Huge thanks to my wonderful beta, HeronFrayWood, who picked up my spelling errors and such. She's amazing and super sweet.

So, enjoy!

EDITED: DECEMBER 28TH, 2015


Clary sat at her desk, thick curls concealing the left side of her face from Jace Herondale, someone she really, truly disliked. And for Clary—a person who liked to see the good in people, rather than the bad—and saying that she truly disliked Jace Herondale, was saying something. Waiting for last period to end was like waiting for the merciless New York sun in summer to leave for the winter—an eternity.

The clock ticked like a bomb that would never explode and set the people free. She watched the minutes tick by with bloodshot eyes, having stayed up to study for her final exam of the semester that day—which she'd scored an A minus on.

She tapped her pencil in her open notebook, as the balding teacher drawled on about something—whatever he was talking about couldn't be that important: it was the last day of school, after all.

Clary snapped out of her daze, jumping back in her hard-backed seat when a piece of abused paper, balled up, landed directly in front of her, rocking softly on her notebook page. She pressed a hand flush against her chest, where her heart was thudding furiously with bat wings, which, unlike butterfly wings, were rough and not in the least gentle or giggle-worthy.

She knew it wasn't some "gift" from Jace, but rather an note from Isabelle, when, out of her peripheral vision, she caught the raven-haired beauty snapping her head forward, paying attention to Mr. Starkweather's lecture like her life depended on it. With delicate fingers, Clary picked up the scrunched up paper, unfolding it and praying to whatever resided in heaven or hell—or whatever was true—that the paper in her hands made no noise.

I'm driving you home.

-I

Clary felt her mouth straining as she tried to keep a straight face, facing the board at the front, where nearly illegible script was painted across the blackboard.

Her mind eventually began to wander off to thoughts of the house she'd be staying in throughout the summer, in Virginia. Sure, she had seen pictures before she and her friends had rented it, but things rarely looked as they did in pictures.

Clary could imagine swimming in the beach nearby, the breeze blowing and brushing her hair off of her bare shoulders. She could imagine drawing, drawing the lush wildlife growing wildly around the house. She could imagine drawing Izzy basking in the rich summer sun on the beach. She could imagine drawing Magnus, grinning madly at her through the barrier of glitter he typically wore.

Clary had all but swooned at her thoughts. This was going to be an amazing summer, unlike summers before, spent hiding away in her Brownstone, the only place in New York that seemed to have a functioning AC. And even then, it hadn't been cool enough.

Clary felt the sun burning her skin all over again at the thoughts; she quickly shook away the sweaty memories.

She looked around the classroom, wishing for it to be Magnus or even Alec, who she didn't talk to so often, to be sharing Mr. Starkweather's class, rather than Jace. Anyone but Jace.

The bell sounded, signalling the long-awaited end of eleventh grade.

Clary felt tears burning, felt the urge to weep at the wonderful sound.

But, she held back her tears, because no way would she allow Jace to see her so weak—or make a comment about it. She often wondered what she had ever done to him.

Clary swallowed the thoughts, shoving her notebook hastily into her bag, swinging it over her shoulder, not even bothering with the pesky zipper that was so worn it never kept the bag shut.

After what seemed like forever, Isabelle strode from the classroom, a particularly mischievous grin coating her chiselled features, and like a nasty cold, Clary caught the grin, gladly letting it crack her face in two.

"I just need to pick up my stuff—," Clary cut herself off when Isabelle held up a bossy hand, red leather purse swaying on her arm.

"Shush, I already picked it up on my free period."

And with that, the girls were off; day and night, walking side by side through a crowd that parted like running water around rocks for them—for Isabelle.


After dumping her back-breaking bag on the floor between her feet, Clary wrapped her arms around herself.

"We have many, many things to discuss, Clarissa," Isabelle warned, the engine of the three-hundred-and-something-thousand-dollar car roaring to life.

"This 'discussion' wouldn't have anything to do with what I'm going to wear, would it?" Clary cast a wary look in her friend's direction.

