I'm back! As I said, the updates will be erratic.

Thanks to Mrs Belikova 18, and Bethany. Your reviews were a large reason I decided to get on with writing this.

The vague sound of a door slamming shut.

"Is this really Clary, Jon? It doesn't look like her."

A huff of irritation. "Yes, Maia. This is Clary."

"Are you sure? I thought her hair was more orangey than that. And it would really suck if we got the wrong person."

"Would a complete stranger smack me in the face?"

"Maybe if she thought you were molesting her."

A poorly smothered guffaw.

Blearily, Clary cracked open one eye. Her vision was a blur of various shades of white. She dimly registered a soft mattress digging into her right side and a stiff pillowcase tickling her ear. After a moment her pupils dilated and through the remnants of sleep clinging to her eyelashes like stubborn spiders she spotted Magnus sitting directly across the room from her, sporting a grin as his striking eyes darted between the two people playing verbal tennis. They flashed to meet Clary's groggy ones and his grin spread even further, until it looked like it'd been replaced by the moon.

"Why on Earth would I do that?"

"You do odd things sometimes."

Jon took an annoyed step back until his legs were in Clary's line of sight.

"Anyway, are you sure this is her?"

Through gritted teeth: "I'm absolutely, positively certain. Now stop talking before you wake her up."

Magnus piped up. "A bit too late for that, Jon."

Caught of guard, the blonde leaped back slightly to see her peering up at him with vague amusement veiling her harlequin eyes. She offered a smile, a shadow of one she could have mustered once upon a time, but still laced with enough laughter to make him stick his tongue out at her.

Still smirking to herself, she dragged herself up onto wobbly elbows, shooting Jon a look telling him to stay away even as she half-collapsed back amongst the sheets. With a clenched jaw, she forced her limbs to support herself, and met the gaze of the girl still hovering in the doorway despite being in the room for a solid ten minutes.

She had dark brown skin, and a vaguely pretty face, half of which was obscured behind a tumble of black braid hanging from the corner of her forehead and formed a sheet down to the base of her neck. She wore ripped jeans, and a brightly coloured t-shirt which highlighted her wide curves as they flared from her small waist. She wore no shoes or socks. She looked to be about Clary's age.

Maia spread her long arms in a gesture that looked like she either wanted a hug, or was presenting something. The gesture sparked a long-dormant memory in Clary: one of a chubby toddler of the same bright eyes as this teenager, and a bossy attitude as they pranced in rings. "Clary!" Maia called, without a hint of doubt. Like always. A hint of a smile slipped across her face. Maia.

Suddenly the brunette halted. "Wait, do you remember me?"

Clary only shrugged in response, returning to that blasé air she held when she didn't know how to react in a situation. "I think so, Maia."

The girl beamed. "I knew you would," she said, shooting a smug look at the two other people in the room. Both boys rolled their eyes. She approached Clary's bed with care, as though she understood that a sickroom was not the best place to freak out. Cautiously, she perched on the edge of the mattress.

Something different from the Maia she'd known: this one seemed at loss for words.

"Where did you go?" She said at last, surveying Clary with those strange amber eyes of hers. "You just... disappeared one day."

Clary shrugged again, loathe to admit that she had no idea. "I don't know; I was only three." She cast her gaze at Jon. "Do you know?" He shook his head. She turned back to Maia, the conversation deflating like a pricked balloon. "Are you still in contact with Simon?"

Maia nodded fervently, glad for the subject change. "Yeah. We've got another friend, Isabelle, who Simon has a major crush on. I pretended to date him for a while to make her jealous. It worked a bit too well..." She trailed off, seemingly uncertain, but Clary leaned forward in curiosity. Her expression said she wanted to hear more, and her old friend acquiesced.

Once the story was done, Clary sat back on her elbows to mull it over.

"I can see where Simon is coming from," she mused thoughtfully, "but Isabelle's reaction seems justified as well." Maia nodded.

"I know. It's agony having to pick sides. I don't know what to do at this point." Maia stared at the mural on the wall, which, Clary could now see, was a view of a sunset over the sea. "What should I do?"

Clary frowned, flicking her eyes around the room. Jon and Magnus had left them to their catch up as per request - although she had a funny feeling Jon was just outside the door ready if anything happened. "You're asking the girl who lived with minimal human contact for years for social advice?"

Maia had nothing to respond to that.

