Chapter Two: Fallen Angels

Isabella dropped to the mud as the girl swung her fist. Her white hand shot out, longing for the feel of her old whip, and she snatched the girl's ankle, tugged and floored her. As the girl splashed mud everywhere, Isabelle rose up, muscles tensing, and got ready to kick if the girl proved to be a problem.

"Don't you ever call my brother that again!" Isabelle snarled, staring down at her.

"Slut!" she crowed back. "Your brother's a queer and you're a slut! No wonder you ended up here, I wouldn't want you either if I were your parents."

"Shut up!" cried Isabelle, lifting her foot. "Our parents love us."

"Then why are you here?" sneered a voice behind Isabelle, and she was dragged back by her hair until she was up against a wall.

Isabelle opened her eyes to be greeted by four other girls, all glaring at her, eyes narrowed to slits. She felt the cold, wet wall behind her, felt the rain beat against her face, and then a fist crashed into her gut, and another, and another. Isabelle tried to fight back, but it was five against one, and Isabelle had no weapon. She sank into the mud, covering her face while the rest of her body was bombarded by blows.

The pain was nothing compared to the shame she felt, though.

It was doubly worse because the girls were right. She and Alec had been taken from their parents the moment Valentine had claimed victory. She'd been pulled out of the house, thrown next to her brother in a carriage, and then tossed into an orphanage. They'd been told their parents were unfit to take care of them. That their mother and father were going to prison so they were now wards of the state. She and Alec lost their inheritance because their parents were rebels, enemies of government. They were nothing now.

"You're a pretty girl, you know that?"

Isabelle looked up through the blood and mud into the eyes of another orphan. A girl with stringy blond hair and a fat face. She was nothing to look at, just another faceless number in the mass. She wasn't going to be adopted anytime soon if she didn't lose weight and run a brush through her hair. At least, that's what Isabelle thought.

"Bad things happen to pretty girls here," she said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a short, ratty knife. "Let's fix that up, shall we?" Isabelle would have fought back, but two girls pinned her arms to her side. "We'll start with you hair."

Strands of black hair began to fall to the ground, mingling with the rain. The blond was sawing off her hair, laughing wickedly as she did it. Kicking like a mad woman, Isabelle started cursing and screaming, vowing every form of revenge.

"Oh, shut up," the girl snorted and dragged the knife through her hair, taking off a good foot of raven black locks. "You look better for it."

"Let go of my sister!" snarled a low voice Isabelle instinctively turned to.

"Oh, look, Jezebel, it's the queer!" sneered the blond, nudging the girl Isabelle had punched. "Wonder what he's gonna do with us."

Their laughter was hard and high, and Jezebel inched closer to Alec, getting ready to lunge at him. But Isabelle finally freed herself from the blonde's hold and shot across the space to Jezebel. She grabbed a hank of her hair and kneed her in the back. Jezebel dropped to the ground and Alec grabbed the blond and shoved her against the wall. She banged her head against the wall, and a trickle of blood slipped down her face. She collapsed to the ground in a daze.

"What are you staring at?" demanded Alec of the other three girls, who fell back in terror when they saw their leader unconscious. "Get out of here!"

The three scampered off and Jezebel stumbled up to her feet, gaping in horror. She glanced at the blond, at Isabelle, and then at Alec. Tears burst out of her eyes and she sped after the others, crying in terror.

"Come here, Izzy," murmured Alec softly. He reached down to the muddy earth and pulled his sister up into his arms so she could walk. For a minute, it was absolute silence, Isabelle limping after her brother, and then Alec said quietly, "You look something awful."

Thanks," she said sarcastically, but she knew it was true. The beating had left her bloody and bruised, and she felt the jagged edges of her hair, now cropped at her shoulders. Her clothing wasn't just coved in splotches of mud, but thread-bear and care worn. There were holes in it, stray strings, and a foul smell. The shirt was too big, the pants so loose they hung around her hips, tied in place with a scarf. She didn't have a jacket, so she shivered in the bitter wind and rain, and pressed up against Alec.

"You need to eat when we get inside; I can see your ribs." Alec placed a rigid palm against Isabelle's side and felt her ribs. "Just a few more steps and we'll be there. What were you fighting about in the first place?"

Isabelle shot him a furtive look. "Jezebel called you a queer. I told her to shut up. She didn't." It was all very clear to Izzy what she had to do. "She can't get away with disrespecting our family."

"For the love of the angel, Izzy!" he cried, turning her to face him. "You know Jezebel has a pack of rabid friends, why start a fight with her?"

"I don't care if she has an army," she vowed while she slumped up the stairs into the orphanage. "No one can talk about you like that."

