City of Shadows

by myheartandocean

CoB AU: Jocelyn Morgenstern gave birth to a second child, her daughter, before she betrayed Valentine and The Circle, and when she fled the Shadow World she also left both children behind in fear of what her husband's experiments had done to them. Now, sixteen years later, Valentine sends his daughter to New York City to retrieve the Mortal Cup from her mother.

10. Chapter 10

I made a playlist for this story. The link is on my profile.

There are 10 people who still like this story. *dramatic whisper* This is for you.

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"Study me as much as you like, you will never know me, for I differ a hundred ways from what you see me to be. Put yourself behind my eyes, and see me as I see myself, for I have chosen to dwell in a place you cannot see." – Rumi

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Seraphina awoke with the jolting feeling that she had slept too long. Sure enough, the sun was low in the sky outside her window – setting, not rising. Under normal circumstances, she would have forgiven herself; she hadn't gotten home until early that morning. But her plans with Simon were for that night, on the other side of town. And she needed to get to the post office to send a letter to her father before it closed, and that was in the opposite direction.

She jumped out of bed and scrambled to get ready, putting on a dark green t-shirt and a black denim skirt. She hastily carved the identity rune into her ribcage, sparing a fleeting thought for her brother before she did so, and then rushed to collect her things. Her sketchbook and a black jacket were thrown into her backpack, the dagger was tucked into one black boot, and her latest letter to Valentine was torn from the pad of paper and hastily enveloped.

Clary was hurriedly pulling her hair back into a loose ponytail when she saw it – a flash of gold in her peripheral vision. It had been in the alley below her bedroom window. She remembered seeing the same thing the night before, with Casper. Her brow furrowing as she pondered it – it hadn't looked like a cat – she turned back to the mirror to finish her hair.

And then, this time in the reflection in the mirror, she saw it again. She whipped her head around so quickly that her neck cracked loudly – and painfully. "Bitch," she groaned irritably. She was not having a good day – night – and she hadn't even made it outside yet.

The night air was humid and heavy when she stepped outside, the city loud and moving as the Friday night crowd pooled into the city. The air smelled of car exhaust and heat and people and litter, and she yearned for the clean smell of trees and rain and grass, in Idris. She wanted to go home, she thought with an ache in her chest. But if she wanted to go home, she had to finish here first. So, she reiterated to herself sternly, she would be nice to Simon, she would find out what he knew, and she would find her mother (and her father wouldn't find out that she had lost Jocelyn in the first place).

"Girl!" she heard a voice exclaim behind her. She turned to see her landlord leaning out of her window, her wrinkled face stern and angry like it always was.

"Yes, Aksinya?" Clary felt uncomfortable calling an elder by their first name, but Aksinya had insisted. Clary realized she didn't even know the woman's last name.

"You leave home very late," the old woman said, her real eye glaring with disapproval while the other, glass and the wrong color by a few shades, remained flat and cool.

"Yes..." Clary trailed off, not sure what to say.

"You come home very late," Aksinya continued in her thick Russian accent.

"Yes," Clary said again, still uncertain and uncomfortable.

"Is not respectable for young girl from a good family."

"I'm just getting used to the time difference, Aksinya," Clary said, fighting the urge to say, What makes you think I come from a good family? A comment like that would only lengthen the conversation, though, and sure enough Aksinya withdrew into her apartment with a dismissive gesture that indicated her exasperation. Aksinya was very nosy, Clary had discovered, and to her dismay the old woman had taken a particular interest in Clary. She wondered if her father was paying the woman to spy on her. It wouldn't be surprising.

It was the eleventh conversation of the like that Clary had had with her landlord. And, for the eleventh time, the same group of young men were loitering on the street outside her building. She endured their catcalls with grim fortitude, walking past them without showing the slightest trace of emotion or discomfort. Animals, she thought disdainfully, but she kept the thought to herself. She still had places to be, and she was still late.

She cut the corner quickly to get away from the boys, and with the sudden movement she saw it again – gold in the corner of her eye. Once more, it reminded her of seeing the same sight just the night before. At the time, she had been preoccupied – Casper's hands were on her hips, his mouth on hers, his eyes were flashing with emotions she couldn't afford to ignore – but with a slow burn of suspicion growing in her chest, she began to wonder if she shouldn't have discounted the occurrence so quickly.

By now, she knew the walk to the post office well. She recognized the gnarled tree that she always passed, three blocks into her trip. She saw the same cats lounging in apartment windows, the same cars parked on the street. Clary had been to the post office every day since she had arrived in New York; Valentine expected it from her. That meant this was her eleventh trip to the small, dingy room in the lower level of an old building, and it went exactly as she expected it to – for a while, at least.

For the eleventh time, she was greeted by the warlock girl – her name was Nicolette, Clary had learned – with a delicate sigh and rolling eyes. For the eleventh time, Nicolette presented her with a letter from Valentine on heavy parchment, then waved her to the back room where the portal was – the girl's sour attitude aside, Clary was glad she wasn't nosy.

And for the eleventh time, just as she stepped in front of the portal to deposit her letter for Valentine, a boxed package flew from the swirling colors and collided sharply with Clary's face.

She yelped in surprise, her cheekbone smarting. She reached down to flip the package over and – for the eleventh time – saw it was addressed to "M.B." Exhaling angrily, she gave the parcel a sharp kick and then threw her own letter into the portal, watching it disappear into blackness as it always did. The letter itself was practically meaningless – she hadn't mentioned anything about Luke, figuring she might as well live out her luck as long as she could, and still possessing the small hope that maybe she could fix the problem before Valentine found out about it. Find Luke, somehow, and by extension, Jocelyn, and then fix things… somehow. But that meant she had almost nothing to tell Valentine. Unless she wanted to tell him about her date with a warlock. She shuddered at the thought. She knew that, when he had asked her to get to know Downworlders, that wasn't at all what he had meant. But she figured that as long as she got the job done, what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. She had never been fond of his rules; her personality had always been incompatible with that kind of strictness, and she found gratification in small disobediences.

Valentine would be getting restless, now. She had to get moving, and quickly. But she had no idea where to start. How would she find Luke? And Jocelyn? Valentine had expected initial contact on her first day in the city, and she had long since run out of excuses. She wished she could send a letter to Jonathan, too – he would know what to do, or at least have some sort of idea – but after a few days of long, detailed letters to him and no response, she knew he wasn't getting her messages. He would answer if he had, she knew that. Valentine was keeping them from him, keeping with his word that they should spend some time apart. She hoped, eventually, Valentine would realize they were better together than they were separated.

She was distracted from her worry when the package she had kicked started rattling behind her, and she thought about kicking it again. What was it with "M.B." and why was it always their packages that contained disturbing, moving contents? More importantly, she thought while rubbing her stinging cheek, why did their packages always seem to fly violently out of the portal when she was in front of it?

The sound of an argument – Nicolette's high, sharp voice accompanied by the lower tones of a man – was approaching the portal room. Clary childishly looked for somewhere to hide, already uncomfortable with the prospect of being part of the confrontation, only to find she didn't have many options.

And then, an irritated Nicolette and her companion arrived in the doorway. " – absolutely ridiculous," Nicolette was saying, her already pink cheeks flushed a dark magenta in her ire. "Do you have any idea how illegal it is to send them by mail? I could lose my license!"

A strangely tall, strangely slender man in ostentatious clothing followed her into Clary's line of sight, rolling his eyes. "Oh, relax," he said, his tone much more good-natured than Nicolette's. "It was one time."

Behind Clary, the package rattled again, and this time her keen hearing picked up a soft, eerie tittering.

"Really? One time?" Nicolette challenged angrily. "Because that," she gestured sharply at the package, "sounded a lot like the eleventh time."

"Well, if you insist on being difficult," he put an affectionate arm around her shoulders but she shook him off, "Maybe we could just consider this… a favor?"

"And what, pray tell, could I possibly have to gain from this situation?"

The man seemed to think about it for a minute, and while he did Clary examined him in curiosity and wonderment. He was a warlock; she could see from the cat pupils of his amber eyes. That was Casper's warlock mark, too, and she wondered if it was a coincidence or if there was some sort of reason for it. It certainly didn't look like they had anything in common. Where Casper was all cool darkness and guile, the man before her was vibrant – sun-tanned skin and bright clothing and glittering hair – practically glowing, handsome in a much different way.

