u know u have no life when your doing this instead of studying for a bio test on this evening. I blame the whole of the Fanfiction community for my newfound addiction of writing stories now. It's all your fault, you guys! Your fella's fault!

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I'm just kidding - I luv u guys :) If you have questions about the story, comment and review and i will address them at the start of the next chapter.

Ka kite! And pray for me plez - call down whatever angel, demon or god or diety or spirit you know, because I need all the help I can get in this test. And if i don't do well, well... let's leave it up to your imagination, shall we?


11. Trials Begin II

Jace stepped to the side as Jordan advanced towards him and sent an expertly aimed kick to his guts. Jordan seemed to read his moves before he even threw it and caught his leg in both hands whilst sending a kick down to his supporting leg, knocking his leg out from under his own weight and forcing the body onto the ground. The blonde quickly rolled out of reach the minute Jordan let go and bounced back up onto his feet. Jordan's eyes were hard and unflinching as he moved over and spun about, throwing a backhanded fist to Jace's face. The blonde ducked down and shot out a punch to the ribs, fleeting emotion of satisfaction passing through him as he connected with Jordan's body. The brunette grunted and struggled as Jace quickly picked him and threw him down on his side with a loud thump! Jace thought that he had the upper hand as he moved to aim a punch to the face when Jordan rocked back on his knees and knife-handed Jace's windpipe.

Jace's breath hitched as he struggled to breath, his throat undergoing massive waves of pain and his eyes tearing up. Jordan's blurred form stood up over Jace's kneeling form, his posture almost taunting even.

"Come on, blondie. Was that cheapshot all you had?"

Jace's rage flared up and he struggled to get up onto his feet, coughing all the time. Jordan held out one fist and gestured Jace forward. Deciding to switch things up Jace rushed forward and jumped up, executing a spinning tornado kick at Jordan's head. Jordan had neither the room nor time to block and was hit with a large amount of force, sending his body to follow his head down on the ground. Normally Jace would be more controlling with his moves, but with a guy like Jordan pushing your buttons, Jace had to reciprocate his taunts with a few replies of his own.

"How's the view down there Kyle?" Jace teased as he bounced around Jordan. He winced at how his voice had gone from macho man to a barking frog in just a manner of seconds.

"Worry about yourself, Herondale." Jordan jumped back on his feet and lunged forward towards Jace.

The two exchanged blows, one after the other. Neither seemed to be gaining the upper hand; Jordan would drive back Jace with his blows, throwing multiple headshots and alternate between blows to the sides and guts. But then Jace would retaliate with a sweeper kick that would force Jordan back a few steps, giving him time to grab hold of Jordan's oncoming fist and drive him back with strikes to his head, as well as a perfectly aimed knee to the groin. In all honesty, both men were quite skilled in the ways of combat. The other officers in his group spurred them on, shouting out cries of encouragement. Those watching could sense the ferocity and power that emanated from the pair as they fought against one another. Jace didn't know how much time had passed, but he didn't care. Adrenaline seared through his veins and his senses were hyped and on full alert in this match. If anything, time was the one that was moving slow while Jace and Jordan were moving on a separate plane of reality of their own making.

The crowd watched the two spar against one another, observing two separate enigma's. The brown-skinned man had a more animalistic drive, his lips pulled into a snarl as he moved with the speed of a wolf, going in heavy and throwing his weight into every punch. Even the audience could feel the power as he repeatedly slammed into Jace like a crashing wave. They could hear the resounding thump of fist pushing against body mass, pushing through the body as if it were nothing but dough. Meanwhile, Jace was more observant and patient. He allowed for the beating to occur in order to launch a strike at Jordan's exposed vulnerabilities, exerting less energy but attacking with more precision and speed at the brunette. If anything he was more like a warrior of old, an angel of death even, striking fear in his opponents soul and marking him with his own brand of death.

Jace's breathing was beginning to become more labored, and he wasn't as fast as he was at the start. He could sense the energy within him leaving his body, fatigue making its way into his cells. The blonde widened his eyes and looked at Jordan, with blood dribbling from his mouth over his jaw.

