A/N: Hey guys! I'm back (after literally forever... Sorry about that...)! I've been SUPER busy with school ( it totally paid off though, we just got our class ranks :) ) but it's winter break, and I saw a recent guest review asking for another chapter, so here it is!

First off, I want to thank my beta. I wouldn't have been able to write this chapter or finish outlining my story without her :)

GOod News: I have finished outlining this story, and I expect it to be between 20 and 30 chapters. The bad news is that it might take me a VERY long time to write, as I am a super busy person, even in the summer. However, I will do my best to update as often as possible.

A few notes: You may notice that there are several parallels between this story and Sarah J. Maas' Throne of Glass series (MY FAVORITE). This is intentional. It is loosely based on and inspired by TOG. Also, despite what the first chapter's details may suggest, this story takes place in the late 1800's.

Since it's been so long, you might want to reread the last chapter. If you are new to this story, welcome :)

Recap:

"Hello, assassin," he drawls. "Would you care to tell me why, exactly, you've been following me?"

I give him a grin of my own and stomp hard on the soft part of his foot and slam a vicious knee into his stomach, causing his iron grip on me to falter as he keels over. Swiping his blade from his grasp, I use the deadly muscle lining my deceptively thin body to swing his lean body so that our positions are reversed.

Pushing his blade so hard into his neck that I draw blood, I retort, "And would you care to tell me why, exactly, someone wants you dead?"

Chapter 2

Our eyes remain locked, gold against green, and I imagine how I must look to him, in a menacing midnight hood that casts my entire face in swirling shadows. I can see myself reflected in his amber eyes: the portrait of Death, come to steal his soul away.

Herondale clears his throat, and our little staring contest is over. "I'm sure it's just someone jealous of my level of absolute perfection," he says with a cocky smirk.

I roll my eyes, but the gesture is lost on him. Right. "Let me rephrase myself. An anonymous client offered me a very generous sum of money to put a blade through your trachea. Why?"

When he remains silent, I dig the blade into his throat even harder, watching rivulets of crimson blood trail into the collar of his black t-shirt. "You know, I'm being very generous by even giving you the opportunity to explain yourself. I could always just slit your throat and be done with it."

The corner of Herondale's mouth twitches almost imperceptibly before he says, "I got tangled in the affairs of someone I would have preferred not to have."

"Pangborn," I supply, remembering the earlier conversation I overheard.

He nods sharply, a look of utter disdain on his angular face. "I was pulled into his little band of thugs about two months ago. Not by choice though. Pangborn is the spearhead of the drug trade for the entire Eastern Seaboard. He specializes in a peculiar new substance called Yin Fen. Nasty stuff. It gives its user temporary pain relief and euphoria, but once it's got its talons in you, it doesn't let go. The addicts that do survive don't recover for years.

"My brother, Alec, left our sorry excuse for a home about nine weeks ago. Never returned, didn't leave a note or tell me where he was going. I got a letter from his captors about a week letter telling me that they would return him to me if I joined their merry band of criminals and drug lords and found them some old piece of junk called the Mortal Cup. So, for the past two months, I've had no choice but to aid Pangborn in his filthy drug trade, be his errand boy, defeat his enemies, look for sentimental, antique cups, etcetera, etcetera."

I pause to think for a moment, mulling over his tale. There is one particular detail of his story that intrigues me.

"Why you?" I finally say.

He looks at me as if I am some strange, beautiful creature that he has never seen the likes of before. "What do you mean?"

"Why you? What makes you so special? Why does Pangborn think that you can find him this Mortal Cup? Why did he go to such lengths to set you on the hunt for it when he could have just sent one of his goons?"

Herondale thinks for a moment. "A few days ago, I overheard a conversation between Pangborn and his second, Blackwell. They apparently know of some secret of my birth, something that makes me qualified to find this ancient, glorified wine goblet. I don't know why he wants it so bad, but, quite frankly, I don't care. If finding it gets me my brother back, I'll give Pangborn the Mortal fucking toilet bowl."