Nicolette quirked an eyebrow at him, waiting for a response, and suddenly his eyes lit up. "I've got it!" he exclaimed, and reached into his multi-colored jacket for a piece of paper that he withdrew in a shower of glitter before handing to her.

Her eyebrow remained raised – dubious, unyielding – as she examined the paper, and then she rolled her eyes. "This is an invitation to a party," she said flatly.

"It's an invitation to…" he paused, seemingly for dramatic effect, "the party."

"The party," she repeated mockingly, and then her voice rose in anger "that you already invited me to, moron."

The warlock threw out his hands in exasperation. "Well Christ, woman, what else do you want from me?"

"I want you to stop executing your illegal dealings through my post office!" she exclaimed shrilly.

Clary's discomfort at having to watch their argument had reached a level she couldn't ignore any longer – confrontation of any kind made her nervous, jittery, uncomfortable – but the pair were still blocking the doorway. Nervously, uncertainly, she cleared her throat, thinking maybe they hadn't noticed her there, and then stepped forward lightly towards the door, hoping they would let her aside.

Nicolette turned to her in irritation but then squeaked in fear. "Oh, Clarissa! I forgot you were back here. I –" her eyes widened in horror, probably because she realized she had just spoken about illegal Downworlder activities in front of a Shadowhunter. "When I said illegal," she laughed nervously, her voice still stuttering and shrill, "I didn't mean… well, I meant –"

"It's fine, Nicolette, I really don't care," Clary assured her, and it was true.

"See, Nick?" the man said with a gesture in Clary's direction. "No reason to be worried. Or angry," he added pointedly. Nicolette rolled her eyes and left in a huff, crumpling the party invitation and throwing it to the floor as she did so.

The warlock's feline eyes held an easy sense of laughter when they turned to Clary, and he flashed her a wide smile, white teeth, straight, with pointed incisors. He brushed past her and retrieved his package – the one that, like the ten before it, was addressed to M.B. The one that, like the ten before it, had hit her on its way out of the portal. "She's a handful, isn't she?" He said it good-naturedly, as one might refer to a rambunctious kitten.

Instead of answering, she demanded, "You're M.B.?"

"Magnus Bane," the warlock declared with flourish.

She didn't take the hand he offered her. "You're mail smacks in the face on a daily basis," she informed him.

"Maybe you shouldn't stand so close to the portal, Miss…"

"Nightshade."

"Shadowhunters and their ridiculous names," he drawled. "What's the purpose of shade at night? It's already dark."

Something about the way his golden, feline eyes looked glazed in the lighting and the drawl of his speech gave Clary suspicion. When he stumbled against a pile of boxes, sending them toppling in a loud cacophony of unpleasant noise, and then groaned and clutched his head, she was nearly certain. "Are you drunk?" she asked.

"Not as much, anymore," he groaned.

"But… it's so early."

"Late, darling. It's late."

"It's 9 at night. You're both wrong." Nicolette was back, leaning her willowy frame against the doorframe as she examined her long pink nails in cool appraisal. She seemed to have calmed down, but her irritation was still evident in the set of her shoulders and the purse of her lips. "I'm leaving for the night. Both of you, out."

"But Nicky," Magnus drew out the word in a petulant whine, and Nicolette grimaced at the nickname. "I'm still waiting for some mail."

"Sounds like a personal problem, Maggie. Tell your friends to send their mail when the post office is open. If they can't manage that, you'll have to come back in the morning."

A sharp corner rammed into Clary's skull and she yelped in pain, jumping to the side. Magnus picked up the offending parcel – Clary now saw it, too, was addressed "M.B." – with a delighted smile. "No need! Thanks Darknight, if it weren't for you that might have hit me."

"God forbid," Clary muttered, rubbing her sore skull.

"Don't be bitter," Magnus reprimanded. "It's off-putting."

"You should be off pudding."

It took him a minute, but then, "I am not fat."

"Get," Nicolette's voice was low and dangerous behind them, "out."

Magnus threw an arm around Clary's shoulder as they walked the hallway towards the exit, pinning her against his side and making her instantly uncomfortable. She had allowed Casper to touch her, but that was different – Casper was useful, he served a purpose.

She could feel the warlock's slender ribs through the fabric of the mesh shirt under his jacket. She tried to pull away; even if he weren't a warlock, she would be uncomfortable with how much taller he was than her. It didn't seem like he planned on attacking her, and she knew she could kill him easily if he did, but Valentine had always told her that warlocks were unpredictable, capricious. Magnus didn't let her pull away, but he did loosen his grip a bit.

"Listen, about this whole post office fiasco," he began, his voice more serious than it had been before so that now she could hear better the accent on his vowels, the hoarseness in his words, like a cat's purr. "Nothing's quite as awful as Nicolette made it sound, I assure you. She's quite prone to melodrama, unfortunately. But still," they had reached the door, and now he turned to face her, his eyes far above her and glowing in the low lighting. "If it's all the same to you…"

"I won't tell anyone," Clary answered his unasked question.

"Excellent," he said with another flashing smile, but there was still danger in his posture and the baring of his teeth. "Perhaps there's something I could do for you, in return…" he trailed off, enquiringly.

She knew he wasn't asking out of friendliness, but to ensure his safety from the Clave. If he could create a situation of mutual interest, he would be safer. And that's exactly why she said, "No, thank you. I don't mind keeping it to myself." She had no interest in beginning a relationship of debt and favors with a warlock. The mere thought of it was deplorable.

But her answer had made him nervous, it seemed, and he followed her closely out of into the hot night air. She really wasn't going to report him to the Clave, but she understood his wariness.

That didn't mean it wasn't annoying, though.

"Darknight – "

"It's Nightshade," she corrected him.

"What?"

"My last name. It's Nightshade."

"You should consider changing it. Darknight is much cooler. Like Batman."

Clary had absolutely no clue what he was talking about it. Instead of admitting so, though, she only said, "Right, well, it was nice meeting you Magnus. But I'm late for something, so..."

Unfortunately for her, Magnus was apparently going in the same direction. She was giving the sore spot on the back of her head another rub when he caught up to her. "Sorry about the bruise, Batman. Here, you can have this, I guess." She turned to see he was holding out a bright slip of sparkling paper. Through the copious amounts of glitter she was able to decipher that it was an invitation to a party.

"You're throwing a…" the glitter was so thick in one area that she could barely see the letters. "Chairman Mao party?" she asked incredulously. There were communist warlocks? Could warlocks get any worse?

"Chairman Meow. My cat."

She said, "That's even weirder."

Magnus rolled his eyes and muttered, "Shadowhunters." More loudly, he said, "Well, I wouldn't want a Shadowhunter there anyway. You lot are no fun at all. Don't come." And with a sharp turn that sent glitter fluttering into Clary's face, he walked away from her

"I wasn't going to anyway," she muttered after his retreating, slender form, but she stuffed the invitation in her backpack instead of throwing it away. She knew he had only invited her as a last ditch effort to persuade her not to report him for whatever illegal activities were happening at the post office. Not that she would; as disgusted as Valentine was with Downworlders, he was just as disgusted with the Clave – "corrupt," "indolent," "self-indulgent," she could almost hear his voice. Until Valentine's plans were complete and the Clave was created anew, reporting corruption or illegality to that pathetic group of bumbling idiots was redundant.

And maybe those plans could actually be completed if Valentine hadn't added so many useless additions to her original mission. Here she was, hurrying across town to meet a vampire, when she could be looking for Jocelyn. Irritation for Valentine flared in her chest, but she knew it was only an excuse, an outlet for her frustration with herself. She hadn't been performing well since she had arrived in New York. In fact, she was ruining almost everything.

Clary's thoughts were interrupted when she saw a flash of gold. And it wasn't a cat.

She forced herself to ignore the distractions that surrounded her – flashing lights, the deafening traffic, the endless ebb and flow of bodies – and concentrate on the issue. This is important, she told herself sternly. She had become so practiced in denying the truth – the truth of her memories, of her family, of herself – that sometimes it was difficult to anchor herself in reality. But this was real. This was important. She tore herself from her mind and immersed herself in her surroundings; her feet against the pavement, the cooling of the night air against her bare arms and legs as the sun set behind tall buildings, the racing of her heart and the rhythm of her breathing.

