A/N: I do not own the Mortal Instruments. That privilege goes to Cassandra Clare. I'd like to point out that I haven't seen the movie and am not writing this fic because of it. This is based solely on the books. This is my first fanfic and the events in the Mortal Instruments begin during late December, not August. It's for a good reason, trust me and the season shift won't have a huge impact on the timeline. This story will be three parts in one with each book being combined into its corresponding part. Any reviews constructive or otherwise are welcome and very much appreciated. Try the first few chapters. The writing gets better, I promise. All things said I hope you enjoy!

PART ONE: TREMBLING FLAME

"The mind covers the truth as the light covers the shadows."

The dream was always the same. Vicious and jagged, the memory it heralded always lingered around the edges of her mind. With vivid recollection, terrifying images bombarded her. A chilling grin, a clawed hand coated in scarlet blood, sadistic fiendish eyes that regarded her in contempt. These mental pictures would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Whitley bolted up, heart hammering as another nightmare came and went. Sweat clung to her brow and she tossed the suffocating thick cover off before laying back down in an attempt to slow her panicked breathing. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table a minute later and got back up. Going to stand by her window, she proceeded to stare through the ice-frosted pane. Looking outside in the morning was something of a pattern she'd formed in recent weeks. Fretting with the cool silver beads of the onyx pendant she wore, she reached out and drew shapes idly on the glass. A winter wonderland gleamed at her as she stood there a moment, eager to rid her mind of the dark memory plaguing her.

Wandering back over to the bed, she sat on its rumpled blue comforter. An idea came to muddled mind and she straightened reflexively. Playing an instrument could help her drive out the dreary, tempestuous sensations her dreams caused. Her hands slipped beneath the bed frame and found the case holding her violin. She opened it, taking in the burnished surface before placing the stringed instrument on her shoulder and fitting her chin on its guard. She held the bow as she sifted through the small music collection in her head and settled on an allegretto piece.

Once the calming lilt surmounted and a semblance of tranquility replaced her anxiety, her eyes caught sight of her clock again. Upon seeing the time, she recalled that she had an appointment to keep. Putting the instrument away, she grabbed her toiletries and walked into her bathroom. As water poured down her sides, her fingers found their way to the scars rooted in her right forearm. Upon seeing the stark contrast against her olive skin, tears came unbidden to her eyes. Her heart wrenched with grief but she steeled herself against the accompanying tide of wretchedness. Opening that wound wouldn't help her. Absently, she brought her hand farther down to her wrist; before remembering the silver band she'd grown accustomed to wearing wasn't there any longer.

As she reached up to wipe a rogue tear away, her eyes caught sight of the mark on the back of her hand. An outlandish symbol that bore the resemblance of an eye—a new oddity in her life. Whitley noticed it some weeks ago and couldn't help but wonder how she hadn't before. Normally she would have tried to puzzle out how the mark had made its way to her hand, but she was too weary to do such a thing.

She choose to dismiss it and all further thoughts. Soon they faded into nothingness as the droplets of water pacified her, taking her mind of things. She dried off and headed back to her room, dressing herself in attire suitable for the cold weather outside. She entered the kitchen and fixed a bowl of cereal, settling down on one of the stools at the kitchen counter; silence and the occasional clink of metal against porcelain her only companions as she ate.

Out of habit her eyes flicked towards her father's study, hoping that he'd make an appearance. She then sighed in disappointment, knowing this occurrence was unlikely. Wet footprints created a path to his door—a sign she'd just missed him. Mere glimpses were the only sort of "interaction" she had with him nowadays and she could only guess where he would go in the middle of the night. Only one thing was clear to her: there was no opening that door once it was closed. Ignoring the tightening sensation in her throat, she scooped up the last contents of her breakfast and headed out the door, dreading what was to come.

An hour later Whitley stood outside the building to her psychiatrist's office. The seventeen year old shuffled her feet nervously on one of the small patches of ice that coated the sidewalks as taxis flew past her on the recently plowed streets. Their tires sped through the blackened snow sludge, sending unruly strands of dark hair into her eyes. Shoppers milled about around her as they got last-minute errands done, hands laden with wrapped gifts and bags. Everything from the Christmas displays in the shop windows, the music playing from their stores and the chatter of everyone talking about their purchases went unnoticed by Whitley. Her breath rose in visible puffs on the chilly, late morning air as she stared at the revolving glass doors, asking herself why she kept coming here.

