RUDE AWAKENING

"It's not the lies we tell others that do the most damage, it's those we tell ourselves. From this all troubles rise."
―Anthony McCarten


At first Whitley wasn't quite sure where she was. A thick fog had settled in her head and edges of her sight were blurred. Her heart felt like it was beating out of her chest and a fine sheen of sweat plasters her clothes to her back. Over the near deafening roar in her ears she heard sounds both muted and loud but they didn't register. Gradually she became aware of cool tile beneath her damp palms and the avant-garde photos sitting on the dark green restroom walls. Realizing she was sprawled rather awkwardly on the floor, she attempted to stand but a heaviness in her limbs rendered her inert. Giving her body time to recuperate and waiting for stability to reassert itself, she took a moment to figure out how she'd gotten here. The last thing she remembered was seeing that creature lunge at her. She tried to recall what occurred next but could only evoke a torrent of emotions, panic and fear the strongest among them. Images that should've completed the memory didn't. As if she'd been blinded temporarily and robbed of her sight during the encounter. Had she been truly able to ward off her anxiety attack or had she passed out and imagined the whole thing? She hoped so, just thinking about what happened was capable of sending her mind into a perpetual whorl of tumult.

Slowly but surely her senses returned. The fierce ringing present in her ears faded and her vision cleared. Loud music and excited chatter in the distance resounded off thin walls. The fog in her mind started to lift, but her brain was still addled and fuzzy enough that it took a moment to process the sound of glass breaking. Alarm ripped through her when she looked up and saw golden eyes staring at her. Recognizing the blond boy from the night before, she stifled a scream and scrambled away to put some distance between them. Her back hit something hard and she instantly became more alert, fully aware of her surroundings. How long had he been there? And was he in fact real or a figment of her imagination she conjured up to deal with her mother's death?

Whitley was certain she didn't want to know the answer to that question, as it probably wasn't going to be the one she desperately needed it to be. In the end it didn't matter; real or not he was dangerous. Her eyes fell to the blade in his hand and a sliver of trepidation wormed it's into her heart, but she adamantly ignored it. She had to get out of here and back to the party, where her friends would be looking for her soon and where the distractions she desired were plenty. She glanced furtively at the door and immediately dismissed the idea. It was the most obvious option and a moot endeavor as he was flush in front of it. It was also the only option, there was no window to scurry out of and in her current condition she was no better than a lethargic, excess movement was improbable. To her surprise as she further contemplated a different means of escape the boy simply watched, unmoving from his position, leaving her to speculation. Why was he here of all places, had he known were she was?

At the thought Whitley snatched up an errant glass shard lying on the ground nearby and pointed it at him in pure desperation. "Stay back!" Her voice came out shakier than she would have liked and she knew the second he wished it he could possibly tear her to shreds, but she didn't want to give in completely to her fear. Unease mounted as he lifted the dagger and light gleamed wickedly off worn metal. It diminished a moment later and was superseded by bewilderment when he not only put the weapon away, but splayed his empty hands and approached her as if she was the hazardous one.

"I'm not going to hurt you." The words sounded stiff and formal like he'd never used them before and the briefest flicker of discomfort crossed his face but Whitley didn't notice. Weeks of bridled emotion that had been simmering underneath her façade of resilience finally set alight.

"Liar. You're one of those creatures. The first thing you do is hurt people. You killed—" She cut off abruptly and shuddered, trying to force the rapid swirl of sickening and painful images out of her mind in an effort to regain her composure. Though venting did help abate her pain to some extent, her outburst was childish and unnecessary; it hadn't been him that had killed her mother after all. Absently Whitley chastised herself.

"I'm not a demon."

Shock siphoned the blood from her face and hit her full force. "Demon?" That was the last thing she could've expected to hear. For a moment uncertainty took hold of her and she considered the idea. If what he said was true it explained some things, but not why anyone else couldn't see him or the demons. The logical side of her brain chimed in as it always did and denial rose up, sharp and fast. It's impossible. "No. Demons aren't real. You're lying to me." At least not the monsters she'd seen, ones that apparently freely roamed the night and had naturally distorted forms. Monsters of the day however, one's that looked like her and blended in with society, those were a different story—mere wolves in sheep's clothing. These creatures were something else entirely, something that had the power to strike raw terror into even the bravest of souls. Her greatest nightmares come to life. It's impossible, she reiterated refusing to believe it.

