I do not own most of these characters. Cassandra Clare does. Reviews are so appreciated! Thank you.
Talia was training.
She punched viciously at the bag standing there. Her fists ached from pounding against the rough canvas. Sweat dripped down the side of her face, plastering her dark hair to her temples.
If only she could just punch all of her problems away. That would be easier, Talia mused.
"Tal- you're going to kill that bag."
Talia didn't even turn to know it was Christopher. "So?" Her breathing rhymed with the steady sound of her knuckles against the bag.
"I mean..." Christopher edged into Talia's sight. His hair was hastily brushed, damp, curling at the edges, and he was in a ratty tee and jeans. "Is something... wrong?"
"Wrong? No, everything's just great," Talia said, letting sarcasm drip from her words. She smashed the bag one last time, turned around, and put her hands on her hips. "Did you come here to tell me something important?"
Christopher looked hurt. More than hurt- he looked wounded. Talia felt a tiny twang of guilt in her stomach, but she shoved it down. "It's just..." Christopher shuffled his feet.
Talia examined her split knuckles in a manner that she hoped as casual. "Just what, Christopher?"
"You need a stele for that," Christopher said quietly, pointing at Talia's bruised and bloody hands.
"No, I don't. You need to tell me what's going on."
Christopher bit his lips. "There's a group here, from the New York Institute. They're trying to help us."
Interest spiked in Talia's head. She raised her eyebrows. "Really? Who?"
Christopher appeared that he was trying not to look too eager. "Jace Herondale."
"And? Not just the show-off, hopefully," Talia scorned.
"He's not a show-off." Christopher crossed his arms over his chest.
"Just because you're in love with him doesn't mean we all are," Talia snapped, and immediately wished that she could stuff the words back in her mouth. Christopher's face flushed pink, then turned as purple as a plum. His eyes glistened.
Oh, by the Angel. Why do I always have to make him cry?
"Chris-" Talia started, but Christopher shook his head. "Stop," he choked, and left.
Talia ground her teeth in frustration and windmill-kicked the bag as hard as she could. It swayed slightly to the left. She knew that she shouldn't have teased Christopher about that, especially since she suspected that he was actually in love with Jace.
Talia made herself stop smashing the bag to pieces. She picked up her training bag with her clothes, headed down to the washroom, showered quickly, and stepped into jeans and a faded blue shirt, pulling her dark hair back, and then heading down the steps, bag slung over one shoulder.
The Institute was bustling with people, most of them in Clave robes. Talia scanned the crowd just as someone came rushing up to her- Savannah Carstairs. If Talia remembered correctly, she was the cousin of Emma Carstairs, who she had heard a lot about.
Savannah's blond hair was pulled back into a tangly braid, and her cheeks were flushed. "Have you seen Jace?" She gushed. "By the Angel-"
"They're here to help us with the demonic activity and wards, not for people to fall in love with them," Talia replied cuttingly, but Savannah appeared to be in such a good mood that she was still beaming. She grabbed Talia's wrist and, despite her protestings, dragged her towards the middle of the room,
There was a group clustered there- a boy with black hair and dark blue eyes, wearing a ratty brown pullover sweater with a blue scarf wrapped around his neck, standing by a man with tousled black hair. He turned, and Talia swallowed a gasp- he had slitted cat-eyes, gold and green. Warlock.
There was a woman with red hair, streaked with silver, wearing a black turtleneck and jeans and boots, looking around nervously, fiddling with her hair as she spoke to the head of the Institute, Giena Nightdove. Then there was another girl, looking like a carbon copy of the woman, except with a more petite frame. She had red curls drawn back in a ponytail and bright green eyes. Mother and daughter, Talia suspected.
There was a beautiful woman with dark, raven-black hair, standing next to a man with crooked glasses and brown hair, chatting with a Shadowhunter from the Dunedin Institute.
And then, the person they had all been speaking about- a man, standing by the petite red-headed girl. He held himself with a kind of loose confidence. His golden hair caught sparks from each lamp hanging precariously from the ceiling, and his tawny eyes scanned the room with a kind of observation that was particular to good Shadowhunters.
Talia immediately hated him.
"He's gorgeous," Savannah gasped.
"That's his girlfriend." Talia pointed at the red-headed girl. "Clarissa Fairchild."
"Whatever." Savannah waved her hand arily. "I'm going to go talk to him."
"They have to get settled," Talia argued, but Savannah had already rushed up. Jace Herondale looked skeptical, while Clarissa laughed behind her hand.
A smile twitched at Talia's lips and she shook it away. She had better things to worry about. She shook her head and headed up the stairs, back to the training room.
