And so we come to Chapter 14- has Jace stopped picking fights yet? Are there any answers to be found about Clary?


"Door," Simon called noncommittally from the armchair in the corner.

The pounding on Luke's door continued incessantly.

Jace quirked an eyebrow over his glare. "And your point being, Dracula?"

Rolling his eyes at the Shadowhunter lounging on the couch, Simon extracted himself from his seat and yanked open the door. A towering werewolf standing in the jamb snarled lowly at the pale Vampire in front of him.

Jace sat up, immediately interested. "Finally!" He exclaimed. "Some entertainment. First one to draw blood gets a cookie. First one to render the opponent unconscious gets to help me throw him forcibly from this prison cell."

"Luke," Simon called, outstretching his hands calmly as if to proclaim peace.

"You just had to ruin my fun, didn't you Bloodsucker?" Jace flopped back on the couch again, crossing his arms and staring venomously at the ceiling. "No wonder they call you the living dead- you have turned the atmosphere in this place into that of a funeral home. In fact, I think I would have more fun in a funeral home. Angel knows the company would be better."

"Funnily enough, I doubt it. As I recall, they don't sell scotch at funeral parlours," Simon bit back. Since the Lightwoods had gone home an hour ago to change their clothes and tend to Church, their bickering had worsened considerably.

Jace drew two daggers from his pocket. "I could stick these in your chest before you take your next breath. So if I were you, Lestat, I would shut the hell up and leave the temperamental Nephilim alone before he sets the wolf on you."

It was a mutual verbal war. There was no real hatred involved. It was pure animosity. Jace could not stand Simon for being so close to Clary, and Simon could not bear Jace for the exact same reasons. Their usual banters were snide, sarcastic comments, but now- with the added weight of frustration, fear and anxiety of Clary's disappearance- their words held unmasked hostility. It was not incredibly hard to imagine them lunging at each other in one large show of unrestrained fury. Luke was already worried about his furniture, not to mention what his neighbours would think if two teenage boys were to go crashing his windows in order to continue a brawl in the street.

"Oliver," Luke greeted, grasping the man's hand. "How are you? Come in, please."

"I have news," the werewolf growled. His voice was very low and his words seemed to rumble deep in his chest like the sound of a cement mixer in full swing.

"News? Oh, don't tell me," Jace called with sarcastic enthusiasm from where he was sprawled on the couch. "Pedigree have started making Cat-Flavoured Kibble? Oh, the unbridled joy!"

Luke turned to shoot him a warning look, but it was completely pointless. Jace had still not switched his attention from the ceiling. One would swear he was staring at some kind of enthralling film being projected on it. "Jace," he hissed instead.

"Yes, oh dearest Alpha?" he said with a sickly sweet smile. "Is there something you want? Does your friend require a nice scratch between the ears? Would he like me to throw him a stick?" Jace lazily grabbed his shoe from the ground and waved it around in the air. "Come on, boy. Come on! Who's a good dog, then?" he crooned.

Oliver gave a resonating and highly threatening snarl. "Ignore him," Lucian muttered, grabbing a can from the fridge and handing it over to his guest. "You said you had news, Ollie?"

The cement mixer began turning again and the gravely voice grated against Oliver's throat. "Girl you told us to look out for. Redhead. Saw her yesterday."

"By the Angel, would it kill you to speak in full sentences?" Jace snapped, still not looking up. But his interest had picked up and his breathing had changed its rhythm. He no longer slouched on the couch, but lay in a rigid manner with every possible muscle clenched tightly.

"Where was she, Oliver?" Luke cut in quickly with a note of uncontrolled frantic urgency.

Oliver spoke up again in his rough, cockney accent. His bulging muscles suggested that he had worked on the docks or building sites in the past. His eyes were very small, as if he were constantly squinting through his dirty brown irises. Dark brown, shaggy hair framed his face and stubble darkened his tan skin. The massive hand that clutched his feeble can of drink had knuckles the size of stones and short, dirty fingernails.

"She were downtown. T'were early morning. Not right bright yet and she were alone. Small little thing, bright red hair an' green eyes."

"Whereabouts downtown, Ollie? This is vital. You have done a great job and I swear I will find a way to repay you some day, but please, where was Clary?" Luke asked. Jace had sat up bolt right on the chair- half leaning forward like a sprinter at the starting line anticipating the commencing shot from a smoking pistol.

"Well, eh, she left an apartment and I couldn't find her nowhere after that- she were too small and quick. So I waited there across the street and a few hours later she went on back in. It was down on Coldors Street, down beside…"

As Oliver explained the directions to Clary's hideout, Jace very quietly reached down and began to pull on his shoes, one ear pricked at all times to hear the location he needed. As soon as Oliver had stopped giving the directions, Jace shot out the door. It slammed spectacularly behind him. Luke flung back his chair and yelled Jace's name. The chair crashed to the ground and Simon leapt to his feet along with Luke.

Outside there came a great growling noise even louder then that of the bewildered werewolf in Graymark's apartment. The loud revving of a powerful motorbike engine. The sound of it alone summoned images of sleek, fluid beauty and power to mind.

Once.

Twice.

Three times the ferocious engine roared to the heavens above.

By the time Luke, Simon and Oliver had reached the street outside, the Shadowhunter had gone. A ringing sound of departed decibels vibrated in the disrupted air in the now empty street. Jace had been so quick, that they couldn't even tell which way he had gone. The smell of smoke from the exhaust pipe lingered in the air. Apart from the two werewolves and the barefoot vampire that stood on the sidewalk, the street was deserted- not a person in sight.

Luke and Simon swore softly as Oliver scratched his greasy hair in oblivious puzzlement. To him this meant nothing, but to the Alpha and the Daylighter- the information he had given them was everything.