." He looks like a fish gasping for air as he tries to retort, knowing my father will be furious if I delay laps any longer I push past him and jog towards the coaches.

"Laps. Go." My father points down the track that surround the soccer field we practice on.

"How many?"

"Until I decide you're done. Now get moving." He doesn't even look at me, a guess a small miracle because he would see the rebellion in my expression-I'm barely managing to keep myself from arguing by biting the inside of my cheek. I shoot him one last angry look, barely managing to duck my head in time as he looks up, as I begin to slowly jog down the length of the track, slightly picking up my pace as I hear a shout to hurry up and know it's directed at me.

Soon I find a steady pace, relishing the feeling of the hard asphalt colliding with the soles of my shoes and traveling up my legs. As long as I focus on keeping my steps even and my breathing I can tune out my father encouraging the other boys on the soccer team, boys that make any number of penalties that my father doesn't comment on. As I turn the corner of the track for who knows what lap, I didn't even bother to start counting, I glimpse the gangly boy my father had replaced me with touch the ball with both hands and none of the coaches even bat a lash.

I jerk my eyes back towards the track in front of me, trying to suppress my annoyance or else I'll do something rash that I'll end up regretting. Yet, how can I not be annoyed? My father knows I'm the best soccer player at our school, in our league, maybe even in the region-soccer scouts have been watching me since sophomore year, schools offer scholarships that I don't need to come play for them-exactly what my father expects of me and yet I'm still replaced by a benchwarmer.

"Did I tell you that you could stop?" His voice, suddenly loud in my ear causes me to lift my head and look up at him. I know he's trying to get me to actually stop so he can have a real excuse to punish me and so I refuse to stop. I know my pace has flagged, my chest is heaving with the effort, and I can fill fresh sweat plastering my blonde hair to my forehead but I'm still jogging. "You're barely even moving. I said I wanted you running laps and when I said running I meant running. Keep up, next time I want you running this pace."

With that he takes off, practically at a full out sprint, down the length of the track. I'll never be able to keep up with him even when I'm in top condition, I've tried before, and now with half a soccer game in addition to more laps than I would care to think about I don't even hold half a chance. When I finally reach him impatiently waiting for me at the end of the track he steps towards me so only I can hear him. "You can't even run for a little ways? My God, what kind of weak child did I raise?" Before he adds more loudly. "Go cool down, you're done for today."

I don't bother following his instructions, though I know my body will protest loudly later in the evening, and instead of cooling down I head around the bleachers, out of my father's sight, and drop on my back to the grass still damp from the morning's rain storm. I soon hear the sound of soft footsteps approaching me and a sigh as someone sits. "Consider yourself lucky for not having to play with Lewis. He's got the reflexes of a dead body." My best-friend, Alec, says in that soft voice of his.

"That terrible?"

"Yeah, that bad. If Izzy hadn't told me all about Edward Cullen and his dreamy super human abilities I would guess vampire, they're dead right? And dead people have terrible reflexes."

I just laugh and shake my head at this suggestion. "How the hell did county Lewis make it on our team?"

"I'm ze count and unless you vant me to suck you're blood you let me play on your team." Alex said, with a terrible Romanian accent, leaning over me and biting down on his own lip.

"You're an idiot." I push him off me, though he knows I don't mean it, my laughter gives me away. He simply shrugs and sits back, that's something I like about him he always knows when enough is enough, we can talk for hours but when there is nothing to say he never feels the air with pointless noise like so many others in our generation.

"Morgenstern." Apparently my father is still in coach-mode, or else he would have called me by my given name instead. I don't know how many times other people on my team have commented on how jealous they are, their parents often don't show up to games and I have my father for the assistant coach. But I know I would rather my father not show up to a single game all year than have him at practice everyday.

He's getting closer now, his calls sound louder, and I prop myself up on my elbows to look in the direction I had last seen him. "And thus he calls again." I stand up and offer a hand to Alec so I can pull him to his feet as well.

