I'm sorry, but I can't stay here with you anymore.
There wasn't a signature on the note, but Jace would recognize the fat, curly letters anywhere. Clary was finally done with him. He'd loved her, more than he'd ever loved any other person. And now she was gone. She'd taken a piece of him with her. There was an empty pain in his chest, and it felt like his body had gone cold; she'd stolen his heart, and then run away with it. Every breath brought a spasm of raw emotion. Loss, love, heartache, sadness, grief; they all ran their cycle.
Swearing didn't make him feel better. Neither did punching the barren white wall of his bedroom. Screaming again, in a mixture of pain and loss, Jace grabbed a Seraph blade. The one thing that had constantly improved his mood, the one activity that had never failed him in all of his years, killing demons was all that was left. Clary was his rational self. She was the voice in the back of his head, screaming at him what the right choice was. There was only silence, now that he needed guidance.
Only seconds had passed since he read the note, but it might as well have been an eternity. Jace read, then re-read, then re-read again, the single sentence. Each time, it took on new meaning.
She was exasperated with the Institute and was moving back in with her mother and Luke.
She was done with the Institute, the Lightwoods, Shadowhunters, and him.
There was no hope of her coming back.
She would be gone a few days, max, and would be back in full bore after a reflection on the situation.
Deep in his heart, though, Jace knew what the redhead had meant. She was gone. Gone like yesterday. Gone With the Wind. Gone with a long before it.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Jace fought himself for control. He wouldn't scream. He wouldn't lash out. He wouldn't cry; by the Angel, he couldn't cry. Turning into himself like he'd always done, he let go of everything. He reached places he hadn't had to go to since he lived on the Wayland manor. Detached from his surroundings, he was once again cold and calculating.
He was already in his hunting gear. Naturally, the Shadowhunter in him was calling for a fight. Jace grabbed a Seraph blade and ran out of the Institute.
His booted feet fly through the city, making their way to the werewolf bar he'd only been to once before. He'd find a fight there.
The dingy bar was crowded for a Tuesday night; every barstool was occupied, as were all the tables. Pushing his way through the Downworlders, Jace did his best to throw his sharp elbows into as many sides as possible. Werewolves were volatile. He just needed to provoke one of them enough. With a final shove, he finally crossed the line.
The wolf was a menacing six-six when he stood up, his arm and face heavily scarred. His eyes were a flinty steel, contrasting sharply with his tan skin and black hair. "Watch it, Shadowhunter," he growled.
Perfect. "You watch it, Lycanthrope!" The remark, coupled with another shove, was enough to bring the wolf up to his feet. He was broader than he looked, but Jace wasn't willing to back down from a fight anytime soon.
Swinging for Jace's head, the wolf made the first move. Jace sidestepped the punch easily; he was much more nimble than the lumbering oaf. Jace went on the attack. A roundhouse kick to the solar plexus. When the wolf crippled, Jace delivered a nose-breaker. A left-right-left flurry of flying fists. As he was about to tackle the wolf, a sharp tug on his collar kept Jace from doing so.
Freaky Pete, the bartender, held him by the shirt. "Seems like you're confused. This here is a bar, not a MMA gym," he referenced a previous bar fight at the same pub.
A familiar female voice floated over the din of conversation. "Blondie's just trying to blow off some steam. Life's hard for him without his lady."
Whirling around, Jace found himself face to face with one of the few people who utterly hated him. "And what do you know about that?" The cool tone he used did little to mask his anger and surprise. Maia just smiled.