Hello, hello, hello! For those of you new to the story, welcome! For those of you new to me, welcome! For those who've been to this story before, welcome back, and to those who have been with me since the beginning, I am eternally grateful for your support and patience and understanding.

I've been struggling with this story and how to tell it. As some of you know, I lost all my outlines, notes and chapters for this story when my laptop broke a few months ago. Rereading it, trying to remember all the places I wanted it to go, there were some things that I wasn't happy with, some things I wanted to add or change.

So I've decided to edit and re-upload my chapters. The general storyline has not changed, so feel free to skip these chapters right to the new one, but I've definitely added some additional content, some direction, and some fluff. :)

During my hiatus, I've been writing, working on other projects, and wrestling with a part of my past that I've not yet been strong enough to deal with, but I'm hoping to be back and better than ever, and hold myself accountable for updating!

Thanks for sticking with me through thick and through thin, just like we stick with our faves from the Mortal Instruments. 3

I'm putting the same A/N at the beginning of all updated chapters, so if you're reading this right now, feel free to skip it every time following. I love and appreciate every single one of you. And for whoever needs it, you are not your past. You are not the wrongs done to you. You are worthy and strong and so entirely perfect. Please know that.

Love you all.

Dancing With Demons

Chapter 10: Breaking Chains

Song: Read Me My Rights – Brantley Gilbert

Pride. That's the sin I'm working with today, as I pour over the incriminating photographs littering my desk. Except I can't focus on which politician screwed Sally and which murdered Jill. Instead, my fingers are pressed into my temples, trying to forget the way her warm thighs felt against mine, or how her pink lips parted when she tipped her head back to look at me, a crimson waterfall of hair flowing down her back.

That was last Saturday morning. It's Tuesday afternoon, and my mind is still entangled in her damn kiss, the trail of heat her fingers left against my scalp stronger than ever. "Just threaten them all," I growl finally, shoving the stack of images into the awaiting hands of Alec, storming from the office, past the empty secretary desk that a busty blonde used to occupy, though her ass spent more time against the closet wall than her chair. I ignore Isabelle's mandatory greeting, though she doesn't even appear to be awake yet, with a coffee in her hand and drooping eyelids. I'd sent her on a reconnaissance mission last night, though it proved unfruitful as she reported earlier with an empty file folder and a harsh glare.

"Yeah, yeah," I grumble as she turns over her shoulder and barks something about needing to plan the wedding gala soon. She heeds my waving hand as a dismissal and smartly avoids following me into the staircase. I jog down the flights, eager, anxious.

Then I stop myself.

What am I doing?

I'm barely to the last flight of stairs before I hear hurried footsteps following me. "Boss, wait!" I pull to a stop, waiting for Simon Lewis to finish descending the stairs, his arms overflowing with papers, his laptop balanced precariously atop one arm as he sifts through the printed reports, presenting one that's stapled with a slightly wrinkled edge.

"This better be good, Lewis," I growl, still aggravated with myself for my accelerated heartbeat, for the weakness in my thoughts.

He doesn't even acknowledge my distasteful mood, flipping open the coversheet of his writeup and highlighting the key points. "Sebastian Verlac. Thirty-seven. Member of the Werewolves since—"
"Simon, I said Sebastian with the Demons—"
"Boss, I know…that's where it gets interesting." I choose to ignore his rude interruption in favo of quick information. "If I go back, there's nothing for the years between 2009 and 2013. This guy, frankly, doesn't exists. He doesn't have any loans, any credit cards, nothing for those four years. He fell off the grid. And then, in 2014, he reappears out of nowhere, as a member of the Wolves—"

"Get to the point, nerd boy." I'm much too tired and aggravated to worry about frivolities such as kindness.

"Well, I did some digging into the pre-2009 stuff, and I found that he used to be affiliated with the Demons. A few side jobs here and there, got caught once but was released due to lack of evidence."

"So Sebastian Verlac—"

"—is a Demon spy in Werewolf territory." I've already started my march back up the stairs, to my office, to my weapons.

"I need an address."

"I've already sent it to your phone," he calls from behind me.

"Remind me to give you a raise," I reply before leaving earshot, knowing that he'll never have the balls to confront me about it. If he does, I'll probably give him a bonus, too.

I gather my weapons, standing at my office window as dusk turns to darkness, a perfect covering for a retaliation crime. My emotions are still dictating my actions, my body completely overrun by a fierce need to protect the delicate redhead tucked safely in bed at my house. There's no time to let my mind regain control, and frankly, I don't want it to.

I want the streets to run red with Sebastian's blood, want to watch the light leave his eyes as he realizes it's me he'll spend his last breath with. I want to hear him scream. I don't know how long I'd been staring at the traffic below me, but as the outflux of cars from the city dissipated, I decide it's time to strike.

I'm in my Corvette minutes later, punching the address into my navigation system, half watching the road, half fumbling with the cellphone in my hand. I get the number punched in after two minutes of struggling and wait for the call to connect.