"Text me."

"Remember I lost my phone. I already told you this." It's not actually a lie, it's just a twist of the truth; I'm a terrible liar, somehow I just can't tell a flat out lie, but as long as it's a slightly distorted version of the truth no one doubts me. I didn't lose my phone, at least not in the sense Alec thought I did, I actually knew where it was-locked in the bottom drawer of my father's desk in his study, a punishment for texting during dinner-but since there was no way I could get to it I counted it as good as lost.

His dark blue eyes look disbelieving but he eventually says. "Well then make him get you a new one."

"Fat chance." Until my father deems me worthy of getting my old cell phone back I won't be touching another phone. "It's whatever. I'll see you Monday or something."

"Monday? Tomorrow's Saturday, we don't have a game; we could actually do something with our lives."

"Grounded." I reply simply and turn to leave and then elaborate so he doesn't wonder what I did know to upset my father. "Cause of my phone."

"Well that's a load of bull."

I shrug. Honestly I couldn't agree more but there was nothing I could do about it; last night I had tried arguing with my father about him taking my phone the only time I had ever texted at dinner, all this had done was infuriate him even more and I had to endure a lengthy lecture about respect and obedience in that eerily quiet tone my father used when he was aggravated at me, and that was just the beginning.

He's waiting for me now, arms crossed impatiently, and standing at the base of the bleachers. His dark eyes bore into me as if waiting for me to respond to Alec's comment, for me to say something that will give him an excuse to forbid me to talk to the other boy. So I just nod and leave him there without a farewell, silently following my father to the car.

My father could be the president of the My-car-cost-more-than-you-house-and-is-about-the-same-size club but even riding in the back seat feels to close to the man in this enclosed area. We live too far outside of town for it to be a quick, if painful, drive; our house is several miles outside of town and it takes nearly thirty minutes to get there from the school, but those thirty minutes always feel much longer. I don't even understand how he keeps us on the road because on days, like today-when he feels I haven't played soccer at an acceptable level, or gotten the best grade on a test, or whatever else I didn't standards in that day-he seems to look at the road because he's too occupied with glaring at me in the rearview mirror. Some days I glare back, on others I would rather just try and avoid the promise of the lecture to come and stare out the window or read a book the entire time.

Today is a window day and I watch the scenery fly pass, the distant mountains look as if there is a hint of snow on them and promise of winter that's quickly approaching, the houses that slowly become farther and farther apart as they grow increasingly larger, and finally the lake my father and I sail on that signifies we're approaching our property. My father slows as he drives down the gravel covered driveway and I know at any second he'll start ripping into me about practice today but instead all he says is. "I'm having some of my associates over for dinner today. I expect you to look presentable when they arrive. Or you can eat in the kitchen."

"Well then expect me to look my worst. I'll go check if I have a shirt that just screams filthy." I mutter, not turning away from the window I'm still staring at.

He heard me, even though I kept my voice low. "Then I guess you won't be eating at all."

I roll my eyes and I'm sure he sees it in the rearview mirror; a muscle in his cheek tightens at my action, a blatant show of disrespect in his eyes. But he can't do anything about it. What would his coworkers think if his "perfect son" came down to dinner with the mark of a heavy hand still poppy-red on his face?

We haven't even come to a complete stop in our garage before I'm out of the car and unlocking the door into the house. I glance wistfully at my car, smaller than my father's but still enough to turn heads at its sleek design and whispering engine, if only I was allowed to drive myself to and from school instead if riding home with my father each day after practice. My father insists I would never come home on time and on weekends I would use it to drive to parties and bars with my friends, trying to find a pretty girl and a cold glass of alcohol. Which in some ways would be what I would do, after all I learned from the best, someone I'm supposed to mirror in almost every way. I'm inside by the time my father has gotten out of the car and opened his mouth to scold me about getting out of the car when I did.