"Of course it does!" Isabelle exclaimed, her manicured hands gripping the steering wheel with alarming pressure.

"Well, too bad," Clary shrugged, picking at her paint-covered cuticles.

Isabelle frowned at the flooded street before her eyes. "You're no fun," she whined, turning to shoot Clary her infamous puppy dog eyes.

"What? Just because I know you want to pick out all of my clothes—and colour coat them, and plan my outfits, and everything else?" Clary asked through a breathy laugh, refusing to look to her left, at Isabelle who could make the President of the United States of America kiss the ground that she walked on, if she desired so with just one bat of her voluminous eyelashes, or just one tremble of her perfectly plump lips or even a single tear shed.

Clary looked over after a few minutes, hoping Isabelle was over her newest "amazing idea." And that was her mistake, because Isabelle still wore that look: pleading, glossy dark eyes, quivering lip, wobbling chin. "Fine!" Clary conceded, hating herself for falling for whatever charm she had.

Isabelle squealed happily.

And before long, Isabelle turned her leather-clad steering wheel sharply, jerking the car violently to the left and into a cobblestone drive. Up ahead loomed an impressive mansion, four stories tall, acres upon acres of land surrounding it and a six-car garage.

According to Isabelle's skewed history, it had once been a church, before it had been turned into the gorgeously gleaming, blindingly white mansion it was now.

The front porch stretched on narrowly for what appeared to be miles, much like the mansion itself. White scaffold pillars lined the porch, slightly blocking your view of the long front windows.

Of all the four stories, Isabelle had one completely to herself. Much unlike her year-older brother, Alec, who shared a floor with Maryse and Robert, his and Isabelle's parents.

Snapping out of her thoughts, Clary realized that she was still standing beside the car, long ago abandoned by Isabelle, who was in the process of pushing open the front door. Clary hurried on to catch up with her friend, knowing from experience that if she were too slow, Isabelle wouldn't hesitate to lock her out of the house.

"I went and got your stuff during free period," Isabelle informed her, for the second time.

"Yes, Iz, I got that the first time you told me."

"Ah—but I didn't tell you that I got your money stash, did I?"

Clary paled. "How did you know about that?" She demanded; no one knew about her wad of green crumpled and stashed in her box spring for safekeeping.

"Oh, come on, Clary! That's like, one of the most common hiding places—or something. I wasn't snooping, I swear," Isabelle held up her hands in surrender.

Clary, crossing her arms over chest, nodded. "Oh, yeah, I'm sure you weren't."

"I wasn't!" Isabelle exclaimed, her voice cracking mid-sentence, a sure sign that she was lying.

"Liar," Clary muttered. "Anyways—what did you repack? My whole suitcase?"

"Don't be so literal," Isabelle said, walking through the large living room, heels clacking against the hardwood. "I only repacked the clothes that were—er—unacceptable for…public outings—yes, that's it."

"So you left my sweatpants out?" Clary deflated visibly.

"Absolutely."

"God, I hate you," Clary groaned obnoxiously, throwing her head back dramatically like Isabelle often did.

"I love you too," Isabelle called, mounting one of the staircases leading upstairs.


Clary collapsed onto Isabelle's plush bed, though the bed was covered in dog-eared magazines, makeup, clothes, heels, and for some reason, pink feather boas. Isabelle followed suit, letting out a breathy laugh, voice laced with exhaustion.

"If you don't look jaw-dropping on this trip—especially after all that work I did—we can't be friends." Isabelle stated calmly, staring up at her pink ceiling. The ceiling contrasted greatly against the black walls, painted with sloppy gold swirls, and some strange sponged-on marks.

Clary rolled her eyes, staring up at the pink ceiling as well.

"You did, however, not look like you got dressed in the dark today," Isabelle added as an afterthought.

"Gee, thanks."

Isabelle nudged her in the ribs. "Anytime, hot stuff," the raven-haired girl giggled.

Glancing down at her clothing choice, Clary realized with a start that Isabelle was rubbing off on her. And whether or not that was a good thing, the redhead wasn't sure. The green sneakers, caked with dirt and whatever else was on the New York streets, said Clary, while the yellow cardigan and dark skinny jeans screamed of Isabelle's influence. Not to mention her somewhat tame curls.