Shivering from something other than the cold, images of strange creatures assailed her, abnormal beings that no one else could see. Worried about her sanity, she'd convinced herself to make an appointment. Shaking her head to dislodge thoughts of discomfort, she strode through the doors determinedly, heading straight for the elevator in the lobby. She crammed herself gently between some disgruntled workers and pressed her floor number. Getting off at the telltale chime and walking towards where she knew the office to be, she was taken in by the soothing atmosphere the soft palettes and tidiness of the waiting area created. She approached the receptionist manning the phones and a small, strange chill reverberated through her body suddenly despite the warmth of the room as she waited for the woman to acknowledge her. A manicured finger motioned for her to wait and placed the phone back on the hook.

"Name?" she asked curtly, opening the appointment book on her computer.

"Whitley." The woman sent her pointed look. "Reiner." she elaborated, frowning inwardly at the woman's rude behavior. It wasn't like she hadn't seen her before.

"He's with another client. Sit over there." The woman gestured to the row of black vinyl chairs sitting against the beige walls. Whitley sat down and picked up a magazine from the square glass table in front of her to quell the urge to peek at her surroundings. Giggles reached her ears as she flipped through the thin pages and she examined the only other waiting patient. A portly man staring ahead blankly and rocking back and forth slowly, the fluorescent lighting flaring off his balding head. She could discern his muttering from where she was sitting a few seats down.

"They're real. They say they aren't but I know they exist. I hear the laughter in my head, see the dark of their eyes."

Laughter rang out again and this time Whitley noticed the tiny, pixie-like creatures floating around him. They pulled and prodded at him, fluttering iridescent wings gleaming in the light. Sharp teeth flashed menacingly and black eyes glinted mischievously as they tittered. The man waved his hands to swat them away but it proved to be useless as the aberrant creatures recommenced their pestering with zest. He gave up and buried his face in his hands, soft sobs piercing the air as they tugged at his clothes and terror seized her.

Was that her future?

No, she thought insistently; she was here to make sure it wasn't. She blinked harshly in hopes that it would dispel the horrible image but it didn't work—it never did. The sound of a door opening disrupted her thoughts of inner turmoil and she turned to see a woman emerge from the office door next to her and shuddered internally as haunted eyes met hers. Whitley was relieved when the woman's gaze went elsewhere.

"Mrs. Reiner." A familiar voice greeted her, tone deliberately relaxing. Her psychiatrist, Dr. Hardeman, stood in the doorway, smiling at her warmly. He swept his arm in the direction of the door. "Right on time as always."

Whitley entered his office, wondering how someone in his job profession could have such a cheerful countenance. Perspective, she supposed. Whatever the cause, it certainly helped and the tight grip on her heart lessened significantly. Perhaps that had been his intention.

Upon entering she saw that his working space was in its usual messy state. Or as he preferred to call it, "organized chaos." She sat on an old sofa, thankful the clichéd chaise lounge wasn't present. Venturing behind his escritoire, he took out his file on her and planted himself in his office chair. Scooting back around the desk, he then stopped in front of her, attentive eyes meeting hers.

Used to this routine, Whitley touched her pendant and closed her eyes, combating the urge to flee the onslaught of questioning she knew was about to come. He gave her a moment as she breathed deeply in an effort to calm herself and disregard the nervousness within her. Confiding in a stranger wasn't an easy task for her to undertake, but sadly it was necessary one. Yet with this being her first real session, it wasn't going to be as simple as she wanted it to be. He hadn't been able to delve into her reason for being there the last time since they had to get certain questions out of the way and see if they were comfortable with each other as protocol demanded. It hadn't taken long for Whitley to be at ease around him, as he'd already proved himself to be well intentioned. His going rate was thrice the amount of money she accumulated in a month. With her saving for college she didn't dare take too much from her funds. He'd been nice enough to lower it for her after hearing her situation.

He's trying to help you.

"Ready?" he asked.

She exhaled and opened them."Ready."

"The dreams…" he began. "Have they gotten any better?" He took note of the faint circles under her eyes.

"No."

"Worse?"

"No, it's the same every time. Never changing."

"Your mother's murder."

"Yes."

"Why do you think that is?"

"I…" She wriggled in her seat in discomfort as she voiced her thoughts. "I can't help but think I should've died with her."

"And why is that?" He knew they walked a thin line. That particular thought process was very dangerous.

"I think I'm being punished for surviving."

