Hey, all! Just wanted to clear some things up in case any of you missed the last couple of chapters because of my infrequent updates!

Clary's great, great grandfather, the founder of the Resistance, was the product of a human and vampire love affair; Luke is NOT a vampire, but he does have traces of vampire ancestry in his blood. Clary and Jonathan, by extension, do as well. Jocelyn was a human when she gave birth to Clary and Jon, but was turned during a raid (I'll go more into that later). And just to be certain—because there's still some confusion—Clary's father IS LUKE. I'm not doing the "oh-you're-my-sibling?" spiel...because that'd be weird...and untimely...and...yeah.

Well, thanks for sticking with me for this long. I thought that I'd be able to fit a lot more into this one, but you, my friends, deserve quality and I don't want to rush anything. Just to keep you guys on the edge of your toes: NEXT chapter, team Jace enters the "premises."

Clary

The light was christening, warm and sharp against my eyelids. Before I fully came to, knocking at my skull was a splitting headache and the feverish clamor of my skin. I felt heavy, leadened; my body was a burlap sack, wracked with the tremors of a poorly tuned instrument, sinking deeper into sleep and away from consciousness like an anchored shackle. So, I felt like crap.

One deep breath in and there was the pureness of California poppies carted into the linen beneath my pillow, meant to dilute the resilience of insomnia, to calm. Without having to lift my head, I could visualize the stark orange and yellows of the opioid plants, their slight, rounded petals forming a lazy square. More were the herbs sprinkled all around my room, dusting the cabinets of my dressers and desk, the frame of my window. There was the fresh Spring grass of my bedroom floor, the alkaline soil, the intrusion of wayward tree branches sticking in through the walls at random places that acted as makeshift clothing racks. Above all, though, was the crisp and clean air integrated with the warmth and spice of the sun hanging above the tree-line.

This was home.

Begrudgingly, I opened one lid after the other, finding myself in my childhood bedroom but graced with the presence of a new ornamentation, one of equal familiarity and comfort: Jace. He stood in the doorframe, having to duck his head underneath a good foot or so just to be able to enter. A lazy smile spread across my face at the sight of him; if not slightly thinner and a little more gruff around the face, he was the same Jace I had always known, the boy I'd grown up and fell in love with.

"When did you get back?" I found myself saying.

"You, my dear, look like absolute crap," he laughed, coming into the small space further and finding himself a seat on the edge of my bed.

I groaned. "I feel like it. Dad was up all night fussing over me. He pulled out the poppies and herbs, even had Hodge come over to rub healing salves wherever he could fit them. I've had so many different teas that I think my immune system is too confused to listen to any of them."

Jace kept his content expression in place, but I watched as his eyebrows furrowed in concern, the way his hand grabbed at mine a little too carefully. It was dangerous to be as sick as I was with as little medical compensation as we had. "What is this?" he tried to joke. "I leave for three days with your goofy brother to bring you home game, suffer through all of his incessantly lame jokes, and come back to see my fiancé hung up in bed? I thought that I'd find you by the creek. Or at least having collected three night's worth of firewood."

"Believe me," I said, "If my dad didn't have Hodge barricading my only exit, I'd have already gotten a whole week's worth."

"You're okay though?" he nearly whispered, all infringement of humor lost in his crinkled eyes, his heavy frown. "I'm worried."

I rubbed his hand with the pad of my thumb, pulling him from around his broad shoulders with my other arm to my level. He gratefully accepted the embrace, melting like Mayrse's honey over an open fire to slather onto lavash bread. His warmth was what I had been craving in his absence, the strong yet pliant mold of his body holding me tenderly, closely, as if he figured that if he didn't let go, I'd sooner or later become apart of him. My ear rested against his chest, taking in the low, steady thumping of his chest; his heartbeat was promising and alive. The most endearing of all all hymns.

"I'm okay," I cooed. "You're here now. How could I not be?"

He pressed a solid kiss to the underside of my jaw, then onto my cheek, and would've continued onto my lips had I not turned my head away from his with a muffled giggle. "No. I'm not getting you sick," I told him, holding up my hand to his lips and narrowing my eyes. Albeit with much difficulty. He was such a child, huffing indignantly at my resolve, peppering more sweat kisses to each of my fingers bared to him. Trying to wean my stubbornness is what he was doing, the devil. "Jace," I warned.

"You think I'll contract whatever you have through your hand?" he said dubiously, rolling his eyes.

"No. You know what you're doing. You need to stop."

He arched a brow. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Had I been as privileged as him to raise just one of my eyebrows, I would've done just that, but I settled for twisting my lips and flattening my gaze. It was something my mom would've done in her fleeting attempts to admonish either Jonathan or me. In fact, I felt as if I were admonishing Jace. "I'm serious. I could be...really sick, Jace. I can't risk doing this to you. Not when I love you so much."

