Staring out the window of the plane, sixteen-year-old Ali Carstairs sighed. She didn't want to be in New York. She wanted to be back in London, back at her Institute, not some Institute run by people she'd never even met. But no. Now that her parents were dead and the London Institute burned to the ground, the Enclave had sent her away to New York. She had begged them to let her stay with one of them, or even in an Institute somewhere else in Europe, where she knew people. She'd even cut her normally long, silvery blond hair in protest. It had been no use. They'd sent her away, with only a stele to her name. Ali hadn't cried. A good Shadowhunter didn't cry. Instead, she merely watched, stony-faced, as she was driven away from the ruins of her home.
She knew the Lightwoods had been in Idris for the battle against Valentine, but she hadn't bothered herself with trying to meet them. She'd been too preoccupied with trying to survive. The binding rune the Clarissa girl had drawn on her hand had left faint lines, and now she stared down at them with curiosity. Whoever she was, Ali thought, she was certainly very talented. The plane gave a little bump, and she realized she'd missed the call to put on her seatbelt. She gripped the back of the seat behind her tightly, bumping around as the plane touched ground. Grabbing her messenger bag that had a few necessities that were saved from the fire, she stepped off the plane and into the airport.
Glancing around once, Ali didn't see any signs with her name. Of course there wouldn't be any signs. This wasn't the movies, and she wasn't a mundane who didn't know how to go anywhere without a map. She would find the Institute herself. Spinning on her heel, she began marching outside to hail a taxi, when she ran straight into a boy. Huffing, she took a step back and looked into the eyes of one of the most beautiful boys she'd ever seen.
Golden blond hair brushed his eyebrows, which rose as he looked Ali over. She could see the faint scars on his arms, his muscles showing quite attractively through a black t-shirt and jeans. His eyes were tawny, and he looked thoroughly amused at her appearance. Putting a hand in his pocket, he arched an eyebrow at her.
"You're Aline Carstairs?" He sounded as though he didn't believe it. Ali gritted her teeth, her left hand curling into a fist.
"Yes," she said stoically, her gaze hard as she looked at the boy with her cool gray eyes, "and who are you?"
"Jace. Jace Lightwood," he smirked a bit, "Maryse thought it'd be helpful if I showed you to the Institute." Maybe Americans weren't all bad, thought Aline. She forced herself to be polite.
"Thank you. I appreciate it." Her grip tightened on her bag. Jace stood there for a moment, looking at her, then cleared his throat.
"You certainly don't sound like it. Tell me, are all English people this unwillingly to accept help?" He leaned on a column, his hands in his pockets, looking at Ali with amused curiosity.
"Are all Americans this annoying?" She snapped, pushing past him and walking by. He'd picked the wrong time to mess with her. She could already hear her mother's French accent chiding her about being so rude, but she couldn't help it. She just wanted to lay down and cry, but she wouldn't let him see her do it. Not this stranger. Ali heard Jace jog up behind her, but he obviously got the sense she was done talking to her, and led her to the Institute without another word.