This is my first fanfiction on this account so go easy on me, please, but criticism and suggestions on the plot or anything really are very much appreciated. This story will probably be in third person, but I will be focusing on a certain character anyway.
Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns everything.
Clary's Pov
When Clary woke up, there were two men in her house.
The light thrumming of footsteps could be heard through the paper thin floor under Clary's feet as she crouched down by her tangled bed. Her bare feet stood frozen on the hardwood as she strained to get a better profile on the intruders.
She crawled over to the door, grabbing one of her longer paintbrushes and holding it against her chest defensively. She left the confinement of her orange walled room, taking silent steps into the white washed corridor. Her mother was leaning over the landing, holding a heavy metal cylinder Clary had never seen before.
The skill with which she held it tightly to her side and steady stance meant she hadn't just picked up something random like Clary had, but purposefully picked something she had known how to use, because she had before.
That much was obvious to Clary as she approached the still figure who still hadn't noticed her.
Jocelyn looked up sharply, the look of resolve dominating her features melting into a softer one as she studied the small frame of her daughter. "I will go down there and hold them back." her voice held a different kind of authority, one that couldn't be reckoned with, but Clary tried anyway. Before she so much as opened her mouth however, the redhead before her held up an outstretched palm, pursing her lips."You will go out the back door and run. When, and only when, you're a safe distance away, only then will you call this number and tell Luke that Valentine found me."
Her mother's voice cracked on the name Luke, although it held no meaning whatsoever in Clary's mind. She felt herself nod tersely and they both inched down the hardwood stairs, stepping over the second-to-last step, knowing it creaked.
Clary took one last look at her mother before they parted ways. She looked like an avenging angel Clary thought, the look on her mother's face one she had never seen before and would never associate with her own mother. Her mother who would stay locked in her studio until paint covered every inch of her clothing and was matted into her crimson curls. Her mother, who was the definition of normal and calm, now furious and lethal.
The smile flashing on her pursed lips was forced and too thin to be real. Reassuring - well, meant to - but not real. It wasn't one of those smiles that settled crinkles in the corner of her eyes and made them twinkle, their colour more like spring grass rather than the deep emerald they were on normal occasions. Clary took no comfort in her mother's attempt to feign some kind of control in a situation neither of them could have a say in.
Jocelyn turned her back and was slowly and carefully making her way across the hall, into the lounge, half-crouching in a hunched over walk, looking like a rusty enough stance. Clary took this as her cue to get a move on and she turned around herself, meticulously picking her steps so as not to make any footfalls heard to anything unwanted or foreign to the house.
She got to the chiselled glass kitchenette door and pushed it open, careful as she stepped through so she didn't come in contact with any of the polished hard-stone, setting her ivory hand, shaking with anticipation, on the cold metal door handle of the back door. She pushed down and took a step outside, into the late autumn air.
It was cold. Her bare feet were numb on the freshly trimmed grass of Miss Dorothea's neatly kept garden. Flowers of all sorts hung down from airborne pots and reversed down to form a protective sheet over Clary's head. Her hair caught on lone branches and leaves which, with Dorothea being even taller than Clary - not that it was hard - was very peculiar and left Clary shaking her head in dis-appreciation for the older woman, as she squeezed between the house and the stone hedge circling the house.
Jace 's Pov
The demon exploded in a shower of ichor and guts.
Jace Herondale jerked back the dagger he was holding, but it was too late. The vicious acid of the demon's blood had already begun to eat away at the fluorescent blade. He swore and tossed the weapon aside; it landed in a filthy puddle and commenced smouldering like a doused match. The demon itself, of course, had vanished - dispatched to whatever hellish world it had come from, though not without leaving a bloody mess behind.
He made a disgusted noise and his lip curled slightly, his stomach quenching at thought of anyone having to clean up the slimy, black blood from the leather jacket where he had attempted to wipe the dagger clean, only succeeding to make more of a mess.