Luke smiled warmly, startlingly clear eyes sparkling at her over rectangular glasses. His familiar warmth only made her more uncomfortable; she wasn't used to it.

She swallowed surreptitiously - or so she hoped - and hesitantly met his gaze. The metre between them was occupied by a simple wooden table that resembled one you might eat at, but it might as well have been mountainous steel walls. She couldn't keep her fingers still, and she felt Luke's gentle but puzzled gaze brush over her freckled knuckles. She withdraw her hand hastily, nestling it in her lap.

Luke took a long breath. "I presume you want an explanation?"

She stomped down the scathing retort that rose to her lips. Just because Luke gave off such a calming aura that she felt no desire to strangle him, didn't mean she wasn't still angry.

Why was she angry? A lot of reasons, she answered herself. She was angry because he'd convinced Jon to leave her. She was angry because he'd left her, Sebastian, and her mother to fend for themselves. She was angry because he'd actually condoned the act of arson that had turned her only home into smouldering dust.

She was angry.

Or at least that was what she was trying to tell herself. She felt mainly dead, like that fire had burned away all her passion.

Luke steepled his fingers and looked at her with his grave, solemn eyes. That look should have been condescending, but somehow it wasn't, and she couldn't help but hate that.

She was hating a lot of this these days.

"As you know, I met your parents, and various other couples - the Lightwoods, the Herondales - in school. We were good friends, and we were all saddened when Jocelyn and Valentine disappeared, as well as worried for your and your brothers' wellbeing."

Her fingers started tapping again. She couldn't help it. His formal tone set her on edge.

"I kept in touch with the Lightwoods and Herondales as they joined the Clave, and began fighting the Circle of Raziel, without any of us realising that the leader of these assassins was your father."

"Would it have mattered?" Her voice came out hoarse. At his questioning look, she elaborated. "Would it have mattered that you knew your old friend was the enemy, if you truly believed you were fighting for a good cause?"

Luke shook his head. "Honestly, Clary, no. Valentine is no longer the Valentine I knew. It would have caused only harm if he'd been allowed to continue down his path of murder without resistance."

"But the Clave was corrupt." She pointed out. "They offered no resistance."

"I know." In that moment, Luke looked incredibly old; older than he had any right or reason to be. "I realised this years ago, and tried to warn the Lightwoods - the Herondales having been murdered by Valentine after they realised who was behind the assassinations - but neither Maryse nor Robert listened to me. I then contacted your brother-" Clary's hands, situated in her lap, curled into fists, "-and he told me all he knew and agreed to help. Your father had been training him to take over the Circle, and what he did know, he was disgusted by. We faked his death so no one would be suspicious and he began to spy on the manor."

"Wouldn't he have been a more effective spy on the inside, where he's practically spoon-fed the information, as opposed to outside?"

Luke furrowed his brows. "You have a good point." He surveyed her with something grudgingly close to respect. "And Jon told me what you said about the plan for the fire. You have a mind for strategy. I wish you'd been here earlier so we would have been able to rethink plans that turned out to be mistakes."

The hands that had been clenching the crisp fabric of the shirt she'd been loaned loosened their death grip. "I'm not a strategist; I'm a cynic."

Luke smiled. "Either way."

She took a deep breath. "So who is 'we'?" She asked. "You've been carrying out all these plans like you're a group similar to the Clave."

He folded his hands. "We are. We call ourselves Downworlders."

"And I suppose that the Clave just doesn't know there's another corporation with permission from the government, actively fighting against the enemy they're secretly helping?"

He winced. "Bribes can get you anywhere."

She pursed her lips.

"All legality aside," he insisted, "I might know a place for you to hide from your father and just be safe for the time being, at least, if you wanted to."

She cocked her head. "I'm listening." She drawled.

Her fingers started tapping again.

Isabelle scowled as she checked the caller ID on her phone. It was Maia.

Again.

She tossed it carelessly behind her. It hit the bed, and bounced with a satisfying boing. From where it was lying screen down on the mattress, it began to play the voicemail left, which was the last thing she wanted. She knew perfectly well that if she heard it, she'd concede.

She lunged for it, but paused halfway. That wasn't Maia's voice.

"Hi, Isabelle. As you've probably guessed, this isn't Maia. I'm Clary; I don't know if Jace has mentioned me or not. Anyway, I heard you and your family were in need of a home to live in, and..."

Again, sorry for the brief absence.

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