Think, she told herself. And then she realized just how often she had seen that exact same sight, a flash of gold in the corner of her eye as she turned a corner or glanced at something beside her. The first time had been the day after the Pandemonium, she managed to decipher. And almost every day after that, she had seen it at least once.

"Damn it," she whispered to herself, dread growing in her chest.

And, even more than dread, she felt the clawing pain of self-hatred, embarrassment, shame. She was falling apart, and she knew it. She had been before she had even left Idris. Before she had left Jonathan. Her brother.

Things were starting to slip past her, reality was starting to slip away from her, and the harder she tried to grasp it the more it drifted away from her, like smoke. The incident with Felix, the disaster with Luke, and now this golden shadow – all of it felt like a dream, distant events from a world she wasn't living in. And she hadn't been living in that world. She hadn't been living in reality. She had been living in her head, in her memories and her secrets, in her worry for her family. And now she was paying the consequences for her madness.

And that's what it was, wasn't it? Madness. How else could she explain the way her emotions were living things, apart from her rather than a part of her, breathing blackness from the bottom of her heart? The way she was hardly ever in touch with reality, living immersed in her emotions and her thoughts instead. The way her memories recreated themselves before her eyes, forcing her to relive them over and over, unless she suppressed them and suffocated them and denied their existence. The way she was two people at once now, if such a thing were even possible.

Stop, she told herself, silencing her thoughts and tearing herself from her self-pity. There was still time to fix this. She could still do something, anything, to avoid disappointing her father completely. She pushed the remnants of her sudden emotional outburst back down, deep into her chest, stifling them. That was better.

Cool, composed, calm.

Uninvolved, distant, silent.

Back to normal.

Still cool, still empty, she turned a corner into a dark alley instead of continuing her walk to the subway, and pressed herself close to the wall to wait in coiled anticipation. It wasn't over yet.

And then – a shadow's flicker, golden hair, a light footstep – she sprang, colliding into a lean body much taller than hers, delivering a stinging blow that was undeniably hostile, though not lethal. A deep, male voice cursed in surprise and she spun away from the hand that reached out for her – open-palmed, fingers extended and curling, not to hit her back but to grab her, restrain her.

If anything, it only made her angrier. She hit his wrist to push his hand away and then hit him again, a jab to the ribs with about half of her strength. She heard him hiss out a pained breath and felt a flash of satisfaction, but then he was coming towards her, a fist flying towards her ribcage. She leapt to the side and his fist hit the brick wall instead, and his pained shout was followed by a string of expletives.

She had made him angry, now. Good, she thought. As tormented as she was, as distracted as her emotions could make her, she had never faltered in a fight because of it. Valentine had trained her to work through things like that. Emotionally, mentally, she was vulnerable and weak. But in battle she was unstoppable. She would never lose, not to anyone but her brother.

He was coming at her with more force now, and she could feel his anger buffeting her psyche. In the seconds before he reached her she noticed the Marks on his skin and sighed in frustration, withdrawing her hand from her boot where she had been reaching for her dagger. As hostile as he may seem – following her, and now, fighting her – she couldn't hurt him, not badly, until he proved himself more dangerous. She couldn't hurt another Shadowhunter. That knowledge was ingrained in her, an instinct as natural and commanding as breathing.

But that didn't mean she couldn't kick his ass.

He wasn't trying to grab her anymore. Now he was trying to hit her. She dodged his fist again and swiped at his torso, only managing a glancing scuff as he dodged her blow. Given his size, he was faster than she had anticipated.

In his next move, he actually did manage to hit her – an open-palmed shove that sent her shoulder into the brick wall of the alleyway. As natural as it was for her to seek space for maneuvering, it seemed natural to him to try and corner her. He knew he was bigger. He knew he could overpower her if it was a battle of brute strength.

But she wasn't going to let that happen. She launched into a flurry of maneuvers. Some hits landed, some didn't, but she could sense from his posture and movement that he was surprised by her speed and fervor.

He recovered from his surprise and leapt for her. He had extended both arms to reach for her, probably to force her against the wall again, and in doing so had left his torso exposed. It was the perfect opening for a kick at his ribcage or his abdomen, but she was wearing a skirt, so she only spun out of the way; she was faster than him.

As she leapt away from him, he noticed and averted his course. And, there, she saw it – the instant he shifted his weight, the split second of vulnerability before he could regain his balance in his new direction – and she knew it was over. She would win. She leapt at the perfect moment, springing forward and colliding with the hard muscle of his chest. He stumbled backwards and then fell, and then they were rolling across the gravel. Clary felt the stinging scrape against her skin, felt the jarring collision of her bones against the concrete, and the warm skin of the boy who was falling with her. She tensed her muscles, pushing herself up to stop her tumble, and when the pair of them finally came to a stop she was on top of his chest, pinning him down. She allowed herself a fleeting moment of satisfaction; she had won. But then she felt vibrations in the boy's chest, his torso shaking beneath her, and she looked down at him, confused.

He was laughing at her. She was stunned for a moment, and then she was angry. Her anger was sharp, almost vibrant, and it burst past her barrier like a swarming wave of restless energy. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt something so intensely. She wanted to kill him.

"Usually," the boy said, "When girls jump me, it isn't quite like this." His voice was deep, rich, but young, and it sent vibrations through her skin where she rested on his chest.

Scowling, she pulled away from him hastily, her anger cooling in her chest as she slowly returned to normal. That was the second time that day her self-control had faltered. Maybe the identity rune wasn't working as well anymore.

But she had more important things to think about. Like the boy in front of her – her age, maybe a little older; tan skin; blonde hair and gold eyes; tall, slender but lean with muscle – rising to his feet, still smirking, though at least he wasn't laughing anymore. Clary didn't think she had ever been laughed at before. It was an awful feeling.

"That was quite the introduction," the boy said, and his smirk was swiftly beginning to infuriate her.

"You've been following me," she said viciously.

"Yes," he agreed simply, "And you've been getting into a fair bit of trouble haven't you, little girl."

Her cooling anger suddenly reheated, burning in her chest. "Who do you think you are?" she demanded.

"Jace Wayland," he introduced himself, extending a hand towards her with his smirk still in place. Of course he interpreted that literally, she thought, exasperated. She didn't shake his hand, and she was satisfied to see his smirk falter a bit.

"And you are…?" he asked.

"Followed me for a week and you still haven't figured out my name? You aren't very good at this, are you?"

He rolled his eyes. "And you would be better at it, I presume?"

"Probably," she answered. "I'm better at fighting, that's for sure."

His eyes narrowed. "That was hardly a fight," he said, and his voice had lost its humorous edge.

"Call it what you want," she replied, and her voice was just as dangerous. "I won."

She could see that Jace was angry, and figured he must be nearly as competitive as she was. But when he spoke again, he seemed to have composed himself, and his voice had lost some of its venom. "Combat is always different when the intent isn't to kill, don't you think? Maybe if we had possessed the same motivation, it would have worked out differently."

It was a surprisingly perceptive thing to say, but Clary knew she would have won in any situation. Another Shadowhunter was one of the most challenging matches available to her, but she wasn't a normal Shadowhunter. She was stronger, faster, better trained. Valentine had seen to that, and she had no intention of putting his efforts to waste.

"And what exactly is your motivation, Wayland?" she asked.

"I'd prefer to know your name first." There was a fire in his eyes as he said it, like discovering her name meant more to him than it should.

"Clarissa Nightshade," she said shortly, and then she amended, "Clary." She had a feeling Jace was a nickname of some sort – Shadowhunters tended to stick to more traditional names – and that was how he had introduced herself.

"Well, Clary," he began, his lighthearted arrogance steadily returning, "Given the buildup, my true motivation isn't really all that exciting. I've been sent to bring you to the Institute."

"Sent by whom?"

"Hodge."

"And what does Hodge want?"

"To speak with you, that's all," Jace said. Clary couldn't imagine what 'Hodge' wanted to speak to her about, but her curiosity was nowhere near strong enough to drive her to disobey Valentine's orders.

"Is that so?" Clary asked with a quirked eyebrow, and Jace nodded. "It's too bad, though – I don't think I want to."

"What?" he asked, surprised, and she was satisfied to see the grin fall from his lips.