He heard a mocking laugh from behind and turned to see Isabelle, leaning over and looking at him somewhat bemusedly. He smirked, turning back around to search for his black haired parabatai, only to find he was nowhere to be seen. "Uhm, where's Alec?" his voice was curious, detached, maybe even uninterested; but the concern laced behind the words was so endearing it made Isabelle smile. Truly smile, before she herself began to wonder on the whereabouts of her older brother.
A frown tugged at the corners of her perfectly shaped eyebrows, her light brown eyes skimming the surface of the Brooklyn pavements, seeking a familiar pair of deep blue eyes. The only ones she found were gold and swimming with worry and concern, looking around almost desperately. She almost smiled again, stopping herself through the reminder that her brother was nowhere in sight.
"Hey Alec," Jace shouted, dragging the words out, as if that made it more likely for him to hear them."It's no fun showing off if you're not here to show off to." his voice had taken on a rough edge, panic starting to build behind the facade of perfect calm he had had to put up.
He turned back to face Isabelle, a moment of silent understanding passing between them before they started to briskly walk down the abandoned New York streets. A red brick building was looming before them not after long, a tall silhouette standing darkly before the wrought iron gates. It was supposedly a man, his features shadowed by the retreating sun.
As they approached, a tousled head of raven hair sat on broad shoulders, hanging down to the right, in an unasked question. His back was to them, but it was clear from the sure set of his shoulders that it was Alec. Isabelle rushed over to her brother, heels clicking on the wet concrete. "Why did you..." she didn't get to finish the scolding she had been prepared to give just a few moments ago, because her brother held up a hand, fingers stretched apart in an unconscious gesture.
Isabelle stared incredulously at her brother, lips parted in surprise, an angry frown settling atop her forehead. She quickly pursed her lips into a thin line and looked over to Jace as if asking him Did you see that?. Jace smirked slightly - a quirk of the left corner of his mouth - he strolled over to the two still figure in front of him. He followed Alec's line of vision. Not seeing anything, he furrowed his golden brows, turning to look at his parabatai once more.
He noticed the way his dark pupils were unfocused, uncoordinated with his sea-deep blue eyes, realising from the way his head was tilted, not inquiring, but a show of the utmost level of concentration, that he wasn't in fact looking at something, but rather listening to it. Jace strained his ears in an attempt to understand his best friend and could hear it, faintly: a swish of leaves and a string of silent curses, a rustle of feet crushing the dead autumn leaves.
He looked to Izzy, eyebrows raised, and nodded his head towards the narrow alley that the sound was coming from. They approached it slowly, Isabelle having caught on to what was happening leading the way. A shadow was looming from around the corner of the building, small enough to be the frame of a child. And ear-splitting scream cut through the tension, bloodcurdling and human. A scream that spoke of a pain deeper than what most should feel, telling the story of a series of events, all leading up to this one moment. The moment where everything changed.
Clary's Pov
The scream echoing in her ear drums was so painstakingly her mother's that tears sprung to Clary's eyes. She broke into a run, covering the last couple of metres until she left the confinement of the two walls. Swinging around the corner, three figures were standing in front of the house, surprised faces pointed upwards to where Clary knew the scream had come from: her bedroom window.
The strangers had not yet taken notice of Clary's small form and so she took this time to study them. The girl was gorgeous. The kind of girl Clary would have liked to draw - tall and ribbon slim, with a long spill of raven hair. Even at this distance Clary could see the red pendant around her throat. It pulsed under the light of the midnight sky, setting her skin alight with crimson glee.
Next to her stood two boys. The tall one with hair the same black as the girl's, and smaller, fairer one, whose hair gleamed like brass in the dim light. The fair boy was standing with his hands in his pockets, a sort of dark goo covering the surface of his leather jacket, seeming to... eat away at the material.
Clary barely had time to blink as the window they were staring at burst out, showering them in small chips of glass. Clary covered her head with a bare arm and she looked up just in time to dodge a shape heading straight for her head. It landed with a bone-breaking thud on the pavement oly a few feet from Clary was now standing, marking the spot where she had been mere moments ago.