Make this count, Jace thought unyieldingly. He straightened up and watched as Jordan rushed towards him, bringing his arm down in the form of a haymaker. Jace's reflexes kicked in and he backed out one step, just out of reach before moving forward. The blonde jumped forward and kicked forward in the air. Rather than using his right hand – which is what Jordan expected, Jace deftly switched arms and used everything he had – his weight, speed, and power –and launched his left hand forward in a Superman blow. The minute his fist connected with Jordan's face, Jace knew that the brunette was gone. The body fell back in slow motion towards the floor, a look of shock frozen on his face as he sailed down. When his body was firmly on the ground, Jace began a mental countdown in his head.

Ten… nine… eight… seven…

Jordan's body began to squirm about on the floor-

Six… five…four…

He started pushing himself off the floor, his head waving about in a dizzy manner-

Three… two..

-And he slumped back onto the floor-

One.

"Time!"

Jace moved groggily over to Jordan kneeling down and turning the brunette over. Jordan's eyes were closed and one nostril had blood pouring out freely. Jordan managed to open his eyes a fraction and they rested solely on Jace. He mocked-punch the blonde on his arm and grinned.

"Not bad Blondie," he teased. "You… did good. Left-handed… didn't see that."

Jace smirked, wincing at the pain that blossomed from his jaw and his throat. "Payback for the throat." Jace left him in the care of the supervisors and headed over to where the rest of his group was, grinning as they clapped him on the back, putting ice on his bruises to stop the swelling. But this was just a momentary victory. They still had a lot more to go through.


"Hey mom, did you want Jasmine or Green tea?"

"Jasmine, sweetie."

Clary gently poured steaming hot water from the jug into a large red jug, adding in the sachet and letting the bag seep for a few minutes. Her mother Jocelyn was currently residing on the balcony on a beanbag, sketching out the streets below in the sketchbook she brought with her. Her mother wore a floral tunic over a pair of creased jeans and tennis shoes, her hair brushing the bare skin on her neck.

When her mother and stepfather had arrived on Sunday night, Clary had been completely ecstatic and leapt into their arms. Their arrival was a welcoming distraction from the matters at hand, such as her brother and, more importantly, the payment for their rent. Her father had been late in paying her for her involvement with his 'activities' and Clary was starting to get restless. She didn't like depending on the man, but her student allowance and living costs could only do so much for her.

Jocelyn Fairchild-Garroway was an older, taller replica of Clary. They shared the same crimson red hair, hers cut in shoulder-length was Clary's still tumbled down her back in unruly curls. Jocelyn had the blessing of being a slender five-foot-eight, while Clary was still stuck with her five-two figure. But the eyes – soulful, emerald orbs that could shift from seductive, never ending pools of green to burning flames. They were the exact same copies.

Her step-father, Luke Garroway, was in the bathroom, greasing the hinges on the wooden door. He was tall and rugged looking, with dark hair with a few grey streaks that was tousled due to his habit of running his fingers through it out of nervousness. He was undeniably strong as well; whenever he picked up an object or did some heavy lifting, Clary could see the muscles bulge slightly beneath the skin. Luke held an oil-can in one hand and was dressed in a grey flannel shirt, with a plain white shirt underneath and grease-stained jeans. The man was the personification of hard-worker. Luke ran a bookstore back home but also did part time gigs as a plumber and builder. He always had to be doing something – he couldn't just let things lie as they were when he had the ability and the skillset to fix or improve himself.

"Here you go mom." Clary handed her mother her mug while she retreated back to the comforts of her studio, holding a bottle of aloe vera juice in her hand. She looked over in the corner where her latest disaster-piece from the weekend resided. She'd been absolutely mortified that she reverted back to drinking. It was a habit that she thought she'd long outgrown, but as it turns out, was still their, laying dormant beneath layers of mental regression. Painting and drinking never went well together. She'd always start painting her impression of events that had occurred within the last twenty-four hours and was even susceptible to spurting out whole truths. Fortunately, Simon had told her that the only things she kept mentioning over and over again when he put her to bed were Jace and Jonathan's names.

Clary picked up a large sketchpad with a sketch on it and set it up against a large board on the easel. With a practiced hand, she began to fill in the outlines lightly with watercolors. Shades of orange and pink splashed onto the paper to create a vivid sky as it felt the first colors brought on by morning. Gunmetal greys, whites, and chromatic blues formed the towering skyscrapers in New York, with a few shadows cast by their forms crossing the river.

"Your technique's absolutely perfect."