"I said," she answered, enunciating slowly, "That I don't want to go to the Institute with you. And I'm not going to." Valentine had forbidden her from going to the Institute, and she wasn't interested in getting herself into trouble. Well, more trouble than she was already in, if he found out about Lucian.

"But… Shadowhunters always check in at the local Institute when they travel," Jace protested, confused. "You should have come to the Institute anyway."

"I'm not here long," Clary said, already backing away from him.

"No, hold on." Jace stepped forward, intent on following her, so she stopped walking. "Can't you just stop in for a few minutes? Hodge really wants to speak with you."

"Sorry, no." She began to leave again. She didn't know who Hodge was, but Valentine wanted her contact with the local Shadowhunters to be limited. Nonexistent, actually. And she wasn't going to break a direct order from him again. She had ruined things enough already.

"Clary," Jace, and his voice had sharpened with determination and warning. She stopped walking again. "It's only one conversation," he said it as though he were comforting a frightened animal; wary, cornered, claws extended. "I'm supposed to bring you back, and I will." The threat in his voice, thinly veiled, was dark and foreboding. Rather than afraid, Clary felt only indignant. Just who did Jace Wayland think he was?

"Unfortunately, Jace," Clary said with fabricated sympathy, vexed, "It looks like you don't stand a very good chance if you have to revert to force."

His gaze darkened at that, and in them she saw a hunter's instinct igniting. She wondered if he would restart their fight out of competitiveness alone – that's what she would do – but he remained where he was, fists curled at his sides as if in self-restraint, eyes on her. She adopted a more sincere tone when she said, "I'm sorry Jace. I don't want to get you into trouble." Angel knows she knew how frustrating it was to be trapped by the orders you had been given, subordinated and powerless. "But I can't go to the Institute. I don't have the time. And, like I said, I'm not here long. Tell Hodge to send a letter if it's really that important. You know my address after all." The last part was said scathingly as she left again, this time turning her back on him as she did.

For a moment, she felt relief. Valentine had told her not to get involved with the Shadowhunters in New York, and she had just avoided doing so. There was one thing she hadn't ruined, at least.

But then, "I know where he went," Jace called after her, taunting, challenging.

She kept walking for a few steps, obstinate, but her resolve faded as her curiosity got the best of her. She turned back to him. "What?" she demanded.

"That werewolf, the one you ran after last night. I followed him after you lost him. I know where he went."

Her heart jumped in her chest. The urge to get away from Jace was so strong that she almost walked away anyway, but then she thought of Valentine. Jonathan. She had to find Luke. "Tell me," she said harshly.

"I will," he said with a smirk. "If you come back to the Institute with me."

Fury sparked in her chest. He had her trapped, and he knew it. She may have won their fight, but he was winning in a fight that was far more important. "Why?" she asked, and she knew she sounded whiny and petulant. But she had been so miserable since leaving home, and everything only seemed to be getting worse, and she was so tired. She didn't need this to worry about, too.

"Not sure," Jace shrugged. "Hodge wants to see you, so he asked me to bring you to him."

"And what if I told you I didn't care where the werewolf went, anyway?" she challenged.

"I wouldn't believe you." The infuriating smirk was still on his face. "You don't chase someone for a mile in this heat unless you really want to catch them."

"Fine, you caught me," she said, in a falsely saccharine tone and a sardonic smirk to rival his. "I do really want to catch him. I want to find him so badly, in fact, that I'm almost certain I'll find a way to do it myself."

"Well, you don't look particularly strong. Or hard to carry." His eyes raked across her, examining her, and it made her want to collapse into herself and disappear.

"Are you threatening to kidnap me?" she asked incredulously.

"I'm only letting you know that I have my orders, and I'll do what I have to do to get them done." Maybe they weren't so different, after all.

"Are you forgetting five minutes ago? When I kicked your ass?" she taunted.

The smirk fell from his face again, and she felt a flash of satisfaction. "You caught me by surprise," he protested indignantly. "I'd like to see you manage that well in a fair fight."

"We don't have the luxury of fair fights very often, though, do we?" she said pointedly.

He knew that by 'we' she meant Shadowhunters. "No, I suppose not," he admitted grudgingly. "We also don't usually fight each other."

She almost said, Sometimes we do. He would know what she meant – Valentine, the Circle, the massacre at the Accords. But she stopped herself short. .

"Please, just come to the Institute," Jace implored, more sincere than he had been before. "I can help you, you can help me. It isn't that hard."

She knew he was right. She was only being stubborn; she hated the idea of needing anyone for anything, and she hated that he had trapped her to get what he wanted. But she needed to find Luke. "Alright," she said slowly, and his smirk was back.

"But not right now," she said, clambering desperately to find some sense of power, somewhere, even if it was only a little. "I have plans."

"What sort of plans?" Jace asked suspiciously.

"Plans with a friend." She was really late meeting Simon; she wondered if he was still waiting for her or if he had given up.

"Where do you have to go?" he asked.

"Brooklyn."

Jace made a face. "Ugh," he said in disgust. "Brooklyn. What a dreadful place."

"Good thing they're my plans and not yours, then."

"How do I know you won't just run away?"

"You don't, I guess," she said coolly, still grasping for a feeling that wasn't utter helplessness. "I'm late." She brushed past him to leave the alley.

"Hold on," he said warningly, and he grabbed her upper arm. She jumped and his grip tightened.

"Let go," she demanded indignantly, but he only used his grip to turn her and make her face him. She pulled away but he grabbed her waist, stopping her. His grip wasn't violent or bruising, like her brother's, but it was firm.

"You need to go to the Institute," he said, his face very close to hers. "And I need to take you."

He had come so close that her face was almost against his chest, and she pulled back to look at him. She had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. "I will go to the Institute with you," she said, hoping she sounded convincing. "After I meet my friend."

His brow furrowed in skepticism. "I promise," she added pleadingly, and then his gaze softened a bit. Shadowhunters never broke promises, and they didn't make them often.

"Alright," Jace said, his voice quiet and his gaze still burning. He was still holding her. They stood like that for a moment, too long. His skin was warm. She hadn't realized she was cold until he touched her. His eyes reminded her of the sun in the Idrisian summer, gold and molten and burning. His hair was golden, too, and his skin. Everything about him reminded her of sunlight. "I'm trusting you," he said, and his voice was much darker than his eyes. It was a threat, not an assurance.

"I know," she said. Finally, he released her, stepping away slowly. She felt cold again, even though the air was muggy and hot.

"Can I meet you when you're done?" Jace asked.

"Yes," she answered. But then, realizing a flaw in her plan, she added, "But I'm not sure where I'll be. I know where we're meeting, but…" Given it was a vampire bar, "I'm not sure we'll stay there too long."

"I'll find you," Jace said with a smirk.

"Yes, I'm sure you will," she snapped. "But do me a favor and be more discreet this time? I don't want to see you every time I turn a corner."

"You won't even know I'm there," Jace promised. "Just find me when you're done with your friend. I'll be close."

"Alright," she agreed slowly. "Midnight?" That gave her two hours with Simon. Hopefully, it was long enough to get some information and not long enough to get too uncomfortable around him, like she had last time.

"Midnight is fine."

They walked next to each other until they reached the mouth of the alley, and then they turned for a last, appraising glance at each other. Clary had won their physical fight, but Jace had trapped her strategically. Jace was relying on her to go to the Institute so that he could fulfill his orders, and she was relying on him to lead her to Luke so that she could follow hers. They were both acting under powers above them. They both knew they were trapped together, at least for a while.

Jace's eyes were still warning as he backed away from her on the sidewalk, mundanes splitting around him like a wave to avoid collision. He looked strange next to them, out of place and foreign with his golden beauty and animal strength. She wondered if she looked like that too – noticeably different, un-belonging.

She stared back at him for a moment, trying to imagine how she could draw him, how she could capture his intriguing beauty, his underlying strength, in a single picture. A biker's bell sounded behind her, and she jumped to the side just in time to avoid a painful impact. She could feel that Jace was still looking at her, but she didn't turn to meet his gaze again. She turned away and pushed a path through the thick nighttime crowd, hoping Simon was still waiting for her.