Whitley lifted her sleeve a little as she spoke, thumb reaching out to caress her scars, knowing that the conclusion she had reached was absurd, but what other explanation could there possibly be? According to the nurse of the hospital she'd woken up in, she shouldn't have been able to survive the attack; apparently poison had been passing through her bloodstream far too quickly. Despite the tireless work of the doctors, they hadn't expected her to make it past the night. When she did they'd called her a medical miracle. Her deduction was definitely better than the alternative: the fact that she might be going crazy wasn't a comforting one.

"Punished?" He echoed surprised. "Why do you think that?"

Whitley grew hesitant. For some reason she felt as if she shouldn't tell him. Maybe she didn't want him to send her to insane asylum to spend the rest of her life in a straight jacket with nothing but the padded walls of her room to keep her company. Editing the experiences were an option, but she doubted she would get the help she needed if she did.

"I'm seeing things," she finally whispered, watching as he straightened in his chair.

"What kind of things?"

"I don't know…" she murmured uncertainly, struggling to describe the what she'd witnessed. She decided to depict the ones from the waiting area. "Pixies… fairies, I think. They have wings." Her brows furrowed in fright as she continued, "No one else can see them—at least I don't think they can." Her thoughts went immediately to that poor man in the lobby; was he seeing the exact same things she was?

"You say this began the night of her murder? It's possible you may be retreating into a fantasy world to cope with your trauma. Or it could simply be sleep deprivation. Hmm." He pressed his pen to his mouth in thought and looked at her uncertainly. "I need to know if you're at risk for PTSD… but it would help knowing what could have started all this. Do you think you'll be able tell me what happened that night?"

Again, indecision swept through her. Going back through the events of that night—that week really—wouldn't be easy. Certain parts of it were still a mystery to her: the strange mark that had appeared on her hand overnight and the beast that had killed her mother. It couldn't have possibly been real… could it? No, he'd been human only seconds before. She must have imagined the creature in her in distress. The police had chalked it up as some strange mugging gone wrong and Whitley would do the same.

"No. I don't think I can," she replied. Attempting to steady her now erratic pulse.

"Okay, understandable. Are you up for some other questions?" he asked writing something down on his pad, wanting to divert her from her stricken state. At her nod he continued, "Have you had a period of a week or more during your life when you have felt unusually good or high? Was this clearly different from your usual mood, so much so that your relatives and friends noticed the change?"

And so began another litany of inquires that deterred Whitley from thoughts of distress. For now, at least.

It was one o'clock on the dot when she returned to the townhouse. She was immersed in a feeling of security as she closed the door, a somewhat contented sigh leaving her as heat entered her cold limbs. She slipped off her coat and tugged off her boots, rolling her neck to ease the tension in it that had resulted from refusing to look at anything but her feet as she traveled back home. Another small sigh left her as she righted herself and headed to her room, trying to think of whatever she could to avoid the impulse to sleep. Her eyes flitted a path from the fantasy movie posters pinned on her dark teal walls to the bookcases pushed against them, filled to the brim with dozens of worn out novels. Whitley placed her coat and boots by the door and walked over to it. She ran the pads of her fingers over their thick spines, remembering staying up late night after night, always telling herself that the page she was currently reading would be her last, only to read 50 more as dawn would start to trickle through her window.

Sadly, her love for reading had waned in recent weeks, so that was one hobby she could no longer freely partake in. She sat at her desk and pulled the economics textbook out of her book bag. Maybe studying would diminish the longing to close her eyes. Whitley opened a zipper on the front of her bag and took out her music player, remembering the argument she had with her mother when she'd asked for a cellphone before acquiescing to the suggested compromise. She put in the ear buds and opened her school book, pushing memories of her mother out of her mind, eyes scanning the pages of the lesson plan one of her teachers had emailed her. She'd almost come to the end of it but her drowsiness could no longer be ignored. The black text blurred and sleep overtook her.

She awoke to a startlingly loud song blasting through her ears and shot up, snatching her earphones out, mind struggling to escape a groggy post nightmare haze. She didn't bother to assess the recent and frankly disconcerting dream currently coursing through her mind as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Groaning at the insistent pounding that had commenced in her head,s he opened the top drawer of her dresser and reached for the aspirin she kept close at hand. Swallowing the pills dry and she grimaced at the taste, trudging to the fridge for something to wash out the bitter aftertaste. She grabbed a juice bottle and took a sip, eyes habitually traveling to the adjoining living room.