Jonathan picks up on the third ring, his voice filled with alarm. "Is something wrong with Clary?!" I hold the phone to my ear with my shoulder as I struggle to control my vehicle, the needle on the speedometer creeping past 120 mph.

"What? No, she's fine. Remember how I said that you owe me?" There's a sigh of relief and a grumbling of the affirmative as I swerve around a car, slamming on my horn as its brake lights flash. "Well, I'm going to need to cash in on that."

"Does it have to be at three in the morning? We're not in college anymore. I don't stay up all hours of the night to—"
"Listen, Jon," I cut him off hastily, maneuvering around a sharp turn. I know our dads were enemies, and our gangs are rivals, blah blah blah, but you're my best friend, and I'm about to do something that I'm probably going to regret—"

"Are you alright, Jace? Do you have a fever?"

"—and I don't want you to talk me out of it. I want you to cover my ass." There's a pause.

"What are you going to do?" I laugh coldly, manically, the speedometer closer to 180 now.

"I'm going to kill Sebastian Verlac."

"Who?" There's genuine confusion in his voice. Valentine hadn't even let his son in on this aspect of the business.

"Verlac, your dad's spy in the Werewolves."

Silence, as expected.

"Jace, there's only so much I can do before my dad will have me killed, you know that right?" I'm nearing my destination, my car reaching its maximum speed. I need to know if Jonathan is in or out.

"I know, Jon, but this guy, this monster," I spit the word, hatred seeping into my voice, "…he literally carved his name into Clary's back. And I'm about to return the favor, whether I have your help or not."

"What do you need me to do." No hesitation. No doubt. It's not even phrased as a question.

As two of the most wanted criminals in United States history, we share one weakness.

"If Valentine starts digging into it, just cover for me."

"Alright," there's a pause as I go to end the call. "And Jace?" I press it tightly against my ear, steering with one hand as I count street signs. "Make him suffer." I nod, and even though he can't see me, I know he understands. I toss the phone into the passenger seat just as I find my sign.

Red coats my vision as I pull my Corvette to a screeching halt before the small, rundown home just outside the city's limits. There's a light on in the doorway, so I don't hesitate to slam my car door and bang incessantly against the wooden frame, shaking a few pieces of paneling loose from the walls in my haste. There's a cursing and the shattering of glass coming from the other side as I stand in the silver moonlight, watching a sluggish figure drift in front of the windows, making slow progress to the door.

Sick of his pace, I kick it open with the heel of my boot, grabbing the resident by his collar and shoving him against the wall. "Sebastian Verlac?" I ask with authority. He's only a few inches shorter than me, but built like a freight train, with eyes and hair as black as the night sky.

"Who the fuck wants to know?" I smile wickedly, slamming him back against the wall when he tries to wriggle free.

"I'm Jace Herondale." There's a sliver of fear in his eyes as he recognizes my name, the smile on my face getting bigger as his body begins to shake. "I'm the leader of the Shadowhunters, and more recently, Clarissa Morgenstern's husband."

He laughs incredulously. "That whore? You actually married that piece of shit—" I've slammed the handle of the knife into his mouth, and he retches, spitting blood and teeth onto my shoes.

"I'd choose your words very carefully, if I were you," I suggest, smiling at his groan of pain.

He smiles a toothless grin, unyielding in his mission to piss me off. "She was always good for a quick fuck, though. Tell me, does she make that nose when you shove your dick in her mouth, too?" I ignore him, sliding my knife down the front of his shirt, splitting the fabric in two, revealing a tattooed and surprisingly unscarred chest. There's no hesitation in me as I press the blade into his skin, drawing lines deep enough to create steady streams of blood. "You thought that you owned Clary, that you could take away her worth…but the only worthless one here is you."

He lands a punch on my jaw, but I'm unfazed. I don't pause, carving letter after agonizing letter until my hands are slicked in his blood and his screams have ebbed away to satisfying gurgling noises in the back of his throat. He'd put Clary through worse torture, night after night, and here he is, begging for leniency, for mercy. "Where was Clary's mercy?" I spit as tears stream from his eyes. He's weeping openly, but I pay him no mind, stepping backward to inspect my handiwork.

"I've branded you," I tell him, leaning in close to his ear to ensure he's hearting me. "I own you." I don't give him the opportunity to answer before burying my knife in his chest, dotting the i.

My blood-slicked fingers leave crimson prints on my iPhone as I dial my cleanup crew, robotically repeating the address as my eyes trail the word imprinted in his chest, a word to bring Clary justice, to hopefully bring her peace.

Pedophile.

Sirens sound in the distance, and I wipe away the prints on the handle of my blade before wiping my hands, too. Nobody will remember Sebastian Verlac. Nobody will cry at his funeral. Nobody will even know he's dead.

It's almost dawn, and I can't help the smile pulling at my lips as I glide my Corvette back into its parking stall, heading up to my office with a renewed sense of peace.