I try very hard to suppress my laugh, but a small chuckle still manages to escape me. "And what happens if you don't find this Mortal Cup?"

His gaze darkens at this. He stares over my shoulder at nothing, seemingly lost in the void of his own thoughts. "If I don't find it, then they slaughter my older brother like an animal while I watch and throw his body into the sea."

I am momentarily distracted by this notion, thinking of my own older brother. Jon. What would I do if he was to suffer such a fate? Anything, my mind answers for me. And then you'd make whoever took him scream in agony for what they did, just before you slit their throats from ear to ear.

My moment of distraction is all it takes for Herondale to wrestle the knife from his throat, spin our bodies around, and slam my head against the wall with all the force of a freight train moving full speed. A sharp pain fleetingly drills through my head before it fades to a dull, throbbing ache.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a final glimpse of Herondale's golden curls as he hurtles out of the room. I stumble to my feet, the combination of dizziness and the black spots beginning to cloud my vision making walking more difficult than usual. I'll manage.

I burst into a full sprint, turning the corner out of the back room before cutting a path through the frightened revelers. As I approach the doorway to the club, which still hasn't swung fully shut from Herondale's exit, I grip the doorframe with my fingers and swing myself through the opening, slamming my feet into the door to halt its path on the way. My body hurtles down the alleyway towards the blur of gold and black ahead of me, my head still spinning from its exciting encounter with the wall.

The chase continues through the stinking streets of New York, never once losing its intensity. Adrenaline pounds through my veins, filling me with the same exhileration I feel each time I go on the prowl. I was born for this profession, as sick as it is. My legs propel me forward at breakneck speed past block after block. The chase doesn't stop until we round a corner and we finally come to an alley with a dead end. "There's nowhere to run now, Herondale," I croon, unsheathing my twin blades and spinning them in my palms. I take a few menacing steps forward, backing him into a corner.

He looks one last time over his shoulder, his mouth twisted in that infuriating smirk of his, before he takes off again, bounding up the wall in front of him as if he is flying. I flash a feral grin of my own before leaping up after him. This is going to be fun.

Herondale and I glide from rooftop to rooftop, never once slowing down or faltering even a step. As the wind whistles by, the cool night breeze filtering in and out of my lungs, I decide that this is what it is to be free. But you are not free. You are bound to the Assassin's Guild until you pay off your debts or meet your death. Likely the latter.

Herondale continues bounding between the rooftops on his long legs, graceful as a cat. There is an unmistakable beauty in him, from the lithe muscles of his body to the way he seemed to simply glide through the air. I can't help but marvel at the mysterious person before me. When I finally allow myself to think about what my task here is, I realize that I simply cannot find it in me to kill this man. If he even is a man. From what I can tell, he's barely more than a boy. He can't be more than nineteen or twenty. And if I kill him, his brother will die.

No sum of money could make me do such a thing.

After we return to ground level, I slow my pace to a walk. When Herondale ceases to her my quick footfalls behind him, he turns around, a look of confusion crossing his face.

I give his the barest of nods. Understanding, he nods back and disappears into the night.

Without the adrenaline of the chase, my head begins pounding again, an insistent, low ache. Nausea overtakes my senses as I stumble the path back to the Assassin's Guild. I make it one more block before I hurl my guts up in a pile of already festering filth. I can't shake the insistent dizziness plaguing my body.

But still, I eventually find myself on the drive of the Guild, black spots swimming across my vision. Coming here empty-handed was a mistake. That is the final thought to enter my mind before my legs give out on the doorstep and the world turns to blackness.

AAAAAAAND there's Chapter 2. Don't forget to leave me a review! It would be much appreciated, whether it is constructive criticism, a flame, feedback, or praise. Hopefully, Chapter 3 will be posted before the end of the week! Happy Holidays!

Fly on, my fellow Shadowhunters,

Kat