In my room I throw my soccer bag on my neat bed, the impact creating a dent and wrinkles ripple outwards over the dark blue surface like a pebble cast into the depths of a lake. Instinctively I move to straighten out the cloth, Alec would call me OCD for doing it, at my father's urging, and the work of a maid, my room has always been remarkably neat. Honestly I think if a stranger were to walk into this room they would never guess a seventeen year old boy lived in it, there is no mess on the floor, the books on the matching bookshelf and desk are neatly organized, the white walls are void of any decoration, my clothing is hidden out of sight-the one messy part of my room-in a chest of drawers, and the bed coverings, the only source of color, is as neat as pin. The only thing that would give me away is a soccer ball, partly hidden beneath by desk, and the soccer bag that now rests on my bed.

"Jonathan Christopher!" I hear his voice over the music softly playing on my iPod, Mozart's requiem mass in D minor. This music is far more powerful than anything anyone in my generation has produced, at least in my opinion; it makes you feel things, deep in your heart, that you never feel anywhere else. "Get down here. People will be getting here soon and I want to make sure you don't look like complete trash."

I slide my iPod into my pocket. "Just a second." I lean out of my bedroom door and respond before entering the bathroom connected to my bedroom. As I button the black, dress shirt I had retrieved from my closet I glance at my reflection, my hair needs a trim my father insists with its unruly curls and deep blonde it's much like a lion's mane. One I feel sure he will be satisfied with my appearance I pad down the stairs and silently prop myself against the wall just outside of the library, arms across my chest, and pose casual.

"Well don't you look monochromatic?" My father says as he inspects me, gesturing at my black top, pants, and dark leather shoes. "Don't you have a little color somewhere?"

I raise an eyebrow and slowly look down at what he's wearing, black from head to toe. "Doesn't this just give the pot calling the kettle black a whole new meaning?"

"Don't be a smartass." He responds, but I see the corners of his mouth twitch towards a smile. It's something he would have said if I had remarked on the lack of color in his wardrobe and he knows it.

"Mr. Morgenstern, a Mr. Hodge Starkweather is in the foyer for you." The maid's voice is timid as she announces the arrival of the first of my father's guests. Of course he would be the one to arrive first, he was my father's friend in college, and ever since my father got one of his big time lawyers to get him off of house arrest for adding a wanted criminal he's been aggravatingly loyal.

The way my father reclines, arm casually placed on the piano, is almost designed to draw attention to him as soon as anyone enters the room. "Show him in." He speaks to the maid as if she isn't even there, his eyes looking instead to the crackling fire in the fireplace. "Jonathan Christopher." He chides, it's like he knows what I'm doing without looking, and I guiltily place the brandy decanter back where it belongs.

"Valentine, it's been to long." The man enters the room with a bang as the heavy wooden door slams into the bookshelf behind it and I inwardly wince. He shakes my father's hand and then turns to me. "And, John, aren't you growing into a handsome young man? You look more and more like your father every time I see you." I shake his hand but as soon as his back is turned I roll my eyes.

He was my tutor for several years when I was younger, he should know I detest being called John or Jonathan or Jonathan Christopher. And that statement about looking like my father is a complete lie; whereas my father is tall and broad shouldered, I am several inches shorter and don't stand a chance at ever reaching his sturdy build; his hair is white blonde and never out of place, mine is a darker blonde and has a mind of its own; my own strangely colored eyes, very nearly a gold, hold nothing of the dark brown that he posses; why even our hands look nothing alike, his are large, solid looking hands-the hands people would like in a politician, the hands of a worker, my fingers are long slender-the hands of a musician, perfect for playing the piano.

Soon the room feels just as stuffy as the people filling it. If I could I would slip away to my room to catch a breath of air that didn't reek of expensive perfume and cologne but I've been trapped by a heavyset woman who is clutching a glass of brandy as if it was just announced that prohibition had returned to the states. "So, Jonathan, how is school going for you? You're in what eighth, ninth grade now?"