---

When she arrived at the vampire bar where she had first met Simon – Sangre, it was called – she was relieved to see through the window that he was still there, talking to a blonde girl in a red dress. It alleviated her guilt somewhat that at least he hadn't been waiting alone. Despite the heat, she dug her black jacket out of her bag and put it on over her t-shirt; it hid most of her Marks, and, though she couldn't hide her identity as a Shadowhunter indefinitely, she wasn't keen on the idea of flaunting it, either.

The door creaked when she walked in, and she saw hope in Simon's eyes when he turned to see who had entered, followed by relief when he saw it was her. It warmed her heart a bit, but she stifled the feeling. She had already gotten too close to Casper; she wasn't about to make the same mistake with this vampire, too.

"Hi, Simon," she greeted him, a bit breathless from the stress of all she had been through that night and the sudden heat under her jacket.

"Hi," he said with a small smile, gentle like always.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," she said. "I would explain, but," she sighed, "It's a long story."

"I have a feeling it's an interesting one. You have glitter in your hair," Simon said.

"What?"

"Right there," he pointed, and she ran her fingers through the section of hair. Sure enough, she saw silver flecks of glitter fall in front of her face.

"Magnus," she muttered in irritation. She wondered if the glitter had something to do with Jace not taking her seriously, but that was wishful thinking – though she would never admit it, he was right; she was a lot smaller than him.

"You missed a bit," Simon told her, leaning forward to run his fingers through a strand of her hair. His touch was surprisingly gentle, almost hesitant, like he was afraid of hurting her. Or just afraid of her.

"Thanks," she said, and his eyes flashed to hers before he pulled his hand away. Dark brown, the color of coffee. She had never had coffee; Valentine said they didn't need things like that, sources of false strength and momentary energy. They were strong enough without it.

For a few minutes, she and Simon made comfortable small talk. A preliminary, casual few questions told Clary that nothing unusual had happened in Simon's coven lately, or in Downworld at all. She felt a flare of disappointment at that but resolved herself to spending the night with Simon anyway. It wasn't like she could leave just because he didn't have important information, as impatient as she was.

A while into their conversation, Clary felt a gaze warm her skin and turned to see a vampire across the room, leering at her with his fangs extended, hungry. Disgust roiled in her stomach, and anger, and excitement. As Simon spoke next to her, she fantasized about killing the vampire across the room – imagined the way the pale skin of his throat would catch against her dagger before slicing open, the sound of his bones cracking as she ripped open his chest to tear out his dead heart. That's what she had done to Felix. And she had felt just like this when she had done it – overcome with worry for Jonathan, and Valentine's mission; restless energy swarming in her chest like a black storm; anger and excitement sending her heart racing at the proximity of danger, the pressing nearness of death as she called it forward with hatred and blood. It had been relieving, gratifying, and that's what it would feel like now, too, she knew. A bit of violence was just what she needed to dispel the restlessness in her heart.

But she couldn't do that. She couldn't kill him. She was trying to become friends with Simon, and he probably wouldn't take kindly to her murdering one of his coven in front of him. If not because it was a friend of his, then because it would probably get him in trouble since he had brought her there in the first place. Not to mention the vampire hadn't actually done anything. The fact that he was a vampire was enough for her, but thanks to the Accords it wouldn't be enough for the Clave.

So she focused on the warm, gentle tones of Simon's voice and began to actually listen to his words, using him as an anchor to draw her back from her reverie. When she looked into his eyes she found they augmented his calming effect; they were deep and peaceful, warm, gentle. Not like a vampire at all. And then, still looking at his eyes, a memory unfolded, unbidden, before her eyes.

Brown eyes looming above hers, ignited with vicious, violent rage. Claws tearing through her skin, heavy, moving muscle pressing her into cool ground. A thump, a jerk, and then the eyes stilled, overtaken by a deep, encompassing nothingness. Memories disappeared, heart stilled, thoughts ceased. She had done that. Her family had done that. Guilt, grief, anger, agony, swelling in her chest, climaxing into a deafening roar of howls and thunder and pain and –

"Clary?" Simon's touch on her shoulder jarred her out of her torment.

"What?" she asked, her voice hoarse and weak.

"I asked if you wanted to leave," Simon repeated patiently, and she didn't miss the nervous glance he threw at the vampire across the room. He had noticed too, then.

"Alright," she told him, and he waved goodbye to the blonde in the red dress before leading Clary out into the night.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked cheerfully, turning to her as traffic rushed past on the street beside them. Once again, Clary was struck by how much she missed Idris – no loud traffic there, no pollution and no leering eyes from across vampire bars.

"Where do you live?" she asked, out of a combination of impulsiveness and curiosity.

"Not far," he answered. "Why? Do you want to go to my house, or something?"

"Sure," Clary answered, still impulsive, figuring that if she couldn't be in her home she could at least spend some time in someone else's. Maybe it would alleviate her homesickness a bit, to be somewhere that wasn't so public and loud. She threw a glance behind her as they began walking, but she caught no flashes of gold. Jace was keeping to his word, then.

As she walked next to Simon, she thought back on the memory that had assailed her in the bar. Though she hadn't thought about it since it had happened, she could now recall with piecing clarity the agony she had been in, hearing the mournful howls tearing through the night air and knowing that she had caused that pain. And she knew what Valentine would say of her guilt – that it was unnecessary, wasted, because Downworlders weren't human and didn't deserve to be treated as such. But Clary knew pain, and she knew that what she had seen in those dead eyes and heard in heartbroken howls was something completely, undeniably human.

She had to do something, she knew. She had to do something to relieve herself of this guilt, or at least some of it, or else it would tear her apart. An idea forming in her mind, she stared at Simon; the gentle brown intensity of his eyes; the long, thin limbs; the shape of his face – actually, really looked at him. And then she gathered her preconceived hatred for vampires, the assumptions, the generalizations – bloodthirsty, uncontrollable, sadistic; they didn't match Simon well, anyway – and forcefully pushed them to the back of her mind where it was dark and shadowed and they wouldn't bother her. Without them, she saw only a boy when she looked at Simon. Kind, quiet, perceptive. Not a monster. Not a killer. She was more of a killer than he was, she realized.

Maybe this was a mistake, and she knew her father would be angry if he ever knew she had done such a thing. To purposefully forget caution and reason for the sake of anyone else, let alone friendship; it was foolish. Reckless. Unbelievably idiotic. That's what her father would say; she heard his scorn curling through her thoughts, his disappointment.

But she had to do this. She couldn't live like this anymore – condemning others as monsters while she acted like a monster herself. She could do this, for Simon. For the night, for him, she would forget what he was and see him as a person. She owed that much to him, for being so kind to her. She owed more than that to the lives she had taken, the souls she had torn apart from each other and damned to eternal oblivion. She didn't believe in an afterlife like Valentine did. She believed those wolves were gone forever, never to see each other again, lost in darkness, alone. And she had done that.

Yes, she owed them this much. Far more than this, but she could begin somewhere.

She looked at Simon again. Kind eyes, bony shoulders, a sharp jawline, a soft laugh. Nothing like her father or her brother. Maybe he wasn't so bad after all.

---

Leaving Sangre had been a good idea – there had been far too many hungry glances thrown in Clary's direction, and more than a few of his comrades that were less than pleased at a Shadowhunter's presence in their haunt – but suddenly the idea of taking her to his mundane, ordinary home in Brooklyn made Simon self-conscious and embarrassed.

When they had still been in the Shadow World, surrounded by vampires and darkness, she had been interesting, yes, and enthralling, but she had belonged there. Now, walking down the sidewalk of his block through the summer air, he was abruptly aware of how extraordinary she was. He tried to imagine her in his small, poster-covered bedroom and couldn't. She was too intense, too interesting, too strange. She belonged back in Sangre, or in Pandemonium or the bonfire by the river, surrounded by monsters and magic, where she was just another beautiful girl in the midst of the Shadow World (where almost everyone was beautiful anyway; Simon's average appearance was an anomaly).

Something was different about Clary, though. Something about her touched his motionless heart, made him think more clearly. It was an almost sickeningly sentimental thing to say, the kind of thing Simon would never say out loud, but he couldn't help but dwell on it when he was with her.

And as he walked next to her in the blue darkness, and wallowed in embarrassment and revulsion at how ridiculous he sounded around her, he realized he knew nearly nothing about her. He wondered if he should be a bit more wary around her, more careful. He often heard vampires complaining about the Nephilim – anytime there was an opportunity to do so, really – and they all had tales of Shadowhunters murdering Downworlders for fun, and as a way to acquire riches. "Spoils," they called them, like spoils of war, only it wasn't a war so much as genocide as far as Downworlders were concerned.

