Heyo nerds, here is yet another chapter of my story that I hope yall will enjoy. As per usual I own nothing except new characters and ideas, I make no money from writing, and all rights go to the rightful owners. Lately it has been like my mental health took a big leap forward, meaning my physical health has improved too. Which hopefully means my writing will be better than it has been…anyway leave a review if you'd like!

My heart was heavy as I walked away from the infirmary, Isabelle wanted to be alone with her brother. I walked to the library, the sound of glass shuttering chilled me. "Clary?" I yelled as I ran through the door. Through the shattered glass I saw her flaming locks chasing after her shadowed body.

I ran after her, surprised to find no glass littering the floor. Was I crazy?

Howling, growling. Werewolves? Why were they here?

My breath got in my throat, Clary fell to the ground as the wolf caught her leg. I launched myself, she couldn't take care of herself when she was unconscious.

I was thrown to the side, before I could heave myself up the wolf turned back into a man. "Weird." I muttered, pulling my sword from my belt.

"My name is Luke!" he held his hand up, "Clary is hurt, help me get her back to my place. I'm her friend."

"She's mentioned you" I narrowed my eyes, replacing the sword. "What happened?"

"Hodge tried killing her."

"Wait what?" I nearly screamed, "And you let him get away?!"

I was forced to sit with Clary in the small concrete, barred cell. She laid on a plain grey cot, seemingly to slowly regain consciousness. I had healed her already. I wasn't about to let her wake up in pain.

"You're awake" my voice was flat, "Finally."

"What?" she held her head, looking around confused. "Where are we?"

Before I could answer Luke strode across the room. She nearly fainted, maybe from seeing him, maybe because of what had happened before I arrived. Luke caught her and steadied her again. "Clary?" he said, reaching for her. "Are you all right?"

She flinched away, throwing up her hands to ward him off. "Don't touch me."

An expression of profound hurt crossed his face. Wearily he drew a hand across his forehead. "I guess I deserve that."

"Yeah. You do." She snapped, if only I could crawl from this cell and escape this highly personal moment.

The look on his face was troubled. "I don't expect you to trust me—"

"That's good. Because I don't."

"Clary…" He began to pace the length of the cell. "What I did … I don't expect you to understand. I know you feel that I abandoned you—"

"You did abandon me," she said. "You told me never to call you again. You never cared about me. You never cared about my mother. You lied about everything."

"Not," he said, "about everything."

"So your name really is Luke Garroway?"

His shoulders drooped perceptibly. "No," he said, then glanced down. A dark red patch was spreading across the front of his blue denim shirt.

Clary sat up straight. "Is that blood?" she demanded. Worry creased her forehead, anger subsiding.

"Yes," said Luke, his hand against his side. "The wound must have torn open when I lifted you."

"What wound?" Clary couldn't help asking.

He said with deliberation: "Hodge's discs are still sharp, though his throwing arm is not what it once was. I think he may have nicked a rib."

"Hodge?" Clary said. "When did you…?"

She gasped suddenly, a look of realization slapped her across the face.

"You're a werewolf."

He took his hand away from his shirt; his fingers were stained red. "Yep," he said laconically. He moved to the wall and rapped sharply on it: once, twice, three times. Then he turned back to her. "I am."

"You killed Hodge," she held her head in her hands.

"No." He shook his head. "I hurt him pretty badly, I think, but when I went back for the body, it was gone. He must have dragged himself away."

"You tore at his shoulder," she said. "I saw you."

"Yes. Though it's worth noting that he was trying to kill you at the time. Did he hurt anyone else?"

Clary sank her teeth into her lip, a bitter look coming across her face then sadness. "Jace," she said in a whisper. "Hodge knocked him out and handed him over to… to Valentine."

"To Valentine?" Luke said, looking astonished. "I knew Hodge had given Valentine the Mortal Cup, but I hadn't realized—"

I bit my hand to keep from screaming, the uneasy feeling in my stomach subsiding ever so slightly. There was more to come.

Clary sat with me as Luke regaled us with how the both the circle came to be and how it came to an end. Or, really, what they thought was an end. He even mentioned and affair, one Valentine had barely remembered. One he had intended to wipe from existence and seemingly had.

Clarys hand somehow found mine, tears dripped down my cheeks. "My mother" I interrupted him, "My mother was never a mistake, my brother and I were never a mistake!" I screamed, my throat feeling raw. "He is the one who killed them. He is the reason I have no one."

"You're Madeline's daughter?" he looked surprised, empathy sinking into his features, "I'm not surprised, you look like her. I thought it was coincidence." He amended before continuing. I had never felt so painfully numb yet bitter.

"I have a sister." She concluded, "I don't care if it's half, you are my family, you are not alone." her grip on my hand tightened.

"As long as we kill him, he's made us lose too much Clary."

Hand in hand we walked through the door of what was supposed to be Renwick's. Screams of the forsaken filling the air outside, Luke wasted no time guiding up the stairs, peeking into every room. Weapons, empty beds, nothingness.

And then a spark of hope.

A familiar woman laid seemingly asleep on a wooden bed. She was on her back, one hand thrown carelessly across her chest, her hair spread across the pillow. She wore a sort of white nightdress that looked older than she was. She was breathing regularly and quietly. In the piercing moonlight, you could see the flutter of her eyelids as she dreamed.

With a little scream Clary hurled herself forward—but Luke's out flung arm caught her across the chest like a bar of iron, holding her back. "Wait," he said, his own voice tense with effort. "We have to be careful."