"Thanks for defending my honor…but you know it's the truth." Alec looked away uncomfortably, shaking out his wet hair that was now so lank it looked sickly. "Come on, we need to get you a new change of clothes and a bath if possible."

"A bath? I really don't see how that's gonna help."

"You can't be filthily and expect to be adopted. And the sooner someone takes us out of here-" Alec looked around the dismal foyer, eyes darkened at the grimy sight "-the better."

* * *

There always seemed to be darkness in this place. No light of sun warmed the cold, no beam of moonlight illuminated the dark. Not even the fragile light of stars shone in the dank cell. Pain seeped into the room, leeching at the courage of all inside, devouring hope.

Jace wondered if he'd ever see natural light again. In a month, he'd learned the dimensions of his cell, but it didn't help him much when he was trapped. If someone came calling, he might press himself into a corner, but they always came with a torch or witch-light. He was blinded by the fierce glow, and then it was too late to defend himself from Valentine, who would pin him down and force him to listen, Jonathan, who delighted only in torturing him, or Jocelyn, who felt it her duty to come and speak to him.

But none of this was important now, not when he was a day or two from death. Valentine had stopped feeding him, Jonathan had finally gone insane and turned minutes into hours of hell, and Jocelyn had withdrawn from him. Jace slumped against a wall and shivered in the cold, wishing if he was going to die it would happen quicker.

He closed his eyes and regretted it at once.

An image of a nervous face swam up, a face with full lips and great green eyes, a face with wild red hair and a proud demeanor. It was almost a physical thing for Jace, because he knew he'd never see her again. He knew Valentine meant to kill him now. It was over.

"Clary," he sighed, and he wondered, though his heart begged him not to, how she might have fared since her father had took over. He could recall his childhood, and wished fervently it would never happen to Clary. Just the thought of Valentine striking her perfect face was too much to bear.

Jace opened his eyes to darkness and shifted into a more comfortable position. His broken arm protested the movement, but that didn't matter. If it was going to end, Jace was glad to at least have Clary as a last image.

"Little brother," cooed a voice, a beam of green light cutting a line in his darkness. "Little brother, I know you're awake. I don't let you sleep often. Answer me!"

Jace swallowed heavily. "What do you want?"

"To kill you, slowly and painfully, to watch the light leave you eyes and your heart stop beating," he answered cheerfully. "But my father has other plans for you, and I get no say in them. So up on your feet, Jace, we have a dinner to attend."

* * *

"Wrong, Clarissa, wrong, wrong, wrong!" raged Valentine, staring at the Mark she'd drawn. "It's fairly simple, your brother could draw this when he was four." He shook his head and slammed his hand down. "Draw it again, and again, and again. You'll keep doing it until you get it right, hopefully, before I grow tired of putting up with your failure."

Clary tried to steady her hand from shaking when she redrew the Mark for the tenth time. No matter how hard she focused she just couldn't replicate it the way her father had. It was embarrassing to keep drawing over and over again, and she was just waiting for her father to get mad enough and give up, but he seemed determined. Her hand curled and twisted and she stopped gradually. It looked…passable.

"AHHH!" Clary screamed in torment when her father drove his own stele deep into her flesh, slicing the mark into her skin. Cutting deep enough to draw blood and leave a scar. Another scar. She had many now, and not just the normal shadowhunter scars, but ones that growled angrily at her, that burned bright red and raised scabs. "Stop!"

"This is how you draw the Mark. Do you understand, daughter?" he ground the words out and made her look at the bleeding mark on her arm. "Answer me."

"Yes," Clary gasped.

"Again, draw again," ordered her father, and he shoved a pen into her hand.

Now Clary was trembling so bad that she couldn't even put pen to paper before she gave up. She took a deep breath and tried again, and again, the pen just shivered and fell out of her hand. It was pitiable. The presence of her father next to her drove Clary to keep trying, but she could almost feel his impatience as a physical thing

"I-I…" Clary couldn't even try now. She sighed and reviewed her options. If she kept failing, her father was going to take his belt out soon. She blinked slowly, pushing back memories of the first time her father had whipped her. "…I don't think…"

"I didn't ask you to think, Clarissa."

Clary's fingers curled around the pen, but she just gazed at her father. She didn't think it would work, but she had to try anyway. Her eyes widened, pleading the only way she could now. Her lips trembled against her will, and she couldn't stop shaking. It was pathetic and cowardly, but she just couldn't do it. She was begging her father to let her go, and he just stared back.

"You may begin any time now," he said absently, knowing exactly what she wanted him to do. "We've been her for an hour and a half, finish your work."

"I can't, okay?" snapped Clary. "My arm hurts and I can't draw straight anymore, I can barely hold the pen. Just stop this, please." She threw the last word in with the hope it might jog some paternal instinct.