He didn't seem to like my answer, snatching up both of my wrists into just one of his hands—moving too fast for my stifled consciousness to keep up with—and leaned forward, forcing a heavy, solid kiss to my mouth. "That is how confident I am that this is something as harmless as the flu. If I get it, then so what? You're going to be fine, okay?"

I was too stunned to chastise the beautiful idiot before me. He sat, haloed by the morning sunlight, his tawny eyes, like curdled amber always on the brink of melting, looking down at me with such promise and reassurance that I found myself relenting under his words. And if the one kiss hadn't already doomed him, he went in for seconds and thirds, panting at my resilience. "Okay?" he repeated. "Say okay."

"Okay," I whispered, but more for his sake than anything else. I had a feeling that what I had wasn't as contagious as the common cold, that it ran deeper and was more...fatal. Deep down, I think Jace knew too; only so many people of our village ever came back from something like this and it was only pure luck that saved them. Others died within the matter of weeks. We just didn't have the medicine, only herbs and prayers and hope.

"Good," he said at once, slowly releasing my wrists and gently placing them, one over the other, on my chest. "Now, I'm going to fetch you some soup that Mayrse is making with our game. If it doesn't make you feel better, then I don't know what will. I swear to you that I'm like the god of hunting—three deer, full-sized, twenty rabbits, pheasants, you name it."

"Well, god of hunting," I teased, "hurry back. You've already been away from me for too long."

One last kiss, warm and malleable skin that hit with the power of a hundred electrodes, and he moved to a stand. "If I'm going to provide for you for the rest of our lives, you can bet that I always only be a heartbeat away," he grinned toothily. "And once I'm back, you won't be getting rid of me."

I rolled my eyes, drinking in the sight of him. He was so full of life, buzzing with energy that I craved to have myself, and was just so light, both in spirit and in disposition. I don't know why I paid any mind to it, but his breathing sounded impossibly even, as if it were the constant strumming of a one-string guitar; he was solitary perfection, inhale in, exhale out, in and out, never once missing or rushing a note. Jace looked on at me, and for a moment I figured he was off on yet another hunting trip—he held that same gleam in his eyes. The excitement, the anticipation of stalking the forest floor with nothing but his bow and the precision of utter isolation.

In and out. Always in and then out, never the other way around. In and out—

He hitched as suddenly and violently as the first clang of thunder in a storm, and I could feel my eyebrows furrow in confusion. Jace was suddenly still, eyes blown wide, mouth open, breathing...stopped. "Jace?" I called, forcing my body into a sitting position on shaking arms. When I breathed in myself, it wasn't herbs or California poppies that I smelled, but unalloyed copper. "Jace!" This time, I screamed, my eyes finding their focal point over his heart.

Blood.

It spread like unbound fire, drinking the fabric of his shirt in dark crimson. He gasped, choked, called out to me, the walls of a dam breaking as more and more blood fell from his mouth. It wasn't Clary that he said but Clarissa. Over and over and over again. Staked through the heart, at the very center of his chest, Jace collided down to his knees, dropping like a boulder to a pond of red. Clarissa, Clarissa, Clarissa.

I screamed in unadulterated horror, wanting to run to him, to fling my body over his, but too petrified to move: above him stood a dark vampire with a crescent moon-smile masked in blood. Jace's blood.

"He tasted good," Sebastian drawled. "I think you'll taste better—"

My eyes shot open, the stark gleam of the throne room, basked in gunmetal light and velvet red, finding prey in me; the claws of reality sunk deep into my sides, lingering like pins and needles. But it didn't register fast enough. I still saw Sebastian's silhouette, his outstretched hands and bloody smile, Jace's corpse sitting at my bedside's feet, I felt the pain of having his life ripped away from him—so young and so beautiful, so unsuspecting—but more than that, the pure terror of Sebastian's oncoming attack. I threw my body backwards, startled petrified at the unrelenting and cold wall that all but cushioned my spine and the back of my head.

A scream died in my throat, Sebastian's fingers never coming to wrap around my throat, his teeth never tearing into my jugular, his presence never settling. Jace wasn't lying lifeless on the ground, covered in both his blood and the alkaline soil of my bedroom. No. I wasn't even in my room. I wasn't sitting on my bed, there were no potent poppies or herbs, no hand-stitched quilts or blankets, no familiarity or comfort. I wasn't home. It had only been a dream.

Still, I shook like mad all over; a feverish top layer encased me, drawing goosebumps aplenty, hot skin against cold sweat, throbbing against stagnant bone. I felt maybe even more like crap than I had in my dream, my gaze sinking into the bite marks lining all up and down my arms. They were ugly, caked in drying blood, swelled purple, blue, black, and green skin like watercolor against the white canvas of my flesh. Everything felt puffy and bruised, but that was only my shell. Inside, I was sinking. Never had I been this tired or lethargic before, had my eyes felt as if they'd merely melt off either side of my face.