'There is no point in using the word 'impossible' to describe something that has clearly happened.' At the sound of Geneva's voice Whitley went rigid, before remembering her mother was no longer here and would only exist in memories now. A familiar hollow feeling bloomed in her chest and she clenched her fists to alleviate a agonizing bout of grief. She faltered as barely healed wounds opened and suddenly wanted nothing more than to check out and fall back into her old coping habits. The hot pinpricks of tears stung the backs of her eyes and she stubbornly blinked them away. She would get past this, she had to.

Regrettably the boy seems to be as stubborn as she. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news but they are. You just killed one."

Whitley's eyes shot to where she'd seen the creature last. For a second time she tried to recall what happened after seeing it lunge at her and hit a wall, some sort of mental block that left a bit of the memory she couldn't account for. That meant she had passed out didn't it, or something to that effect. There could be no other plausible explanation for the gap. "No. I—I didn't it... None of this real. It can't be." She pressed a hand to her forehead as the room spun once more and pain erupted above her brow. Ceaseless questions raced round her mind. Why did he think she had killed it? Why was she humoring him, if he was a figment of her imagination couldn't she just make him go away? He had to disappear eventually right?

Deciding it best to forego all thought, Whitley closed her eyes to shut out anything and everything around her. But the din persisted, the boy's voice in particular, shattering her concentration. "Come with me." Her eyes snapped open at his words and she regarded him incredulously. He can't honestly think I'll go with somewhere with him, if he does he's crazier than I am. "Don't argue. We have to leave, you aren't safe here."

Again, the words sounded stilted and wooden like he was a bad actor reciting from some script. Despite her misgivings and because think was all she could do, his words took root in her mind. Through a haze of confusion and doubt Whitley searched for answers. Was the primal emotion of fear clouding her reason? Could someone who sought to harm her be looking at her with such urgency—an expression that on someone else would have mirrored concern? If he was real she didn't want to let him deceive her. Would he turn into a monster as the other one had?

As conflicted thoughts trundled about her brain like a freight train with no signs of stopping she noticed something on the back of his left hand. An outlandish symbol bearing the resemblance of an eye, just like the one presently donning her own. Before she was even aware of what she was doing, Whitley got to her feet, the voice of caution whispering softly not to rise so fast. Inexplicably drawn she found herself moving forward. The burst of heat that spread up her arm at his touch caught her off guard and she realized dimly that she'd taken his hand. She dropped it quickly, a strange mixture of fear and relief spreading through her at the very solid feeling appendage in her own. She might not be crazy and yet…. A nagging sensation gripped her and questions that had been there all along emerged from her heart of hearts. She asked the most prominent ones, "What is that? Why can't anyone else see you?"

The boy, who upon her touching him had gone deathly still, eyed her curiously. Probably trying to gauge whether or not she was genuine. Apparently appeased by what he found there, he inquisitively leaned forward. "Do you not know?"

Unnerved by the predacious gleam of the tawny eyes boring into her own, Whitley took shallow breaths to calm herself and backed up a little, cursing inwardly at how close she'd gotten. A bolt of dread coursed through her as a corner of his lips curled upward in amusement. With a start she realized he was enjoying her unease. A little incensed by this, she defiantly fought the impulse to flee and soldiered on. "Should I?"

The boy straightened and raised his left hand, bringing the strange mark closer. As if her staring at it longer would elicit some recognition."You don't know what this? What y— I am?" Sensing the gravity of the question she simply shook her head. He dropped his hand and stared down at her. His fair brows furrowed as examined her carefully and the predatory gleam in eyes seemed to intensify. Reflexively Whitley squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. The urge to fight is strong within her, even if it is for something as intangible as sanity. Unexpectedly the boy relaxes and smirks. "Interesting."

"What is?" It was strange talking to someone whom no one else could see but responding to a statement directed towards her was involuntary; she couldn't imagine herself being a rude person in the most unconventional situation.

"Nothing. Shall we go?"

"No. I'm not going anywhere with you. I don't even know your name. You haven't answered my question by the way. Why can't anyone else see you?"

"It's Jace." He said matter-of-factly, gesturing impatiently to the door. "I don't have time to explain everything to you. Shall we go?"

"No." Whitley said uncertainly. She still wasn't sure if any of this was real or not. She couldn't trust herself to make any sound life changing decisions right now. Her mind was at war and her emotions were teetering; every word, thought and action was conflicted. She didn't dare mention anything pertaining to demons aloud, saying something aloud, and thus acknowledging it, made it real in a way. She knew her approach was immature but who would want to believe in monsters, demons and the like. No one she knew and certainly no one sane.

