I've hinted that I've had a big project in the works, as my other stories have been rather difficult to update, what with writer's block and exams. I will now be updating those other stories, as I have been really wanting to get this story out there for everyone to read! This story is different from my other stories because this is the first one that I have COMPLETED before posting! This means I will be able to update on a regular schedule and will post a few chapters to get everyone started. That being said, my updating schedule will depend on everyone's interest, so be sure to follow, favorite, review, etc. As always, I love you all and hope you enjoy this new story.

(I do not own the Mortal Instruments...or Star Wars for that matter)

The Shadow Wars

Chapter 1: Modern Day Han Solo

Songs:

Part 1: Beast (Southpaw Remix) – Rob Bailey & The Hustle Standard, Busta Rhymes, KNXG Crooked, Tech N9ne

(The working title for this story has been Beast, since that is what it autosaved to, so excuse me if I refer to this story as Beast ever)

Part 2: Enemy Fire – Bea Miller, I Told You I Was Mean – Elle King


There's a small smudge next to controls where he's tapping his finger impatiently, creating a slow rhythm to match the gait of the demons drawing nearer and nearer to the intruding ship. He had known landing his shiny gold bird among these black, stealthy attack planes would draw attention, but frankly he can't care less as he brandishes his weapons in anticipation. "Angel, they're so fucking slow!" he complains to no one in particular as he opens the hatch. Forgoing the ladder, he drops down into a crouch, the metal floor of the hangar cold against his fingertips. "Church," he calls to his partnering droid, hearing it whir gleefully in response, "cue the ass-kicking music."

A heavy beat surrounds him, the weight of the seraph blades in his hands familiar as they glow to life. He twirls them on his fingertips, allowing his eyes to fall shut as they hum through the air, a sound that could nearly bring him to orgasm. Nearly. The bass drops as his blade cuts into the first demon, its body falling heavily to the floor before him, twitching as it collapses back into its own realm. Bye, bitch. "Who's next?" The left side of his lip pulls up—his perma-smirk as several people have referred to it—as they demonic soldiers line up before him, attempting to barricade the entrance into the hangar. Ichor drips from their naked bodies, exposed insides blackened by hell, smelling of death and rot. They scream their battle cries through unmoving mouths, blinking at him with a thousand eyes.

"You're an ugly fucker," Jace muses, jerking his head in the direction of a fat one in the center of the line. It steps forward in challenge, but before it can even click its pinchers, its head rolls to a stop at the base of a ship. "I'll give you two options: the hard way…or the harder way." Thankfully, none of their voices slither into his mind to reply. "Not much of talkers, are ya?" His blade is balanced on his open palm as he stares at it, waiting for these idiots to think he is distracted and charge him.

Like clockwork, they surge forward. His hand clasps around the handle of his blade, swinging it around through three bodies, the other one skewering another two. "I guess you made your decision then." He drove is foot into the chest of a charging demon, watching it stumble into the blade-like claws of his neighbor. Sidestepping outstretched claws and ducking spinning teeth, he finds himself pressed into a corner, several of the demons crawling over their fallen brethren to reach him. "This is unfortunate," he grumbles as he crosses his blades. They meet in the middle as he uses them as scissors to decapitate the four enemies before him. "I thought it would be more of a fight." His blade slips through the final guard, bodies fading from this realm to the next as his boots fall heavily against the floor, his pace quick and sure as he passes his ship.

"I'm off to save the Princess!" he bellows to Church, cutting through puddles of ichor, demon appendages littering the floor as he sheaths his swords. "Don't wait up for me." He salutes his little robot before kicking down the entrance and charging down the lighted hallway.

X.O.X.O.X

Crimson splatters against the floor, dripping from the gash tearing down the side of her face. She leans to the side, spitting blood against the wall. The cold air bites the open wound, keeping her alert. Her shoulders ache from the way she's strung up, arms stretched above her head with her feet hanging a two helpless inches above the floor. Her robes are soaked with sweat, torn down the front to reveal more cuts oozing blood and exposing the creamy skin of her chest to all who pass by. Her weapon is propped against the wall just out of reach, making a mockery of her. Hissing silently in pain, she wiggles from side-to-side, seeking enough leverage to hook her toe through the gun's shoulder strap.

Her vision is blurred, but her ears are hypersensitive, honing in on the shuffling of footsteps down the hallway. She stills her movements and lifts her chin, refusing to hang her head as one of Valentine's minions rounds the corner, daring to look her in the eye. She doesn't care to contain the exasperated laugh at his appearance, earning her a hard slap across the face, sending her swinging toward her gun. Just out of reach.