Signs of her mother's work as an astronomer and her love for stars could be seen here and there. From the numerous photos of constellations, and star charts hanging from violet walls, to the glass case filled with old bronze astronomy equipment.

The same could be said for her father. Mathias' book collection laid inside the cabinet next to the fireplace, his first published novel proudly showcased in front of it. A beep sounded through the quiet apartment, halting her observation and Whitley noticed the blinking red numbers of the answering machine on the counter. Figuring it was most likely yet another person offering their condolences, she pressed play

"Whitley, it's Perrin. I just want to say again how sorry I am for your loss. I know that I'm about to ask a lot considering," the voice paused, "recent events, but do you think you can come in today? I'm understaffed, and we're in the weeds. Call me if you're interested." The message ended with a succinct click and indecision took hold of her. She wanted to say yes, but fear of the unknown gnawed at her. What mythical creature would she see this time? Ghosts? Vampires? Werewolves? Could she handle going somewhere other than the psychiatrist's office? Or trust herself to differentiate fantasy from reality?

With a quick glance at the clock revealing it to be four, Whitley came to a decision and headed out. Pointedly ignoring any concerns lingering in the back of her mind, she focused solely on forgetting her troubles for a while.

Java Jones was, as the name implied, a café. When she'd moved here a year and a half ago and began her search of a job in order to start saving up, Whitley had found one here in time for her junior year. She recalled the overwhelming training; weeks of having numbers and "repeatable routines" drilled into her head. One of the first things she'd learned the hard way is that baristas had to be fast. With things like shots of espresso only staying good for ten seconds, she had to be quick in mixing them with some sort of liquid before those seconds were up, or her shots would "die." It had been ages before what she thought she'd never remember became second nature to her.

Upon entering, Whitley wasn't surprised to see how crowded it was; people always needed their caffeine. She bit her lip nervously as she looked at the line of them that almost went out the door. The holiday season was always especially grueling—doubly so if you ran out supplies—but what concerned her the most were the patrons; she knew all too well how rude customers could be. They were always do things like ignore you when you say "Hello," talk on the phone as you get their order, blame you for things you have no control over, and ask for drinks that are incredibly complicated. The shifts she spent cooking back in the kitchen had been a valuable reprieve. All possibilities considered, it was safe to say working here would do well in distracting her. She optimistic in her hope that focusing on menial tasks would be enough dissuade the hallucination for the time being.

Though it had only been a scant few weeks since she'd set foot inside, Whitley took a moment to look around. The smell of coffee was strong like one would expect, but undertones of hot chocolate wafted to her nose, a sign the concoction was being served as well. Curtains that were usually closed to give off a warm atmosphere were open, letting the lights of the city cast a bright glow on the interior. Waiters were gliding between the booths and tables pressed against the wooden paneled walls on their respective sides, hot dishes balanced carefully on their hands and arms. Monet prints and contemporary artwork sat high on the walls above, creating something beautiful in their dissimilarity. Farther back she could see the stage and the threadbare couches and armchairs that surrounded it. Tonight was poetry night; the lights were on and set low, a sign that someone would be performing later.

As Whitley wondered who, she spotted a familiar head of grey hair through the thick mass of customers. She walked behind the glass-fronted counter, taking an apron off the hook closest to her and joined Perrin and the other barista, who both sent tense smiles her way in thanks as they tried to placate impatient customers. After a while the patrons dispersed, either going back outside or settling down to relax in idle chit chat and use the free Wi-Fi that Perrin offered during the holidays. When Whitley had asked why he'd do such a thing he said something about it being good for business. It did the trick—the café was packed for a Monday afternoon. A bemused expression formed her face when she noticed one of the patrons had actually brought their entire desktop.

Perrin approached her after serving the last customer in line. "Thanks for coming in Whitley."

"No problem Perrin." The man was like a grandfather to her—of course she wouldn't say no. And staying inside for so long undoubtedly wouldn't help her mental state; if anything it made it worse.

"So… how are you?" he asked hesitantly eyes looking over her worriedly.

She wanted to say she was fine, she needed to be fine. "I'm dealing."

The older man nodded in understanding and reached out to squeeze her shoulder. "I'm here if you want to talk."

He returned to work and Whitley leaned back against the counter for moment, taking in the familiar sounds and smells of the café. She checked in with the other barista, Garret, and headed towards the back of the house to change out of her street clothes. The saccharine scent of freshly baked pastries and cream cakes drifted to her nose as she passed the kitchen. She reached her employee locker and retrieved the name tag and uniform she kept there, changing into them before walking back to the front of the café. A small smile curled her lips as she noticed her friends had arrived, occupying their normal area in the back.