Choosing to fixate on a something less dismal, Whitley looked around. For some reason everything appears to be muddled and puzzlingly disjointed. No help there. Her eyes went back to the boy—Jace—and she found herself studying him. Up close she sees how aristocratic his features are, even in a state of repose they manage to look haughty. He has a calm, almost uninterested demeanor and his manner of speaking is sarcastic, bordering on cryptic. Her gaze traveled farther down, resting on his strange scars and markings. Precipitously, she is struck by how thorough and otherworldly her hallucinations are. Yes she consumed anything fictional with fervent ardor, but she didn't think her imagination was this inventive. Of all the things she could have imagined, of all the fantasies to retreat into, why this one? Surely her mind was not that fractured and worn yet. "Where?" She heard herself ask.

"Hmm?" Jace did not seem so pressed for time as he had a moment ago. Every so often he glances at a small metallic object resting in his hand but other than that he's the picture of ease.

"If I were to go with you, where would you take me?"

"The Institute." He says readily, pocketing the weird item with a practiced flourish.

Whitley's response was instantaneous. Her blood runs cold as iciness spreads out from her core and engulfs her. Her mother, a person that had beenincredibly real, had mentioned the Institute. The mark on Jace's hand looked just like her's and Whitley had seen him talking to Clary before she'd gone missing… It's too much coincidence for it not be connected somehow.Her legs almost gave out as the truth loomed over her, forcing itself upon her. She suddenly had to fight a battle of personal restraint as the juvenile urge to cry and scream nearly overtook her—not because anything hurt, but because all of this was real.

At this revelation any vestigial hope she had of regaining some semblance of normalcy vanished and her entire body sagged in defeat. She can feel herself begin to slip into unyielding despondency, then feel her mind automatically pull itself back from the brink. It was not just dejection she felt. What she felt was much more complex than that, something she couldn't even begin to comprehend. It occurred to her that this could all be a nightmare. Perhaps she ought to just play along until she woke up and then never think about it again. Or maybe if she refused to believe it her world would right itself. But Whitley knew she could no longer ignore the problem in hopes it would go away, the more she tried to ignore the truth, the more it would persist.

She became aware of a minute burning sensation on her left palm and is surprised to see vicious black liquid staining it. Irrefutable proof of the creature's existence. Mystified, she lifted her other hand to inspect the stain further and found her wrist encased in a strong grip. Yet again golden eyes met hers and she quickly retracted her hand. "What is it? You must know."

"Ichor."

"Ichor?" She repeated dubiously. "The blood of the gods?" She examines the thick plasma curiously, this isn't what she'd pictured the famed mythic blood looking like.

Jace grinned sardonically. "Something like that. You may want to wipe it off."

Whitley takes his advice and hastily wipes the ichor on her dress. She flexes her hand to suppress the unwanted tingling and grimaces at the foreign substance now sullying burgundy fabric, Luca was going to kill her. Impatiently Whitley shook her head, pulling her drifting thoughts together.

"You alright?" Jace asked, looking like he was waiting for her to fly off the handle again.

"No." She replies shakily, voice a wisp on the air. Her world was in tatters and she didn't know how to react. Every muscle felt tight, ready for action and she was too stunned to cry. She took a deep, steadying breaths but her head remains as light and airy as a balloon. Her pulse skittered and she leaned heavily on a nearby wall. She pressed her face against it, letting the frigid surface cool her feverish skin.

Lighting flares off blond hair in the corner of her eye and Jace fills her peripheral vision. "You're not going to pass out on me are you?"

Overlooking his mocking tone Whitley eyed the floor wearily through bleary eyes. It didn't look dirty and seems more comfortable than it should. "I hope not." She let loose a sigh and allowed herself to think. The relief she felt was overwhelming. Weeks of looking over her shoulder and being afraid of what could be lurking hidden in the shadows had left her tired. Tiredness borne of being anxious and scared she'd been losing her mind. But now that she knew she wasn't insane, she sincerely wished she didn't. These creatures shouldn't exist in anything but stories and film. She searched for the validity in it all but what if there was none? These creatures did exist and would continue to do so whether she believed or not. What was the point in going crazy over something she couldn't control?

Jace's voice cuts through her minds contemplative clamor. "You better not. I already had to carry one unconscious girl across two boroughs, I don't want to carry another." He pauses, considering. "Though since were already in Manhattan I suppose I can make an exception."