The man before her is short—stout—with long, greasy hair that has begun to gray at the roots. His steel-gray eyes are made to match, staring off lifelessly but growing with lycanthrope disease. His grip tightens on the pistol in his right hand. The other is crippled and cradled against his chest—a weakness. "Princess Clarissa." He sneers her name, lacking the respect she receives on her home planet. She wrinkles her nose at his stench as he stalks forward, sliding the barrel of his gun down her unharmed cheek. His teeth are blue, evidence of sipping too many fairy cocktails, and his breath reeks of decay. He's seemed to frolic with all types of Downworlders, making it a wonder why Valentine sends sleazes like this to do his bidding. Valentine is the one who believes Downworlders are worthless and not to be trusted. He sees them as the means to an end, the next species to be eradicated from the earth to purify the population. Yet he sends one to capture her, to torture her for information that she isn't willing to give. She will not crack under his startling gaze, will not beg for death nor mercy. She will not give him that satisfaction.

He looks like a harmless, middle-aged man—round-bellied from sipping too many alcoholic beverages and wrinkled skin from seeking highs in the Seelie Court. That is, until he licks his lips, pulling them back into a sneer, baring his blue teeth as two, pearly canines elongate. His tongue darts out to probe the edge, his mouth looming closer as he prepares to claim her as one of his pack. "Valentine seems to think you fit the ancient prophecy." Stale alcohol washes over her as his tongues her pulse point, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. "You're sexy as hell. I'll give you that, but the key to unlocking the universe, not likely." He steps away as fast as he'd approached her, appraising her nearly nude torso. "Valentine wants you alive, but he didn't say anything about the condition." His dirt-encrusted hand cups her cheek, a sick form of a loving caress. "I think we should have some fun."

His lips are rough against hers, bile rising in her throat as she refuses to cringe, instead using his proximity as an advantage. While he's distracting herself with the remaining knots in her dress, she leverages herself up, using her hips to swing herself backward and land solid kick against his chest.

He wheezes, weakened by the unwelcomed lycanthrope disease as he stumbles backward, collapsing against the tile. No sooner than he cracks his head on the floor do footsteps resound down the hall, guards nearing to assess the noise and neutralize any threat. With widening eyes, she attempts to haul herself up the rope as unsuccessfully as before. "Oh Angel," she curses, gritting her teeth as she yanks down on her arms, feeling her shoulders dislocating as her feet land on the floor. She painfully works the knots, her arms going numb above her.

Only one hand is free when men begin flooding into the room, weapons drawn. "Hi," she greets calmly, before brandishing her weapon and opening fire as the demons disguised as soldiers funnel in two-by-two. She hears the whirring of a seraph blade as her other hand falls free. Unsteady, she falls hard against the ground, the butt of her gun driving up into her chest. Luckily, her finger was off the trigger, stopping any stray bullets before they could be fired. Gasping for air, her eyes flick up, finding a blazing orb of gold whirling around, slicing through the demonic army with the finesse only a true Shadowhunter can possess. His tawny gaze catches hers long enough to wink and drive his foot through the chest of a demon, knocking a line of them down in the process before dragging his blade through them.

She narrows her eyes, unwilling to let him have all the glory as she lays uselessly on the floor. Narrowing her eyes, she snatches one of the sleazes' guns, cocking both her weapons against her chest. "Sleeping over there, Garroway?" he mutters snidely, backflipping out of the line of fire as Clary lets the bullets fly. Damn it. She'd really wanted to hit him.

"Not a chance." She helps him clear the room, taking out the last two with simultaneous headshots. She shakes off his hand as he tries to grab hers and drag her along. She wants it to be because she doesn't need his help or guidance, but it's mostly because her shoulders make her want to scream in agonizing pain. Her pace slows him down, her short strides no match for his long, elegant legs. But he shows no annoyance, holding his swords in front of him in hopes of confronting a demon.

The winding corridors threaten to become an endless labyrinth as she stumbles after Jace, turn after turn until she's certain they'd gone in a circle. The blue light of the seraph blade ignites a path, flickering as he uses it to slice cleanly through two guards. "You don't get to do this," she glowers, drawing her gun and burying bullets into a few more demons.

"Do what?" he asks in exasperation, not looking at her as his blade exits on the other side of three demons. He throws them aside easily without slowing his pace.

"Come in here and act like I'm going to fall in love with you. I'm not some damsel in distress." Jace laughs without humor, grabbing her arm when she starts to take a wrong turn. "I've got it under control," she huffs, shrugging off his touch again.