Younger vampires; less bitter, as the younger generations in any society were; had told Simon that those practices had been put to an end with the Accords. Given the disaster at the most recent signing of the Accords, however, Simon understood the mistrust for the Nephilim that seemed ingrained in Downworld.

But he couldn't imagine Clary hurting anyone, let alone for fun. And he couldn't muster the slightest sense of mistrust or fear of her. She did make him uncomfortable, but it wasn't because he feared she would erupt into violent rage at the slightest glimpse of his fangs. It was because she was far more interesting than him, and cooler than him, and – he had a feeling – smarter than him, and she was beautiful. He couldn't manage to see her as just another Shadowhunter, one of the cruel, elitist, selfish warriors that he had heard so many awful, hateful things about.

He wondered what it was like for her. If she saw him as just another vampire, or if she had separated him from that generalization somehow. He hoped she had. He hoped she saw him when she looked at him, and not the bloodthirsty monster of the night, that façade that had settled itself, unwelcome, over his skin. If there were that many negative generalizations about the Shadowhunters – the children of an angel, the warriors of heaven – he couldn't imagine the awful things that could be assumed about a monster like him.

His wallowing was interrupted when they reached his block, his house visible from where they walked on the sidewalk. If his heart could beat, it would have jumped as once again he imagined Clary in his not-very-big, not-very-extravagant home. Though her clothes weren't ostentatious, they looked expensive, and even without that indicator it was safe to assume that most Shadowhunters came from affluent families.

As soon as they reached the stairs that led to his front door, Simon began watching Clary for signs of distaste or disgust, or a hint of the Nephilim arrogance he had heard so much about. But she looked only pensive and curious as he gave her a brief tour and she took in the wind chimes hanging on his front porch, the multitude of potted plants his mother kept in the house, the old furniture, the awful finger paintings and drawings on the fridge that his mother had refused to take down since he was 8. To Simon's disappointment, vampire coordination and motor skills had not improved his artistic talent.

Clary cracked a smile at the art on the fridge. "I didn't make those," he told her, affecting arrogance as he leaned against the fridge and examined them with her. "My sister did, poor thing. Can't tell her people from her buildings."

Clary laughed and then pointed to the bottom right corner of one drawing, where red crayon pronounced that the picture had, indeed, been drawn by Simon Lewis.

Simon couldn't help but laugh with her, when she laughed like that. "Alright, you caught me. I'm an awful artist."

"Is that… a chicken under a rock?" she asked, still smiling.

"It's Batman riding a griffin, thank you very much."

Clary gave him a strange look. "Who is this 'Batman' guy and why does everyone always talk about him?"

"You don't know who Batman is?" Simon demanded incredulously.

She shook her head. He had heard once that Shadowhunters – especially ones from Idris – were like aliens from another planet, and now he began to think it wasn't far from the truth.

"He's not real," Simon explained. "He's a fictional character. He's a superhero."

"What's his superpower?" Clary asked with a smirk. "Crushing chickens?"

"Very funny." Simon tore the picture from the fridge and crumpled it in his hands.

"No, no," Clary protested through laughter. "It isn't that bad. You must have been… what, 8?"

"I was 13," Simon said glumly, returning to his efforts of destroying the paper, but Clary grabbed his hands to stop him. He felt a phantom flutter in his chest, what would have been a lurch if he were still alive.

"If you really don't want it, I'll keep it."

"Really?" he asked, unable to fathom what she could possibly want with it.

"Yes, really," she said. She wasn't laughing anymore, but she was still smiling at him, and it made him smile too. She took the paper from him and uncrumpled it, and when she looked at it again he noticed the quirk of her eyebrow – a hint of arrogance, he thought.

"Are you an artist?" he guessed.

She didn't answer him but shrugged with a sly grin, her eyes alight with mischief as she leaned back against his stove. In that moment, illuminated by the pale light of the moon, her large eyes shockingly vivid and her hair strikingly crimson against her ivory skin, she looked beautiful, ethereal, not entirely real. Looking at her then, Simon wanted very badly to lean forward and kiss her, wrap his arms around the slenderness of her waist, run his fingers through her long, wavy hair.

But then he would be so close to her pale, slender neck; the rhythm of her pulse; the scent of her blood. Would he be able to control himself there, so close to her? So close to what he so desperately wanted with a feral, instinctual hunger that burned deep in his dead heart. She was beautiful, yes, and he was a monster. So he stayed where he was, close to her but not close enough, careful.

"What do your parents do?" Clary broke the silence, seemingly oblivious to his inner turmoil, placing his wrinkled drawing in a pocket of her backpack.

"My mother's a nurse," Simon answered, hoping his less than decent thoughts weren't evident in his face. "And my father died from a heart attack a few years ago."

Clary stopped fidgeting with her backpack and spun around to look at him, her hair fanning behind her. "I'm sorry," she said, and her voice was very sad, and her eyes on his were very deep, intense, appearing oddly dark in the blue light that flooded his kitchen.

"It's alright," Simon said, a bit uncomfortable with the fervor of her reaction. He hadn't pegged her for someone so emotionally sensitive. Another surprise.

"It isn't," she protested softly. "But I'm glad you're strong enough to say so."

She was still looking at him, her gaze still intense in a strange way that was equal parts bright and dark. To deflect some of the awkwardness, he asked, "What about your parents? What do they do?"

"My father is…well, he's a Shadowhunter. Aside from high-ranking positions in the Clave and the Silent Brothers, that's about all most of us are."

Simon heard the undertone of admiration thrumming in her voice. "Is he a… good… Shadowhunter?" He wasn't sure if that was the kind of question you could ask, if they defined themselves that way or if that was the source of her admiration, but he was reassured when Clary smiled and nodded.

"Yes, he's amazing." The reverence was even more evident now. "He trained me and my brother himself."

"I didn't know you had a brother."

"I do," she said simply, and the only elaboration she offered was, "He's amazing too." Despite her brief answers, a multitude of emotions and nuances swam in her dark green eyes. He saw love there, and longing, and pain too, he thought. And hearing the way she spoke about her family, the way her voice sounded when she was speaking about the people she loved, made Simon's heart ache. Some people had that gift, his mother said. The ability to make you feel what they felt.

"What about your mother?" he asked her.

"I don't have a mother." The glowing in her eyes had diminished, the swimming ceased.

"Everyone has a mother."

"Not me." It was the kind of thing that should have sounded sad, but Clary said it with a sly grin, her eyes glowing in a different way now – darker, mischievous, devious. Like she was playing a game that amused her very much. Like she was daring him to argue with her. And once again he was lost with her, the ground vanished from beneath his feet, his mind in chaos. She did that to him all the time. He would think that he had finally figured her out, that they had finally found common ground, and then she would change mood or behavior on the slightest whim and he would have to start over again.

He couldn't tell if she did it to amuse herself or if she was really like that – so capricious, so volatile and chaotic and sphinxlike.

"What's through that door?" she asked curiously, pointing.

"The stairs to the basement."

"Is that where you keep your coffin?"

"Very funny," he said again, and she grinned.

"What about that door?"

"That's the backyard." He walked over and opened it to show her; the birch tree, the wooden fence, the grass – too long, since he was usually the one who cut it, and it would seem odd to do it at night.

Clary squealed in childish glee and rushed past Simon, running down the stairs of his back porch and then collapsing on the grass of his lawn.

Even with vampire reflexes, he couldn't comprehend her behavior quickly enough. He stood there, lagging behind her, surprised. "Clary?" he asked uncertainly. "Are you… okay?"

"Grass!" she exclaimed in response, rolling over onto her back and then patting the ground next to her. "Lie down with me!"

"I was actually thinking… maybe… we would go back inside."

"Come on," she demanded, and he sighed before he lied next to her. She was small and warm at his side, and it made him even more aware of the coolness of his skin.

"I haven't seen grass in ages," she told him, "not since I left home."

"So, two weeks ago?" He laughed at her, amused and still reeling from her most recent mood swing.

"It's a long time!" she protested, "At least, long for me. There's grass everywhere in Idris. Forests and meadows and countryside."