"Your mom?" my voice as tight as my throat felt. Feebly she nodded, anger and sadness flooding her freckled face.

"Her name is Jocelyn."

Clary glared at him, but he was looking past her, his expression angry and pained. She followed the line of his gaze and saw what she had not wanted to see before. Silver manacles closed around Jocelyn's wrists and feet, the ends of their chains sunk deep into the stone floor on either side of the bed. The table beside the bed was covered in a weird array of tubes and bottles, glass jars and long, wickedly tipped instruments glinting with surgical steel. A rubberized tube ran from one of the glass jars to a vein in Jocelyn's left arm.

Clary jerked herself away from Luke's restraining hand and lunged toward the bed, wrapping her arms around her mother's unresponsive body. But it was like trying to hug a badly jointed doll. Jocelyn remained motionless and stiff, her slow breathing unaltered.

"Valentine," she said.

"Of course." Luke was beside her, touching her mother's face lightly, raising her eyelids. The eyes beneath were as blank as marbles. "She's not drugged," he said. "Some kind of spell, I expect."

Clary half dragged me from the room, barely zig-zagging past Pangborn, skirting past Blackwell's dead body on the floor. Our shoes dipping into the pool of his blood.

"Jace," she cried, her voice filled with longing, sadness, relief, so many swirling emotions. He turned, dropping the curtain, and she saw the wondering look on his face.

"Jace!" she said again, and ran toward him. He caught her as she flung herself at him. His arms wrapped tightly around her.

"Clary." His voice was almost unrecognizable. "Clary, what are you doing here?"

Her voice was muffled against his shirt. "I came for you."

"You shouldn't have." His grip on her loosened suddenly; he stepped back, holding her a little away from him. "My God," he said, touching her face. "You idiot, what a thing to do." His voice was angry, but the gaze that swept her face, the fingers that gently brushed her hair back, were tender. She had never seen him look like this; there was a sort of fragility about him, as if he might be not just touched but hurt, even. "Why don't you ever think?" he whispered.

"I was thinking," she said. "I was thinking about you."

He closed his eyes for a moment. "If anything had happened to you…" His hands traced the line of her arms gently, down to her wrists, as if to reassure himself that she was really there. "How did you find me?"

"It's not possible." I rolled my eyes, "There is no way you are related to Clary or I." I tried reasoning, Clary nodded in agreement. "You look nothing like any of us, not her mother, not her, not me, not my brother, not the bastard that's been murdering people for no good reason!"

-Other p.o.v

A loud clash of metal sounded behind her. Clary pulled away from Jace and saw that Valentine had struck at Luke, who had met his blow with an ear-shattering parry. Their blades ground apart, and now they were moving across the floor in a blur of feints and slashes. "Oh, my God," she whispered. "They're going to kill each other."

Jace's eyes were nearly black. "You don't understand," he said. "This is how it's done—" He broke off and sucked in a breath as Luke slipped past Valentine's guard, catching him a blow across the shoulder. Blood flowed freely, staining the cloth of his white shirt.

"This is how nothing is done, I never knew you were so weak. To think people looked up to you, a traitor, so quick to believe pretty lies." His stare was venomous but he couldn't speak, somewhere deep down he knew every word Aurelia spoke was truth…

Valentine threw back his head and laughed. "A true hit," he said. "I hardly thought you had it in you, Lucian."

Luke stood very straight, the knife blocking his face from Clary's view. "You taught me that move yourself."

"But that was years ago," said Valentine in a voice like raw silk, "and since then, you've hardly had need of a knife, have you? Not when you have claws and fangs at your disposal."

"All the better to tear your heart out with."

Valentine shook his head. "You tore my heart out years ago," he said, and even Clary could not tell if the sorrow in his voice was real or feigned. "When you betrayed and deserted me." Luke struck at him again, but Valentine was moving swiftly back across the floor. For a big man, he moved surprisingly lightly. "It was you who turned my wife against her own kind. You came to her when she was weakest, with your piteousness, your helpless need. I was distant and she thought you loved her. She was a fool."

Jace was taut as a wire beside Clary. She could feel his tension, like the sparks given off by a downed electrical cable. "That's your mother Valentine's talking about," she said.

"She abandoned me," said Jace. "Some mother."

Aurelia threw herself over Luke, a surprise not even Jace or Clary saw coming, they didn't see the second sword concealed under his clothes. A wild grin grew on his face, blood sprouted from a gash now running across her chest, he brought the knife down, narrowly missing her stomach as she lashed out and the second blade went flying.

"So much for not hurting his sister" she grunted, his hands came around her, throwing her into the wall on the far right; picture frames shattering as glass rained around her.

A scream unfurled from Clary as she raced to her sister, fumbling for the stele she knew that Aurelia hid inside her flannel. Quickly she burned the iratzes into her pale, bloody skin.

Barely noticing the commotion behind them, Luke had come closer to them. Aurelia, despite the healing runes, laid unconscious still.

"My father got away," said Jace. "With the Cup." His voice was dull. "We delivered it right to him. I failed."

Luke let one of his hands fall on Jace's head, brushing the glass from his hair. His claws were still out, his fingers stained with blood, but Jace suffered his touch as if he didn't mind it, and said nothing at all. "It's not your fault," Luke said, looking down at Clary. His blue eyes were steady. They said: Your brother needs you; stay with him.

"He's still not your father" A weak voice came from the corner; Aurelia was sitting up looking dazed. "Just wait, I'll prove it." She slumped against the wall as Luke walked forward and helped her to stand, both leaning heavily against each other.