"Yes, Princess, you look positively peachy." His voice oozes sarcasm as he kicks open another door, her wall of bullets piercing any demon within range.

"I could shoot you for that, and nobody would even bat an eye."

"Mhmm." She narrows her eyes at his calm response. She can't shake off the feeling of relief that floods through her as the next door opens to the hangar. Jace's bird is parked crookedly between two shooters, not inconspicuous with its golden paint job and the royal emblem imprinted on the nose. She lets him take her hand this time, hauling her through the rows of ships as she fires a few more rounds behind them. "Besides, you'd miss my stunning good looks and witty sense of humor."

He opens the hatch and boosts her in, throwing one of his blades with a quick glance backward at an approaching demon. She hears him mutter something about liking that one, but it is overpowered by her growl as his hand moves to her ass, pushing her that extra inch she needs. Though anger rippled through her chest, she knew she'd never be able to heave her bodyweight up in this condition.

"Don't tempt me, Jace," she replies as he hauls himself in soon after, that damned smirk plastered on his face as she points the gun at his nose. His arrogance doesn't fade as he slides into the pilot's chair, flicking on engines and shields, mumbling commands to Church through a sleek, silver headset, standing out among his golden curls. She decides to ignore him, collapsing onto a bench near the back of the ship. She rummages through the drawers beside her for something to heal the cut on her face. Reaching up, she feels just how long it is, her hands coming away sticky with dried blood. "This is going to scar," she complains, letting her head fall against the wall of the ship as it lifts and flies away to the tune of gunshots.

"Good thing you don't have to worry about it scaring off any potential suitors," he calls smugly over his shoulder, evading enemy ships as they swarm like gnats, the muscles of his shoulders flexing beneath his tight black gear as he cranks on the controls. "Church! A little help down here?" There's a series of beeps in a twisted Morse code that only Jace understands, and he snorts. "Please." On that note, Church unleashes an arsenal of missals, picking off any ship that attempts to fallow into hyperspace. "Thanks, bud," he croons in the most loving tone she'd ever heard him use. Staring blankly, she watches him remove his headset and turn on autopilot.

"Shouldn't have programmed him with such an attitude." He chuckles at her comment as he walks toward her slowly. She's come to notice how his every motion is fluid—the confidence in his lithe walk, the smooth but rippling effect of his flexing muscles, the molten eyes never failing to analyze the surroundings. He pauses before her, reaching to a high shelf above her head. His shirt lifts with the innocent motion revealing his toned stomach dotted with fresh scars and faded marks. Had she seen the cuts on anyone else, she might feel sorry, but Jace didn't need nor deserve her sympathy. He produces a tube of cream, catching her in the act of gawking.

"Got 'em while searching for the perfect meat to serve our guests." She glowers in his direction, snatching the ointment from his hand and yanking off the cap.

"This is not the time to bring that up." She wishes she could cut the damned look of his face as he grabs a fresh linen and begins to remove the crusted blood from her face. Her body flinches when he touches a sensitive spot, but she refuses to cry out. She surrenders the ointment to him without much of a struggle because with her eye swollen shut, she can barely see the cut anyway.

"When would you like me to bring it up, Princess?" She snaps her teeth at his looming hand, angered when he merely chuckles.

"Over my grave." He quirks an eyebrow, her jealously flaring at his array of abilities as he continues to dab at the cut before gingerly applying a layer of cream.

"Look, Princess, I know you get faint at the sight of blood, but this cut probably isn't going to kill you." She crosses her arms, wincing as she remembers what she'd done to free herself. She hopes Jace doesn't notice, but of course, he does. "Let me look at them," he murmurs gently as she attempts to push him away. "Please." It's not the humorous way he said please to his droid. It's softer, more desperate as her hands fall way, her back turning to him. "Why didn't you tell me you dislocated your shoulders?" She's always thought of Jace as a condescending human being, but with a crease of worry between his brows, she can see he's sincere.

She ducks behind her hair. "I had to get free of the restraints somehow." She's standing now, her back flush against his chest as he takes her arm in his hands. He doesn't tell her it's going to hurt. She knows it will. "Just do it," she pushes out through gritted teeth, gasping at the cracking noise as he puts it back into place. Without giving her a warning, he does the other one, then disappears to grab some icepacks, securing them to her shoulders with a cloth wrap. He clears his throat then, drawing her attention to his face. He gestures to her chest, his eyes steady on hers as a blush creeps up her neck.