"It sounds beautiful." He tried to imagine it and saw sprawling hills and deep forests, the trees greener and the water bluer than anything he had seen in New York – like those pictures in the nature magazines his mom always bought on a whim and then abandoned on end tables.

"It is," she whispered, and he could hear the wistfulness in her voice.

Clary ran her fingers through the grass, looking up at the night sky. "I wish I could see the stars here," she said.

Simon didn't answer her, but he turned to look at her. She looked back at him. He looked into her eyes, and they were the exact color of the magical forests he had just imagined in his mind. For the second time, he fought the urge to kiss her.

He managed it, somehow, turning away from her again and relaxing back into the grass. As beautiful as her eyes were, as beautiful as she was, she was very sad. Simon could see that. She almost seemed broken to him. The way her posture slumped when she thought no one was looking at her, as though she was exhausted from pretending for so long. The way, he had noticed, even her most charming smile was a bit crooked, a bit twisted, as if some horrible thought or feeling was dragging it down at the corners.

He couldn't kiss her when he made himself see her that way. It felt like taking advantage of her.

"I have to go," Clary said abruptly, interrupting his thoughts.

"Really? Why?" Simon asked, Clary rising to her feet and him following suit.

"It's midnight," she said, as if that explained it. Leave it to her to have plans in the middle of the night.

"How do you know?" he wondered aloud.

She pointed up to the night sky. "The moon," she explained. "You can tell what time it is by its position in the sky."

Simon gave a low whistle. "That's a pretty useful skill, I guess. Impressive, too."

"My father taught me," she said, so quietly that if he were still human he wouldn't be able to hear her. Louder, she said, "Well…bye, Simon." Simon got the feeling she felt as awkward with goodbyes as he did.

"Later, Cinderella," he answered, instantly regretting it when she threw him a strange, confused look. He resolved to never reference anything mundane around her ever again as she hopped his gate and retreated down the alley, turning back to give him a small wave before she turned the corner and disappeared into darkness.

---

When Clary found him, Jace was leaning against a chain-link fence, looking even more out of place against the drab landscape than he had in the crowd earlier. "I may forgive you for the bruises eventually," he began by way of greeting, "but I'm not sure I'll ever forgive you for making me come to Brooklyn."

"What is it with you and Brooklyn?" she asked as he fell into step beside her. "I really don't see the problem with it."

"Bad memories," he said. When she looked at him questioningly, he elaborated, "New Year's Eve. Touchy Downworlders. Faery potion." Throwing her a conspiratory glance, he added, "But you know all about those, don't you?"

She swatted his arm angrily; she was still embarrassed about what had happened that night, and she always got aggressive when she was embarrassed. "Ouch!" he exclaimed dramatically. "Haven't you hurt me enough today?"

"Apparently not enough to make you shut up," she snapped before quickening her pace, pulling ahead of him. It had only been two minutes, and already her good mood from being with Simon had vanished without a trace.

"Where's the fire, Red?" Jace asked good-naturedly, catching up to her easily with his long legs.

"I just want to get this over with as quickly as possible."

"Haven't heard that before," he quipped, and she knew without looking at him that he was smirking again.

She almost smacked him again but then she restrained herself, embarrassed at how easily he could incite her into violence. Normally only her brother could do that, and even he couldn't manage it this easily.

Clary didn't speak to Jace until they reached the subway, and as they settled into empty seats on the nearly empty car, he rested an arm over her shoulder. She wanted to push him off of her, but that was exactly the kind of reaction he wanted. Besides, he was warm, and she was cold.

"Thank the Angel we're finally out of there," Jace said, no doubt in reference to Brooklyn. She didn't answer him. She wasn't keen to forget that the only reason she was with him at all was because he was extorting her. She had no interest in going to the Institute, no interest in being with Jace and his arrogance and his uncanny ability to irritate her. She just wanted to find Luke, so that she could find Jocelyn, so that she could help her father and then go home.

"So," Jace said, "your plans were with a Jewish vampire? That wouldn't have been my first guess."

She had a feeling Jace didn't actually know that Simon was Jewish and only said it because Simon lived in Brooklyn, so, again, she didn't answer him.

When his comment went unanswered for a second time, he sighed good-naturedly. "What," he said, "Giving me the silent treatment?"

After another few minutes of silence, he sighed again, this time more frustrated. "You know, I don't want to be here anymore than you do."

"Then make it more bearable and shut up."

"You could make it more bearable and be less bitter."

"I'm not bitter," she protested, "I'm annoyed."

"Annoyed? Why? Someone jump you in an alley or something?" he asked mockingly.

"Bringing up our fight again, Jace?If anything I'd think you were bitter. You did lose, after all," she reminded him primly.

Jace scoffed. "I am not bitter. And I only lost because you ambushed me. Other than the surprise attack, you really aren't that impressive. You fight like a pixie."

Angry; again with that warm, piercing anger that she had felt earlier that day; she pulled away from him, pushing his arm off of her shoulders. "I do not fight like a pixie."

"It isn't your fault, Red," he told her with false sympathy. "You're so small; it's impressive that you can manage a punch at all."

"I'm not small!" she exclaimed, but even she knew she sounded ridiculous. Of course she was small. Especially compared to Jace, who, while not bulky or broad, was quite tall despite his slenderness.

Jace laughed – she would have too, after such a ridiculous objection. "Think of it as an advantage. There's a good chance you'll encounter a few opponents who will go easy on you. Like me, for example."

"You wish you were going easy on me," she snapped. "I know you weren't."

"Don't deny the truth, Pixie," he said with a smirk, and the nickname brought back so many awful memories that she almost flinched. "I was going easy, and you weren't. That's why you won."

"You think that was the hardest I can fight?" she demanded crossly. It hadn't been her best effort, not by a longshot.

"Yeah, I do," Jace snapped.

"I'm wearing a skirt," she pointed out. She immediately regretted it when her comment drew his gaze to her bare legs. It made her feel self-conscious against her will.

"Yeah, I guess," he admitted, and Clary thought his voice sounded rougher. He tore his gaze away from her skin and resettled into his former, casual position with a deep, tired sigh. She followed suit, sitting back once more on the hard, uncomfortable seat. Their argument seemingly at an end, she allowed herself to relax and felt the heat in her chest cool once more. Jace Wayland was quickly becoming the most infuriating person she had ever met.

"I know why you're really mad at me," Jace said after a few minutes of silence between them.

"Yeah?" she answered softly, curious despite herself.

"You're angry because I'm making you go to the Institute. Well, angry because of how I'm getting you there."

Clary was surprised that his perception of her behavior was actually correct. Until then, Jace hadn't come across as the perceptive type.

"Who wouldn't be angry?" she asked, her voice still quiet.

"I know I would be," he told her, and she heard a shade of guilt in his voice. "I am sorry about this, Clary."

It was the first time he had used her name, and it drew her gaze to his. Even as she gazed into his eyes, she saw the emotion there – remorse, interest, appraisal – harden and then disappear, and she imagined she knew exactly how he must have felt as he stifled it. She did that all the time. "But in my defense," he was saying, "I did ask nicely first. This whole extortion thing is a last resort."

She didn't answer him, preoccupied with the sight of his heart that she had seen in his eyes. With how frustrated he had made her, how angry she had been with him, it had been easy for her to forget that he was a person under all that charm and arrogance.

Jace seemed unnerved by her stare, and he shifted uncomfortably. "What?" he demanded irritably. "Do I have something on my face?"

She shook her head. "No, you don't."

"Well you do," he told her. "You're covered in glitter."

"Still?" she muttered in exasperation, running a hand through her hair.

"You're missing it," Jace said, reaching forward to brush the side of her face, down to her neck. His touch was less hesitant than Simon's had been, but still gentle. He used his thumb to get the glitter off of her skin and she held still under his touch, strangely not-uncomfortable with his proximity.

"There," he said after a few strokes of his thumb, "Gone."

She pulled away from his hand and sat back again. "Thanks," she said. Her voice was still very soft, but she couldn't help it. She felt very tired. Not physically, but mentally, emotionally. Like the bursts of emotion Jace had provoked from her were more than her heart could handle. She certainly wasn't used to it – feeling like that, so intensely. She was used to stifling every stir and tremor in her heart, cramming every emotion together into a dark cloud that churned in her chest. She couldn't make sense of it, couldn't identify single emotions or feel them each in their individuality, and that was the way she liked it.