"Actually I'm a senior this year." I would haven't been so nice about correcting the idiotic mistake if I hadn't felt my father's gaze on me. "It's going fairly well. I'm the captain of the soccer team again this year and I'm taking several honors classes as well."

"Well isn't that nice?" She has that expression adults get when they're pretending to listen to you but their thoughts are actually a million miles away.

"I'm also cheating on my girlfriend with a number of boys from school and to keep things exciting I spend an ungodly amount of my father's money on prostitutes."

She doesn't even bat an eyelash, proving me correct in thinking she wasn't listening to me. "I'm sure you father is quite proud of you."

I barely manage to suppress a snicker at this, "My father is my example. He taught me everything he knows about it."

This she seems to hear, "Do you know what my father taught me?" And she begins to regress into telling me all about her relationship with her father, a story that could be a more effective form of torture than water-boarding. Luckily I'm saved by the announcement that dinner was ready and we were to move into the dinning room, I manage to slip into a seat relatively far away from the woman so I don't have to continue listening to the story.

I am the picture of what is expected of a teen at their parent's boring business dinner, slouched in my chair, twirling the salad fork between my fingers, and elbow propped on the teen-a horrible infraction any etiquette course. It's nice not to have to try talk to anyone around me as they chat about their own interests and instead I can listen to their inane conversations as I eat the food in front of me, really these people talk about things that really doesn't matter to anyone else on the planet.

This doesn't last long before I hear my father say, "Did you know that my son is ranked the second soccer player for his age in the state?" Of course I'm the only who knows that he doesn't mean it as the complement it seems; I know what he really means is "Did you know that my son isn't good enough to be the top soccer player in the state?"

"Oh, really?" The man to my right, an old associate of my father, whose dark eyes have always made slightly uncomfortable, asks and I shrug noncommittally

"That's what they're saying. But they have it wrong." I give him a slow smile. "I'm the best in the state; they're just too hung up on some show off whose going to end up playing for a year in college and then disappearing."

The people around me chuckle at this comment; adults always seem to find the most stupid things entertaining.

"And your father is your coach again this year, right?" A man sitting at the far end of the table asks. When I nod he continues. "You must consider yourself very lucky."

Yeah, as lucky as someone who just got a sharpened pencil shoved through their throat. I doubt replying with this would go over very well so instead I shrug. "Yeah, it's pretty cool."

"When is you're next game? Maybe I'll be able to come see it."

"Sat-"

"Next Saturday." My father interrupts me and it's like I've been pushed into the background again. "We're playing Pravus High next week."

"Do me a favor and send those demons back where they belong." A man, Rochester, sitting near my father says, his tone light. But I know he's serious about getting rid of them, as is everyone else here. Seems as if you want to be an executive in Circle Medicine, my father;s company, that have to detest anything having to do with immigrants and their offspring.

"I've been considering running for a seat in the senate." My father says. I haven't heard anything of this idea yet, but he doesn't always inform me of every aspect of his life—which I'm glad for. "Base my campaign around tightening the borders and removing those…creatures, by any means necessary. Make sure our country retains it's pure blood, only those who belong should be allowed here."

Strange since my father has no qualms for paying these people he hates an inordinately low amount to ensure our bathrooms stayed pristine and everything else he feels as if he's too good to do.

Actually, I imagine sitting in on a dinner with Adolph Hitler must have sounded like, talking about superiority of certain races and destroying all less favorable. Thank God my father never met the man; the two of them would have gone haywire decimating groups of people together.

An: This is actually the intro to the first part but I decided it was going to be entirely too long to manage soon so I snipped it in half, which is why it isn't particularly exciting. All of that comes next one (hopefully up within the next week.). So look forward to seeing some of your favorite characters Maia, Raphael, and Maryse. Jace fighting a "demon". Disciplinary action by Valentine. And fear of the cellar at Morgenstern Manor.

If anyone can find all of the references to people/events/ideas in the Mortal Instruments I'll insert a small (really small) character that you create into the story. :D

Anyways please drop a review, it motivates me to get the good parts to you.