She shouldn't be embarrassed. It's inevitable, but Jace shushes her insecurities. Asking to dress them. She nods, not meeting his eyes again as he takes medical scissors and cuts away the shards of her dress, leaving her before him in a bra and panties. He makes quick work of her wounds, and she soon finds a shirt slipped over her head, warm and musky. "Thanks," she mumbles, glancing sideways to see a now shirtless Jace disposing of bloodied gauze.

"Don't mention it." She wanders to the copilot's chair, her arms cradled inside the t-shirt. She tips backward, thankful the dome of the cockpit is made of pure glass.

Even with Jace being an asshole, she can never get past the view from up there. The curriculum at the Academy always insisted that space was to be feared. It was described as a cold, desolate void that stretched on endlessly with no life in sight. In reality, there are millions of stars dotting the black surface, some like pinpricks while others blaze as brilliantly as their new sun. Colorful planets rise into view from an invisible horizon as military traffic travels between galaxies in an intricate, crosscrossing pattern. She wonders if this is how they teach young Shadowhunters at the Institute, that space is not something to be terrified of but rather to be glorified and explored. She wondered if it was the galaxy's way of ensuring untrained civilians would not get their wings and stand in the crosshairs of battle. She could ask Jace, but the possibility of that happening is as nonexistent as life on the sun.

Her peace is disturbed when she hears Jace's body falls lightly beside hers, his hands as sure on the controls as they had been tending to her wounds. It's hard not to blush at that thought, but somehow she hides it from him. Until he expertly steers the plane in a few looping circles, tickling the pit of her stomach. A faint smile appears on her face, a giggle tearing up her throat, but she quickly covers it with a cough.

"Clary," he murmurs, looking sideways at her through his long, golden lashes. She always has wondered how Jace seemed to embody the sun. From his golden halo of hair, radiating like the rays that sometimes kissed her pale skin through the opened doors of the hangar, to the unnatural tint of his eyes, leaning more toward liquid gold than amber—he seems to have been birthed from the light. His skin always is perfectly tanned though he often went months without seeing the sunlight. It makes her hate the bastard even more. "We have to talk about our wedding at some point."

"Don't call it that." There it is. The wedding—their wedding, which can also be described as her father's political statement of choosing to marry his heir off to a war hero of Idris rather than to a royal of another planet. In this race of galactic domination, her father stands for democracy, for his planet's people rather than greed and power.

"What do you want me to call it?"

"A strategic move." It is her father's own declaration of war. The Idrisian Empire is strong is his reasoning, but truly, it is a slam at Valentine, who'd propose a union to keep Idris out of the Circle's affairs, and according to the werewolf, fulfill a prophecy that could conquer the universe. And in this moment, the only thing she hates more than the man sitting beside her, who is currently chowing down on a form of mu shu pork he'd presumably brought with him from the kitchens in Idris, is being one of her father's pawns, a piece in his mind game that could never end a war, only escalate one.

"We need to discuss it—"

She cuts him off, landing her hard eyes on the food dangling from his mouth. "Well, I really want to discuss why you think bursting in like a modern day Han Solo is completely acceptable! I was gathering intel about—" Jace snorts, setting his fork down in his meal so he could fully face her.

"You were dangling from the ceiling with demons closing in on you." Her eyes narrow, and Jace annoyingly taps the end of her nose—thankfully with a clean finger. "All you have to do is say, 'Thanks.'"

Turns her chair away from him, choosing rather to stare out at the galaxy beyond than the burning ambition in his eyes. "You'll never get any gratitude from me, Herondale." Silence settles over them as he doesn't reply, continuing to shuffle though his food in search of the perfect bite.

Jace has a slew of annoying habits. From humming while he drives to combing his fingers through his hair when he's nervous, Clary has an ever-growing list of things that he does to bug her. Tapping my nose, she adds mentally, leaning the side of her face against the seat and curling into a ball.

As he starts humming, Clary groans. "Wake me when we're landing in Idris." He salutes her in silence—another annoying habit—and returns his gaze to his meal without another look in her direction.


The next chapters are up! But please R&R so I can gauge the interest! Let me know what you think about the characters and the plot line, and also what your favorite Netflix show is because I just finished Thirteen Reasons Why and I need a new one! I would recommend Thirteen Reasons Why, but as many of my faithful readers know, two of my friends were killed in a car accident and one committed suicide five years ago when I was a junior in high school, there are many triggers in that show that sometimes it even made it difficult for me to watch.

Whoa.

That was heavier than I wanted it to be.

ANYWAYS...drop me a comment, review, PM, anything really.

All My MOTHERFREAKING love

~BallinBlonde21