"So," Jace interrupted her musing, and she could tell from his voice that he had recovered his usual arrogant, languid demeanor. "Clarissa Nightshade. You wouldn't happen to have a cousin named Evelyn, would you? She's an awful kisser."

She didn't know if 'Clary' had a cousin named Evelyn, and she knew Jace was only trying to divert the focus of their conversation to less threatening topics. "I really don't care if Evelyn Nightshade is a good kisser or not," she told Jace coolly, absentmindedly playing with a strand of her hair.

"Well, I happen to be an excellent kisser," Jace informed her with a winning smile, "In case you were wondering."

She threw him a disgusted grimace. "I wasn't."

Jace laughed as he put his arm over her shoulder again, and she rolled her eyes. Jace opened his mouth to say something, presumably another sarcastic remark of some sort, but the train had stopped and a trio of loud, giggling girls – about their age – had entered through the doors, interrupting him. Clary took an immediate dislike towards them – they were far too loud for her taste. Almost in unison, the girls gazed at Jace in appraisal, and then at his arm around Clary's shoulders with distaste, and then at Clary herself with blatant, vicious scorn.

Clary had never understood why girls did that. Turning against each other the instant there was a boy around, as if a boy's attention was actually more important than being a decent person. Even Shadowhunter girls did it, from what she had seen in her brief visits to larger cities like Alicante.

But, despite her aversion to their behavior, Clary couldn't help but be uncomfortable with their nastiness towards her. Not because it genuinely bothered her, but because she didn't understand the source of it. Jace was touching her, yes, but it was just his arm around her shoulder. Certainly that wasn't concrete evidence that they were a couple, she thought. Physical affection had always been more casual than that to her.

Jace was watching the girls too, seemingly as uncomfortable as Clary was, but she didn't know if it was for the same reason.

"Should have used a glamour," Clary remarked, as both she and Jace watched the girls squeal over something on one of their cell-phones.

Jace grunted in agreement and they shared a brief smirk. "We'd still be stuck on this train though," he said. "And I'd hate to deny them…" he paused and gestured to himself dramatically, "this."

"A crime against humanity," Clary agreed sarcastically. Jace laughed.

"The next stop is ours, thank the Angel," Jace told her.

Clary wasn't nearly as relieved as he was. She wasn't looking forward to going to the Institute, not in the slightest. She understood completely why Valentine had forbidden her from going – it sounded almost idiotically risky. First there were the Lightwoods; former Circle members, they would no doubt have been very close to Valentine, and Clary knew she looked like him. Not exactly – that would be impossible, with her hair and her eyes – but once you got past her coloring, the similarities were fairly evident. And then there was other-Jonathan. The shadow boy, the boy Valentine had raised and then abandoned, for reasons that had never been explained to Clary or Jonathan. The Lightwoods had adopted him, which meant he lived at the Institute too. Clary had to admit she was curious, but she wasn't supposed to go anywhere near him.

Clary wondered how Jace fit into all of this. Had the Lightwoods adopted him too? Or was he only staying at the Institute for a while? Valentine hadn't mentioned any Waylands, and she couldn't recall him mentioning the name 'Jace' either.

Clary's wondering was overshadowed by worry, overcoming her like a dark cloud as Jace led her up out of the subway and then through the dark streets. She couldn't help but look over her shoulder every few minutes, wary for a glance of Pangborn or Blackwell. She knew Valentine had asked them to keep an eye on her. She prayed to the Angel that tonight wasn't one of the nights they had decided to do so.

"Why do you keep doing that?" Jace asked her after she glanced over her shoulder again. "What are you looking for?" He turned to examine the street behind them and, finding it empty, turned back to her expectantly, his brow furrowed.

"Nothing," she answered, forcing herself to keep her gaze forward despite the anxiousness gnawing at her stomach.

"You don't have to be nervous," said Jace.

"Alright." She didn't agree with him, but it wasn't like she could tell him why, and she wanted him to stop talking to her.

She saw spires in the distance, dark points illuminated against the silver moonlight and dark blue sky, and knew that it was the Institute without knowing how. They were only about a block away, and she held the ends of her sleeves in her fingers to keep her hands from fidgeting. Jace glanced at her every few moments, and she couldn't tell if his gaze was worried or curious. She didn't look to check.

And then they were there, standing in front of a tall wrought iron gate adorned with curling dead vines. The Institute lay beyond, a long cement path leading up to the front doors. The building itself was dark and ominous, looming above Clary and making her feel very small. The moonlight reflected off of stained glass windows in the gray stone, and Clary's artistic eye admired the gothic structure.

But her dread soon overcame her admiration. She felt walls closing in on her, her heart racing as she realized just how trapped she was. As the gates creaked open before them, she shrank instinctively closer to Jace's side, his warmth and his light a comfort in the darkness. Jace seemed to notice her apprehension, gazing down at her for a long moment as they approached the front doors, but he didn't comment.

Clary stepped into the Institute with a racing heart, her fingernails leaving painful indents in the skin of her palms. The air inside was cool and dry and dark. Her keen eyes, enhanced by a night vision rune, made out the shapes of pews on either side of them and paintings on the walls as Jace led her to another gate that he pulled open to reveal an elevator.

She briefly considered turning around and running away – she probably could find Luke by herself – but then she followed him into the enclosed space, her heart slowing as she accepted her fate. She wasn't a coward. She would do what she needed to do; she would find Luke and help her father. And then she would go home to her brother, and help him too.

She and Jace stood on opposite sides of the elevator as it escalated, facing each other. Clary looked down at the toes of her boots until something made her raise her eyes to see that Jace was staring at her. His eyes were like golden fire, burning and molten, and she thought again of the sun. His gaze was intent, pensive, searching, but beneath that was something darker that she couldn't decipher. She didn't look away from him, though the force of his gaze was becoming a heat that she could feel in her skin. She wanted him to stop looking at her, but she didn't break his gaze.

And as she watched him she saw his gaze steadily darken, deepen. He stepped forward; slowly but with purpose, looming over her; and she felt a flutter in her chest. But before he reached her the elevator lurched to a stop so suddenly that Clary stumbled, and he snapped his gaze away from hers even as he reached forward to steady her. His touch was hot against the small of her back, and she stepped away.

The elevator doors opened to reveal a dark foyer only barely illuminated by the moon shining through high windows. She thought of the foyer at home, at their manor in Idris, and the way the moonlight would always illume the portrait of the Angel. She felt homesickness again, a sudden throb in her heart, and then she pushed it away. She couldn't afford distractions like that now.

A glint in her peripheral vision drew her eyes to a gray cat curled up in a corner, its head raised at their arrival.

"Church," Jace called quietly, and the cat twitched an ear. "Where's Hodge?"

Church stretched slowly, arching his back and extending his claws before he rose to his feet, aimed an irritable hiss in their direction, and trotted into the dark hallway. Jace began to follow him, and Clary followed suit. The hallway was very long, the darkness broken periodically by the dim light of witchlights, and ended in a staircase on either side. Church led them up the right staircase, and Clary was unsurprised to find more dark hallways above.

Jace wouldn't meet her eyes but he walked very close to her, close enough that she felt the heat emanating from his skin. He almost seemed nervous too, though she couldn't imagine why.

After a multitude of steep staircases and dark hallways, Church stopped in front of two large double doors, twitching his tail. As soon as Jace and Clary reached him he darted off into the darkness, and Clary soon couldn't see his gray shape among the shadows.

"We're here," Jace announced needlessly. She didn't answer him.

He reached a slim, tanned hand forward and gripped the doorknob. He hesitated before he opened it. "Everything will be fine," he said, looking back at Clary where she wavered in the darkness. She couldn't bring herself to believe him; she had always been pessimistic. But something about the earnest warmth of his light eyes in the darkness slowed the racing of her heart, allowed her trembling fingers – still gripping her sleeves – to still. She nodded and he offered her a halfhearted smile before he pushed, opening the door to the darkness beyond.

---

I can't remember what Simon's mom actually does, or if it's even mentioned at all. But 'nurse' sounded right to me, so there you go.

Was the chapter you were waiting for everything you'd hoped? You know how much I love reviews; you should all write one for me because tomorrow's my birthday and it's all I want from you.