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Her room was messy; clothes were strewn haphazardly on the floor in piles, as if everything she owned had just been picked up by hurricane winds, and then randomly dropped. Her vanity table was crowded by bottles, compacts and boxes, tubes of lipstick lined neatly in front of the big mirror. There was a door in the left corner, and I could see a sink through the crack, and assumed it was a bathroom. She frowned, hands on her hips, lips pursed in concentration as she looked through the piles, kicking things out of the way. Her face lit up, and she bent down, her hand plunging into a pile of mostly Jean skirts and shorts. She retrieved a pair of shorts almost identical to the ones I had worn yesterday, and chucked them at me. I caught them effortlessly, turning them over in my hands, inspecting the fabric and size. She was a slim girl, but the shorts were still a size too big.
"Help yourself to make up, tops and whatever else. Your holsters and weapons are with Hodge." she gestured vaguely to the corridor, probably to the location of whoever Hodge was. I felt slightly relieved about the fact that my father's weapons were safe, but my clothes were still missing. I looked through piles, picking up flimsy, filmy crop tops or long sleeved winter jumpers. I spotted an item of underwear hanging almost proudly over a lamp; the thin red material would be very visible through most of Isabelle's clothes. I raised my eyebrows at a discarded and lonely stiletto heel, and then continued my search. Isabelle struck me as the kind of girl, who was always flamboyant, and defiantly promiscuous, but people are that way for a reason, I remind myself.
"Thanks, Isabelle. Where are my clothes, anyway?" I asked, finally deciding on a tight black camisole top with flimsy straps and a plunging neckline. It was very flattering and stylish, and the material looked thin enough to show off her bright underwear. There was a knock at the door, and Isabelle dropped the green scarf she had been toying with to answer it. She didn't ask the person in, but gestured for me to get dressed, then stepped outside, closing the door quietly behind her. I shrugged my shoulders, choosing not to question what was going on, and peeled the gown off, folding it neatly and laying it on her bed. I looked at myself in the mirror, which was as wide as the table and almost touched the ceiling. I looked the same as I always did, purple bruises dotted across my ribs, a scraped knee, flat stomach, long legs and I had curves in all the right places, but something was different. I looked tired, un-rested, exhausted, I almost looked worn.
I shook my head, bending down to inspect a small cut on my ankle. I rubbed at the already healing skin, frowning at it as blood started to ooze from it slowly. I straightened up when I heard a creak from the corridor, realising the door wasn't quite shut. I ignored it, pulling my hair off of my face, shaking it out behind me, and then headed to the bathroom. There was a shower in the corner, and a toilet beside the sink, bottles of cream and soap lined up on the shelf above the sink. There was another mirror, this one a lot smaller, above the shelf, and there was a crack that spider-webbed across one corner of it. I pushed the plug into the sink, running cold water into the basin, tapping my fingers impatiently on the cool white surface, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I looked restless, my eyes were too bright, my skin too pale. I thrust my hands into the freezing water, splashing it over my face, hoping to wash away the exhaustion. Soon, I'd be home, and I'd never have to worry about this again. I could go back to being normal. Well, as normal as a Shadowhunter can be.
I used a variety of Isabelle's soaps to scrub away the remaining black demon ichor, and then headed back into her room, rubbing at my damp face with a towel. I looked at the door, which was still open a fraction, but I couldn't hear anyone talking. I pulled on the shorts and top, which weren't too big after all, then moved to her vanity table, sweeping aside the clothes on the chair, perching on the old, rickety stool cautiously. As I started to pull a brush through my hair, Isabelle came back into the room, walking briskly over to her bed.
"Jace burned them. Your clothes, I mean. Oh, don't look so pissed. They had demon poison on." she reasoned when she saw my mouth gape open in shock. How could he burn my clothes? How could he! I slammed the brush down, grabbing a pot of cream, and applying it to my face before standing up rather sharply, reaching for the pair of black converse, and yanking them on. I stormed out of the room, both angry and upset, Isabelle calling after me urgently.