The two girls sat up abruptly, hearing the slamming of the front door.

And in the quiet of the house, the voice of Lucifer himself echoed up the stairs, bouncing around Isabelle's room: "Do you think they're here yet?"

"Did you somehow miss the bright red car parked across our driveway?" Alec said, his voice low.

And surprisingly, Isabelle who didn't typically have much of a problem with Jace, hissed in her ear that they could hide in her closet. A beat later, Isabelle pulled her from the bed with a shocked yelp.


The lights burned Clary's eyes after being subjected to utter darkness while Isabelle cursed and fumbled to find the lock on the door. And finally, when the click of the lock was heard, Isabelle flicked on the lights.

Orange light flooded the room, temporarily blinding Clary.

Covering her eyes with her cardigan-clad arm, Clary reached around blindly for Isabelle, wrapping her small hand around Izzy's shoulder. Isabelle led her around the room, shaking her off when they reached a certain point.

Opening her eyes, Clary found that Isabelle's closet had been redecorated. It looked suspiciously similar to that of Chanel Oberlin from their favourite television show: Scream Queens.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Isabelle very nearly swooned, running her hand along the edge of some hanging dresses.

Clary was about to reply, when she heard Jace's voice just outside the closet door: "Come on."

"Are you stupid? This is my sister's room; she'll skin you alive with one of her high heels if she finds you in here," Alec warned him.

"Oh, I'm shaking," Jace deadpanned.

Clary and Isabelle covered their mouths, trying—and failing—to keep in their laughter.

"Jesus effing Christ," Jace cursed, jiggling the knob on the closet door.

"You have a death wish," Alec said, trying again to warn his friend away.

"You keep talking, but I'm not listening," Jace informed him, and with a loud thud, the door creaked miserably, splintering in certain places before opening. The door hung crookedly on its hinges, squeaking horribly when Jace gruffly shoved the door open further.

Unlike Alec, Jace hung back, leaning with his arms crossed over his lean, muscled chest against the doorframe. Alec looked around the room, seemingly in a daze, while Jace simply shrugged at Clary, sending her a small grin. Almost as if he were revelling in the fact that he had found them. Suddenly, Clary felt as though she were suffering from a severe case of déjà vu. She looked down at her shoes, frowning and rubbing her temples. God, something was up with her.

She watched as Isabelle strode to stand in front of her, blocking her view of Jace, and Jace's view of hers. Almost like she was trying to protect Clary from something.

Clary, hating to feel like some weak child in need of protection, put one foot in front of the other until she was standing next to her friend.

Jace eyed her. "Can I help you, Herondale?" She spat at him furiously. She already had to spend the summer with him, and here he was wasting more of her oh so precious time.

"No, but I appreciate the offer, Clare," he replied, sarcasm coating his words.

She felt as though he had slapped her across the face. She quickly regained her composure. "Don't call me that—ever." Her green eyes closed, copper lashes fluttering as she took deep breaths, trying to calm her raging temper.

He didn't respond. It made Clary's hand twitch with anger.

"Out. Now." Isabelle pointed to the doorway, shooting both boys a dangerous, warning glare.

Alec's hair fell into his electric eyes. "We're leaving at six," he shouted over his shoulder, disappearing down the stairs.

"Goodbye, Jace," Clary gave him a two-fingered wave. Little did she know, behind her Isabelle was sending him a pleading, nearly desperate look. Jace nodded, and turned on his heel. Clary, slightly confused, but mostly bitter about having to spend her summer with Jace Herondale—someone who knew all the right buttons to push, and confused her beyond belief—crossed her arms like a petulant child, sinking down onto the closet floor wondering what on earth she was to do with the tawny-eyed boy this summer.


Hey guys! I want to once again thank my lovely beta: HeronFrayWood

Go check out her stories, they're awesome.

What do you guys think of the new Chapter One? Better, Worse?

Review!