The first one she noticed was Luca, the shock of dark turquoise hair enhancing her pale skin and light green eyes, appearing every bit the part of an ice queen; only a select few knew how kind she was. Like Zack, her boyfriend since seventh grade, with his brown hair and eyes who looked smitten as he stared at the girl in his lap. Quentin, Luca's twin brother looked stoned, bleary green eyes staring happily at nothing, not even caring that sister was intentionally messing up his perfectly styled blond hair. Last but not least was Cipriana, who was perched on the arm of the couch, reading the manga in her lap, hand reaching up to touch the violet forehead protector wrapped around her light brown curls. Whitley's smile grew a bit bigger when the girls eyes flickered every so often towards Quentin. On instinct she started towards them, before glancing at the counter, remembering that she was in fact still working, Perrin who had noticed her predicament simply inclined his head, stating she had ten minutes. She acknowledged gratefully and rushed towards them, content with how ordinary her life seemed at that moment.

Around nine, the regular crowd shuffled out, replaced with a teenagers enjoying the newfound freedom of their winter break. Adults that had swarmed the dining area earlier went elsewhere as soon as the teens had started to appear, the servers along with them. Chairs were stacked on their tables signaling that the café would be closing as soon as poetry night was over. Whitley's stomach churned as her gaze darted outside, eyes scanning the darkness that lurked there. She raised a hand, stroking her pendant to calm herself, pushing down the uneasiness inside her. She worried her lip as she continued her task, twisting one of the knobs on the espresso machine to use the steam wand on some milk. She poured it into the mug clutched tightly in her hand, mixing it with the thick chocolate already inside. She put a dollop of whipped cream on top and stuck a candy cane in it, turning to the waiting female customer.

"Happy Holidays."

Whitley handed her the mug, hoping her hand didn't shake as she did so. The girl took it and headed towards one the free seats near the stage as Whitley's eyes wandered outside once more. Perhaps Perrin would let her go home early? A sudden drumming sound had her flinching and her eyes snapped to the stage where Eric and Matt were "performing". The two of them were really into it. At least Eric was, Matt, much like Quentin, looked stoned —they'd definitely been hanging out together—as he beat irregularly on his djembe. Eric had yet to actually start reciting his poem. All he was doing was swaying back and forth but that was probably for the best. To her right the café door opened and Whitley recognized the bespectacled form of Simon and his friend Clary. They were debating whether or not to stay, a wise decision in itself. The duo must have agreed to because Simon made his way towards her as Clary begrudgingly walked to a couch in the back.

"Hi Simon," she said greeting the younger boy.

"Hi Whitley. Two black coffees."

She took the last two preheated mugs from atop one of the nearby coffee machines, filling them with the caffeinated beverage before turning back to the cash register and punching his order in.

"That'll be 2.65."

He gave he said amount and thanked her, heading over to where Clary was. Whitley deposited the cash in her register and looked at the deserted area in front of her. She didn't think any more customers would be appearing for a while and she was alone since Garret had gone out back for his break. She shifted her feet as the familiar ache of standing on them for 5 hours straight began to flare up and walked over to the sink to wash off the syrup stuck to her hands. She looked at the door again when the bell overhead it jingled softly and a blond boy her age stepped through.

Normally, she wouldn't have paid much attention to him—it wasn't like attractive guys were rare—but something about him struck her as strange. He wasn't bundled up like the other teens, only a single layer of unusual dark clothes adorning his lithe frame. His forearms were bare, covered in faint white lines. They appeared to be scars and her stomach lurched again as she imagined the turbulent things he'd done to get them. He stopped in front of the doorway, bright eyes assessing the back of the crowded room. A smirk came to his face as he apparently found what he was looking for.

When she processed that his eyes were gold she blinked and angled her head, believing them to be a trick of the light but they were inact gold. She dismissed them as contacts as he finally moved forward before he stopped suddenly. His startled gaze snapped to hers and she instantly looked away.

Mortification flooded through her as she realized how long she'd been staring at him. The last thing she needed right now was to look like some sort of ditzy girl fawning over him. He looked like the type of guy who would be used to that kind of blatant gawking if that cocky smile of his was any indication. She glanced at him again when she noticed that he was still staring at her. He'd gotten over his surprise, fair brows now furrowed in scrutinization as his eyes zeroed in on the mark on the back of her right hand and ran over the rest her form, most focused on her sleeve-covered arms. He appeared to be searching for something. Their eyes met again and he seemed to be waiting for her to make the first move; for some peculiar reason so she did just that. Whitley discharged her cash drawer, intent on going in back to balance it, her eyes meeting his as she left.

