Valentine's son.
He was labeled. Marked out and segregated, just as plainly identifiable as the Marks from the stele running up and down his arms. He was Valentine's son, untrustworthy, unpredictable, and dangerous. He was a monster, the apple never falls far from the tree; Valentine was a monster therefore he was a monster too.
He was Valentine's son.
Jace punched through the wall of the training room, his hand tearing through the plaster and old hardwood planks that had originally been used to build the Institute. He felt his skin rip away, felt the warmth of his own blood weeping on his hand as he stood there, elbow deep in the wall. He growled deeply in his chest, his right hand clenching tightly at his side. He wanted to punch through the wall again, anything to ease the incredible self-hatred boiling in the pit of his stomach.
Valentine's son.
"Jace," he pulled his hand out of the wall, quickly turning to hide the hole—and injury—from Isabelle.
"What are you doing in here, Isabelle? I thought Maryse sent you and Alec to your rooms with Max." His voice was calm, controlled. It was amazing how quickly his old defenses came back, how easily the wall of control returned. His anger showed in the icy tone, though, something that Isabelle would notice instantly. She would not know the source, no Maryse had made sure her own children did not know what she had done.
Alec and Izzy did not know, in the short hour since their return from hunting, they had been left in the dark. No one had told them that Maryse—the closest thing Jace had to a mother—had sent him away. Because he was Valentine's son, he was being sent away because of who his father was. Because of a man Jace had believed was dead for the last seven years.
It made him want to punch the wall again; relieve more of the pressure building up in his stomach.
"I came to find you. Alec's looking too."
"Don't bother," Jace turned his head away from her. He was trying to hide the pain, maintain his façade of strength, even now when his world was falling to pieces. "I'm leaving."
"Jace," Isabelle started across the room, she was going to wrap him in her arms, doing the sisterly thing she always did so well. "We all decided to go out hunting last night, she can't be any madder at you than she is at us."
"It doesn't have anything to do with that," Jace stepped back, out of Isabelle's reach, turning to further shield his left hand from her. "I'm just going out for a while."
"Jace," Isabelle's eyes grew wide as she looked over his shoulder, he bit a curse down in his throat. He had moved too far, she saw the hole. "Jace, you can talk to me," she spoke with a soft quiet voice. Not pressuring him, just reminding him.
"I know, Iz," he looked away from her, quickly dropping his hand in his jean's pocket to hide the injuries. "And, when I know how to put this mess into words, I'll give you a call." He brushed past her quickly, out into the dark hallway.
He had gone to the training room to get a few weapons. There was no way of knowing when he'd be allowed back in the Institute—if he was ever allowed back in—it was a real possibility the Clave would banish him and strip him of his Marks. There was no telling what he might encounter out there on his own; he wanted a few of his favorite weapons with him, and a healthy supply.
He walked out without them.
Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern walked out of the New York Institute with only the clothes on his back and what weapons he on him since he went hunting with Alec and Isabelle. Valentine's son hit the streets of New York in the middle of the night with nothing. But he hardly needed weapons to find trouble, and he defiantly would not need them to beat whatever got in his way to a mutilated pulp.
He stopped at the corner, looking back at the towering shadow of the Institute. It had been his home for the past seven years. It had been almost like a home, with a family and normalcy. It was hard to think he was no longer allowed there, that he could not return to a second home.
He turned away, drawing his stele from the pocket of his jeans. His hand was still bleeding in his pocket. It would be weird for him to wander around New York with a bleeding hand; people might take note of that. The iratze rune burned painful for a moment on his wrist before sinking away in his skin, the cuts on the back of his hand fading to nothing.
Maryse had kicked him out because it looked bad on her. He was homeless because she was scared of what the Clave would say. Because he was Valentine's son. He was a Morgenstern, not a Wayland, his entire life was a lie.
And Clary…
As much of a shock as this had been for him, it had been that much more for Clary. Her father was alive. Insane, but alive, which was more than she had ever believed possible before. She was a Shadowhunter, one of the Nephilium. And she had a brother.
Jace stopped, his fist clenching tightly in the pocket of his jacket. If ever he wanted to punch something, it was right then. If ever he wanted a demon to attack him, it was that very instant. He felt his insides boiling with hatred, self-hatred, sharper than anything else he had been suffering through since the fight with Valentine.
He had been trying not to think about Clary, about the jolt of white hot anger burning through him—the urge to wrap her in his arms and press his lips against hers, to breathe in her sweet aroma as they sat together— all of his emotions that bubbled up at the sight of her. He had never been as sure of anything in his entire life as he had been about how his feelings for her. Now that devotion, that longing to be with her, was being twisted into something utterly despicable, it made him sick. She was his sister.
He was in love with his own sister.
Blinding rage boiled up behind his eyes. He lashed out, slamming his freshly healed hand into a brick wall. He pulled away slowly, staring as his broken knuckles as his breathing started to settle. What was he doing?
What was he doing?
What was there to do?
What could he do?
What could he do that would earn Maryse's trust?
What could he do to prove that he was not a traitor, that he was loyal to the Clave?
What could he say that made them believe that even though he was Valentine's son, he was not a monster?
How could he make them believe in him, like they had when he was still Jace Wayland?
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do," he gasped, falling to his knees, still staring at his broken hand. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
In the dark of that abandoned New York street, the boy cried.