If he'd been trying to draw a reaction from her, he'd succeeded. The hairs on the back of her neck rise and she suddenly painfully aware of how unnatural this is. Discovering that he was real didn't make him any less dangerous. Fear and tension knotted themselves together inside her as she pushed away from the wall. It only took a moment for her to reorient herself and for her survival instinct to kick in. "You're talking about Clary aren't you? What did you do to her?" She asked, feeling around in her pockets for her pepper spray and coming up empty, she must have lost in the scuffle. She spots in the stall nearest the door and discreetly edges her way toward it.

Jace intercepts her effortlessly. "If you think I hurt her your wrong."

"Am I? I saw you with her last night and her friend Simon says she's gone missing. You just said you that carried an unconscious girl back to the Institute with you. Don't tell me my concern is unfounded."

"I didn't say the unconscious girl was Clary."

"Oh? I suppose her going missing after talking to you is just a coincidence then." If he thinks he can lull her into a false sense of security he's going to be disappointed. He doesn't stop her this time as she scoots around him and sprints over to the canister. She shakes it and finds it half empty, she must have already used it. She briefly wonders how effective mace is against the fiends of hell then concludes that it probably isn't effective at all. Her gaze ventured to where the shape shifting demon had been. So how did I kill it?

Jace interrupts her potential reverie before it can form. "She came after me. It's not my fault curiosity overtakes her sense. She's fine."

"Is she? Why hasn't she contacted Simon then?" Her hand tightens around the canister as she bites the inside of her cheek. A nervous habit she'd adopted in middle school to soothe her frazzled nerves; which are currently all but shot. She looks down, catching the slight tremor in her hands and folds her arms across her chest to hide it. Showing weakness doesn't seem like a good idea right now.

He shrugs, a smirk teasing the corners of his mouth. "Your guess is as good as mine. She certainly left him behind readily enough." The smirk turns into a full on smile, seemingly in remembrance. "During his bumbling avowal of love no less."

"Is that so?" Whitley inquires cynically.

"You don't believe me?"

"Of course I don't. I've known you all of ten minutes." There's a reason her group of friends is small. Trust was a huge issue of significance for her, those she befriended and confided in were usually worthy of such open faith. There was always something about them that made her gravitate to them, a kindness in their eyes. Whitley didn't see that in Jace, instead she saw something far worse, an essence of danger restrained. A plan builds in her mind and she starts to make her way towards the door. If he was deliberately hiding his presence, he couldn't risk attacking her in public. While she wouldn't reveal his existence to others lest she imperil them, there is safety in numbers. Even if a large percent of those numbers are probably intoxicated in some way or another.

As she neared the door Jace spoke with a staid calmness. "I can take you to her, the Institute isn't that far away from here."

Whitley highly doubts that. It seems a little too convenient to her, and the thought of going off somewhere with a random stranger—much less one nobody else can see—is hardly assuring. In addition to the fact that he might be a demon and refuses to answer her questions, she was also fairly certain he'd been the last one to see Clary unharmed. She glances sidelong at him, he doesn't look like he's lying, though he is most likely a very good liar. Cunning is presumably one of the strongest attributes of a demon. Jace had said he wasn't one but…

A cynical inner voice cuts through her thoughts. What if he's telling the truth? It was this question that stopped her. Against her better judgment she spun on her heel to face him, trying to get a glimpse of the intent behind that impassive veneer of his. He hadn't turned into a monster yet, but he could have just been binding his time. Conversely his actions and words suggested otherwise. He may have been enigmatic, but during their short association he'd had ample opportunity to harm her, she couldn't think of any other time in her life she'd been more vulnerable. There's a chance she was being overly optimistic, but her deductions were sensible. She is not so obstinate that refutes other possibilities.

"How do I know you're not lying? That Clary isn't face down in a dumpster somewhere?" There is defiance in her tone as well as a subtle challenge. Beneath all the distress and disquiet was someone who felt they had nothing to lose.

He met her accusing eyes unflinchingly. "You don't. And you won't—not unless you come to the Institute with me."

Irked by elusiveness Whitley released a sound of agitation. She contemplates what she knows is true and how bad an idea this is. The long and short of it was that she had questions, questions that needed answering. If he had those answers… In order to trust him, in order to believe in any of this, even a little she knew she had to shut off the logical, rational part of her mind. But for someone like Whitley, who was ruled by her head rather than her heart that would be hard, painfully so. Finally she pushed away her thoughts and therefore her uncertainty. "I'll go with you, but you have stay in my sight the entire time. No detours or getting behind me."

"Fair enough."

Dutifully ignoring the smile still on his lips, Whitley stepped back and inclined her head towards the door. "After you."