She stopped midway when the smell of clove cigarettes assaulted her nose and set down the till, walking towards the alleyway on the side of the building. Ignoring the rapid thump of her heart, she opened the cracked door further and cautiously poked her head out. She knew how dangerous dark areas were. The light above gave her extra illumination to see, easing her worry somewhat as her eyes scoured the area and came upon Garret leaning against the graffitied wall across from her, the orange blaze that emitted from his cigarette casting a glow on his face. Thick, sweet smoke billowed towards her and she coughed, waving it away.

"Those things will kill you." She picked up a brick and used it to prop the door open, wiping its muck on her jeans.

"I know."

The boy shrugged, not caring. But Whitley did. Garret was a sweet kid and a good co-worker at the impressionable age of fifteen; she didn't want him going doing the wrong thing-not to mention she knew what would happen as a result. Those graphic videos she had to watch in countless health classes were seared into her memory forever.

"Can I get a drag?"

Surprised, he extended the cigarette towards her cautiously and she took it, nearly bringing the roll up to her lips before throwing it to the damp asphalt beneath them, stomping it out with her tennis shoe.

"If you want to smoke wait until you're old enough," she said over his exclaim of indignation. He shoved past her inside and Whitley's quick hands snatched the cigarette pack from the visible bulge of his back pocket. She stared at it, wondering where a boy his age had gotten them, a shiver passing through her and her eyes swept across the shadowed crevice again. Ever since her mother's death a strange presence had entered her life. It felt as if someone was watching her from a distance, with a gaze like ice on her skin. A dark shape shifted out of the corner of her eye and her heart leapt in fear, a thousand possibilities swimming through her mind, each one of them worse than the last. She let out an audible sound of relief as a meow echoed throughout the dark pathway and stray cat bounded past her and out of sight. She realized her relief was premature as she looked down at the gloom that rapidly surrounding her. Panicked, she threw the pack into the dumpster and dashed back to the café, slamming the door shut behind her.

A loud screech sounded in the distance and she cringed at the sudden sound, nearly sending her heart into overdrive.

"Sorry about that, guys!" Eric yelled. "All right. I'm Eric and this is my homeboy Matt on the drums. My first poem is called 'Untitled.'"

Whitley pressed a hand to her forehead in agitation at how paranoid she was acting and picked up her cash drawer. The sooner she got home the better she would feel. She walked briskly into an empty room and closed the door when Eric began to wail about his nefarious loins and started counting; her math skills enabling her to finish the task quickly. She put the money, receipts and cash drawer check out sheet in an envelope and gave it to Perrin, doing her best to explain why she needed to leave. After saying that he understood she went back towards the locker room and changed out of her uniform. She walked to the front of the cafe, saying goodbye to her friends where they sat near the stage, the four of them nearly keeling over in laughter. Cipriana joined her and Whitley felt comforted by her company as they headed outside. Voices to her left had her looking over to see Clary and the blond boy from earlier talking. She turned away, not thinking much of it and went over to the curb, raising a gloved hand to hail a cab.

Just as one slowed down to pick them up Cipriana took hold of her sleeve and whispered to her. "That girl's talking to herself."

Whitley followed her line of vision to where Clary was. "She's not talking to herself there's some guy with her," she told Cipriana hesitantly, sincerely hoping the girl just needed to get her eyes checked. It hadn't occurred to her that no one else could see him.

"He's right there." She pointed towards him with a slight tremor in her voice. Was he one of those creatures she kept seeing these past few weeks? The beings haunting her dreams?

Cipriana's gaze flew towards where Whitley pointed before it landed back on her. "Unless he's dark and his name is Shadow..." Concern began to show plainly on her face. "Are you okay Whit?"

The girl barely heard her over the sound of her heart beating in ears. Clary was talking to him; that made him real didn't it? Then why couldn't Cipriana see him? A consoling hand on her on her back yanked her from the confused thoughts and her eyes met Cipriana's worried ones and Whitley realized how badly she was shaking.

Finally she spoke, "No... I don't think I am."

In reply, Cipriana guided her into the waiting taxi and tried to comfort the trembling girl as they drove off into the night. Was this truly the beginning of her descent into madness?