Jocelyn walked up towards Clary and placed a slender hand weighed down by her engagement ring onto her daughter's shoulder. "Meh, it's fine. It's not great, like Bam! - instant Louvre or Guggenheim museum material right here. But it'll do." Clary paused in her movement and stared back to look at her work. She turned to face her mother who wore a semi-smile on her face.

"Any work of my daughter's is a masterpiece in my eyes." She doted upon her daughter.

Clary smiled. "I know you're saying that because you're my mother, but we'll pretend it matters."

Jocelyn pinched Clary's cheeks and moved over to her desk. She turned to face her daughter and fixed a penitent stare on her. Clary felt her mother's gaze weight down on her, and she sensed that she was about to do one of her 'intervention' conversations

"Whaat did I do now?" Clary asked innocently, pulling big doll eyes on her mother.

Jocelyn looked at Clary ruefully. "There's something going on with you Clary. I don't know what, but you just don't seem as energetic as you use to be. There's something weighing you down, sweetie."

"Pffft, I'm fine," Clary said nonchalantly. "Nothing interesting going on in my life."

Jocelyn arched a fine eyebrow and gazed at Clary, attempting to stare her into submission. Clary puffed up her cheeks to keep herself from laughing, because that was her tell when it came to lying in front of her mother.

"Clary, I'm your mother. I've raised you over eighteen years. I know everything about you from the first moment you spoke your word, to when you snuck out with Simon to a boxing match at the local YMCA, to the moment when you when you were contacted by your father."

Clary stiffened slightly at her mother's last comment. Valentine was still a soft topic between them.

"Clary, I want you to answer me truthfully when I say this," Jocelyn said sternly. "Have you been talking to your father of late? And no half-ass answers."

Clary wriggled about on her seat, fiddling with the buttons on her shirt. "…Yeeess."

"And have you been meeting up with him?"
Clary shook her head. When she had made the contract with her father, one of her conditions was to never, ever meet up face to face. Indirectly, she could permit – but if he ever tried to ambush her into meeting up with her, then she would call the cops on him, and drag him down, even if she went down with him.

Jocelyn pursed her lips as she studied Clary's expressions. Clary tried to remain as stoic as possible, hiding all traitorous thoughts that rambled about in her head.

"Clary, I'm not going to pretend that I'm not bothered by the fact that you've been associating yourself with him. And I'm not going to pretend that I'm a saint and say you shouldn't be talking to him at all, because then I'd be making myself a hypocrite. After all, I married the man despite knowing everything about him." Jocelyn sighed heavily, her eyes downcast on the floor. "I just… I just hope you're being careful around him. If he's still the same man that I divorced, then you need to be wary with your doings with him."

Clary nodded. She twirled a brush between her fingers and stared at her mother with curious eyes. "Mom – why did you marry him? You knew everything about him, his criminal past, the bad things he does. What made you stay with him?"

Jocelyn smiled sadly and moved towards her daughter. "I guess I was just blinded by the things I wanted to see in him. I thought I could change him, turn him into a better man than what he was. And I did – or at least, he let me think I did. There were only two times when he stopped doing criminal activities during our marriage, and that was when I was pregnant with you and Jonathan. It made me so happy, seeing him forgo those things, but then he'd start slipping through the cracks, falling back into his old habits, resuming command of running an entire underground empire."

Clary noticed a more somber aura whenever her mother began talking about Valentine. No matter how many times she spoke out against Valentine, reprimanding his deeds and looking down upon him with seething hatred, Clary could see the remnants of the woman who was still in love with him.

"Do you still love him?" Clary ventured. Jocelyn's eyes knitted together in puzzlement and her daughter clarified herself. "Valentine. Do you still love him."

Jocelyn eyes hardened and Clary could see that she'd hit a sensitive point. But she needed to know – Clary had always wondered but never had the courage to ask outright. With her mother trapped in her studio, and Luke busy doing handy-man chores, who could've asked for a better opportunity?

"The man was my first love, I'll admit," Jocelyn admitted, gliding towards the door of Clary's studio and looking back at her shoulder. "And yes I still love him. Not as strongly as I did before, mind you. But I still love him."

"Why?" Clary demanded harshly. "The man has nothing to show but a vault of bad memories."

Jocelyn smiled softly, gazing down at Clary with a soft expression. "Because he gave me the greatest daughter I could ever ask for."