Sister?
It was still beyond difficult to grasp. The word resonated in his mind with an ugly and wrong echo, as if he was imagining it, as if it couldn't be true. He had lived for all his life an only child – he knew he had no sister – to accept it would mean to accept that he, Jace Wayland, had been taken in, had been duped by his own father.
He had to accept it all, against his wishes, because he had recognized his father at Renwick's. He had been forced into the realization that his life – everything he had believed in, everything he had held as an absolute truth – was a sham, was a lie. He wasn't even who he thought he was – Jace Wayland became Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern, and he became Valentine's son.
What was worse – he couldn't bring himself to despise the man with all of his heart.
Every time he would try, the memories he had forbidden himself to remember came flooding back, and he would become the little boy he had never really let go, and his father's angular but gentle face would smile down at him – and he would shiver and curl up tighter on himself, as if he could erase the false love Valentine had offered him.
It was utterly wrong. Jace Wayland never showed fear.
Everything had changed. He had once thought himself invincible, but he now knew his reality. He had once thought himself indifferent to love or anything like it, and now knew better.
Clary.
His heart sped at the simple thought of her, and her small fragility, and the clear porcelain of her skin against the vibrant fire-red of her hair. She was easy to read yet hard to understand – everything about her drew him in. Her uniqueness was something he'd never seen before – in all the girls he'd been with, there'd been categories; those who knew they were beautiful and used it to seduce every man they'd meet into bed, those who thought they were beautiful and foisted their ego on everybody else, those who were so pathetic that it took only a few sweet words to set them off, and those who simply wanted a good time.
Clary had never fit into any of those categories.
She was special. She was shy at first, but then became outspoken – was never afraid of him, never under his spell despite the numerous times he had tried to entice her, charm her – she was brave in the kindest and gentlest of ways – she was always prepared to sacrifice herself for the ones she loved, though he saw through her and felt the fear she did – she was Nephilim without having to surrender the compassion that came with being a mundane – she was the only one to have made him feel the soul-shattering, deep-running love his father had warned him against. She was undoubtedly something he had never seen before.
She was Clarissa Fray, and she was his sister.
His heart shattered, and he pressed his forehead harder against his knees, letting out a low moan.
How was he meant to live as only her brother when he needed her more than he had ever needed anything else? How was he supposed to keep himself to no more than friendly embraces and petty affections when she was the first person to have meant anything to him besides the Lightwoods – his family, beyond any other doubt?
She was nothing like him, though they were supposedly of the closest relation. It was as if she was light as air, free and everywhere, and he was a gas, poisonous and irritating – when they were made to react together, they combusted. He was addicted to the explosion – captivated by the feeling of her lips moving with his. She fit into him like they had been made for each other.
Or made from the same genetic material?
He had never felt a greater urge to rip out the DNA that defined him than he had at that moment, not even when he had first discovered that Valentine Morgenstern was his father. He didn't want to be bonded to Clary – he wanted her to be his, he wanted her to care for him as he did for her – this was love, he knew it, because it destroyed him, just like his father always said it would.
He loved her. And it drove him crazy not knowing whether she felt the same way about him. Of course, her mundane made things more difficult, pointlessly. He could never be sure whether she wouldn't simply give in to the mundie out of the kindness of her heart – she never wanted to disappoint anyone. He would never admit it, but he envied the human for the attention Clary paid him.
No. This was wrong. Jace Wayland never lowered himself to the level of a mundane.
If he didn't know who he was anymore, though, how on earth was he to tell what was right and what was wrong?
This was Valentine's fault. He tried again to hate him, and managed a small sliver of it this time. For changing me, for making me have to wonder who I am, he thought, and the sliver was strengthened. He uncurled himself slightly, and looked out at the white walls of his room. For making the Clave unstable, for besmirching the name of Shadowhunters. He sat upwards, and his hands balled into fists – his golden eyes heated with his anger. For Clary.
He slumped for a moment, and his heart stuttered in its normally regular rhythm. Clary.
His resolve broke again, but he stood despite it, his legs less steady than usual. He would show his father for abandoning him – he would show the rest of them for looking at him as if he was suddenly going to explode.
He was Nephilim, and he could do whatever he damn well wanted.