Her father rose slowly from the chair after a long pause. He glared down at her, and she inched to the edge of her chair, ready to jump up and run to her room and find something to put on her wounds. But as she started to stand, her father pushed her back down, eyes glinting.

"You will stay and complete the mark, Clarissa. When you have drawn it properly, you will come to my study and present it to me. If you've done it right, you may go eat, and if not…well, I suppose you will go another day without food."

"Don't…don't do this, father," she whispered, head dropped in agony. But when she looked back up he was gone. Clary gazed at the place he had been and then finally broke down.

The tears bubbled over and raked her body. She dropped the pen. Brushed the paper away. Crumpled into herself and wept. She knew she couldn't draw the Mark. She knew she wasn't going to eat today. It was going on five days and all she'd had was some broth three days ago. Her father was starving her into submission and no one seemed to care.

As she cried, Clary took up the pen and went back to work. She drew the Mark again and again but just couldn't make it. Her hand couldn't make the pen work, couldn't make the Mark. But she just kept at it, hopelessly repeating the exercise, desperately even. And the tears kept coming.

"Please…" Clary moaned, "…can't do this." Her pen drooped in her hand and she ducked her head down.

"Have a little faith, Clary."

The voice was gentle and smooth. It wrapped her up in its warmth and offered her the protection she needed. Another hand cupped hers and began to lead her hand through the paces of the Mark. It traced it once, and then placed the pen in her hand and led her. She was resting her head on the table, watching her hand move in his when another arm pulled her gently up. She rested back against his chest, breathing in his familiar smell.

"Jace," she sighed, and then dropped the pen. She twisted around and locked her arms around his waist, holding on for dear life. "Oh, Jace."

"Don't cry, you can't cry. He'll know you're weak, he'll use it against you, he'll ruin you if you let him." Jace knelt down next to her and cupped her face in his hands. "You're going to have to be strong."

"Why are you here?" Clary sniffled and stared into his golden eyes. "Why now? Are you staying?"

Jace frowned. "I suppose I'm the bribe, Clary. That means, of course, if you fail, things will go poorly for me. So, do me a favor and don't give Valentine a reason to kill me." He grinned slowly and then brought her face to his in a gentle kiss, and then spoke against her lips. "Take this to Valentine. Eat something. Don't worry about me. I'll find you."

* * *

They can't just give us away, Izzy thought, staring out of the broken window into the backyard of the orphanage later that night. She looked like a stature carved of marble, just staring out into the blank, unknown world. We should have a say in this.

Alec sat across from Isabelle, head in hands, looking more broken than ever. Occasionally he would stare at the door, as if trying to pry behind its walls, groping for information. Then, Alec would slip back into a terrible depression, swallowing loudly and shaking his head lost.

"I don't understand, Alec. You're eighteen, you can be my legal guardian," Isabelle said softly. "Why do we have to go with some Valentine-loving family?"

"You heard them. Because we don't have our inheritance, so how would I support you? We'd end up on the streets in days. This is the only option left for us." He reached for her hand and clenched it. "If our parents were here…but they're not."

"But what if they come back?" exclaimed Izzy, and she finally understood her desire to stay at the horrible orphanage. If her parents were ever freed, ever convinced their captors they were decent shadowhunters, they wouldn't be able to find her. She would have been traded away with no trace or record to show for it. She'd never see her parents again. "Do you think this is what Jace felt like when he came to stay with us?"

Just the thought of Jace made Alec's heart clench. It hurt too much to ever consider what had happened to him. All Alec could remember was watching Jace struggle fruitlessly against Jonathan, a terror in his face Alec had never seen. "No, he didn't have anyone. We were the family he was coming to."

"Do you think he misses us?" Izzy stifled a dry sob. She missed Jace painfully, she missed his ironic smile and golden eyes. His smooth voice and gentle touch. She just missed him.

"I'm sure he does. Whatever Valentine's done with him must be horrible." There was a booming laugh from behind the closed door and Alec knew the deal was sealed. "I think we were just sold."

"Don't. Just don't."

"Okay, Izzy. We just have to work through this. These people are willing to take us in, feed us, clothe us, care for us. Just put up with it and smile. It can't be worse than this place."

"Yes, it can," said Izzy slowly, enunciating each word. "It's about to get much, much worse."

"What do you-"

"Hello, children," cooed a slick voice, a shadow growing on the wall like a death cloud. Alec looked up and his face paled. He stuttered, pulled Izzy against him, and began to shake. Isabelle was cowering behind her brother, not at all ashamed of her fear. "Your father's here."

Isabelle and Alec whispered in unison, unable to staunch their disgust and shock. "Malachi."