But a vigor sparked my pulse alive once more. It was a combination, I think, of still feeling rattled over having to witness Jace be staked like the fruits and meats of a shish kabob in my dream, and the numbing sensation that overtook the majority of the pain I felt presently. And, it was most definitely the absence of Jace's estranged family in the throne room.

Neither Sebastian nor the king were in sight. Not only that, but the Rogues, the king's soldiers, human servants—they were all gone, leaving me alone with the ever-rasping and miserable wall of the king's victims. Each jabbering, unhinged jaw, gaunt and melting face, lifeless yet desperate pair of eyes, no longer seemed aware of me, the human girl that could easily revive any single one of them were I positioned closer. They were, instead, listless in pursuit of even just a drop of blood, seeming to have forgotten I was there altogether. I felt my face flush green, my stomach churning at the sight of the festering things.

I knew better than to get my hopes up; beyond the throne room wall, the hallway with royal portraits and whatnot, soldiers had to be stationed outside. I found that it hurt even to twist my neck around as I looked further down the wall I was still attached to by a single shackle. There was another archway. It stood, large and uncharted from my perspective; I had seen countless human servants scurry off down whatever corridor it was apart of, which meant that it must lead to somewhere—at least to a place that wasn't this damned room I had been hauled up in for weeks on end. It could hold an exit.

I looked down at my wrist with a wince, feeling something snag in my neck. Sebastian or the king, one or the other, had decided but a a week ago that I was too weak to escape to need both shackles, that or they just got lazy putting both of them on. This left one of my wrists as a hostage to a sadistic silver bangle that just barely relented against the width of my forearm. I don't know if I'd grown thinner or if the band had expanded, but it seemed to hold looser than before.

All that stood between me and getting out of here was this little stretch of metal. Experimentally, I wiggled as many fingers as I could from my left hand between the gap leftover from the manacle, finding with a hiss that all four of them could fit snuggly if they were flattened. It was a dangerously tight squeeze—in fact, getting my fingers out of the contraption resulted in tearing off the majority of the skin. But it would have to do.

This was going to hurt.

Taking in a sharp breath all while looking to ceiling, I encircled the band of metal with my free hand and pulled it to the hilt of my constrained wrist, tugging lightly. The skin at the base of my palm held its breath, sucking in farther than natural, at the same time I did. My thumb joint bent all the way into the tight junction, the knuckle sticking out. Distantly, wearily, I acknowledged that I'd have to break it.

I dared myself to look down, shuddering at the blood that now fell freely from underneath the manacle; I hadn't stopped tugging on it since I'd gotten the idea into my head, and now the stretch of metal resided off kilter, holding at the knuckle of my thumb. One pull, that's all it would take. Then, I could run. One pull, Clary.

I was breathing erratically now, needing every distraction in the book to keep my eyes off of my mutilated hand. Sebastian or the king could decide to walk back in at any moment—they'd see what I was trying to do, no doubt drain me unconscious yet another time, and restrain me with both of the shackles. The bottom line was that if I got caught, neither one of them would be making the same mistake. This was my one shot. I couldn't mess this up.

My bottom lip found itself between my teeth as I fought to steady my breathing, cutting open as I bit in deeper the harder I pulled on the manacle. I whimpered pathetically. "Oh, Mom." The countdown began in my head, starting over at least a dozen times, never going past three. Two...One. Three. Two. One. Do it, Clary! Do IT! Now—

Crunch.

It was gruesome, it was horrible, it was earth shattering. But I knew that I hadn't screamed—my busted bottom lip could attest to that. The hand that held the now-empty manacle was still curled around it feral-like, madly shaking in the wake of short-lived adrenaline. I didn't know what I broke—if it was just the knuckle or twenty or so other fragments of skeleton, but there was sure as hell a load of pain, both internally and at the torn surface; the once taut and clear skin, save a scattering of freckles, looked as if it had been stuck in a meat grinder fifty times over. Bloody was an understatement.

Over the ringing in my ears, the sound of my hand breaking in all but half resonated like some sick symphony Sebastian himself might've conducted in his free time. A torrent of head-pounding and ear-splitting music that left my eyes looking on blearily at the throne room entryway hall, my uninjured hand to heave my deadweight body up from the hooks of the shackles, my pulse to strain, grasp, reach for stability. Every nerve ending seemed to have just stopped working the moment or so after I found my bearings at a stand, the world obliterated into darkness. Static tickled my hearing, copper inundated my sense of smell, black bruised my eyelids.

It registered then: I just broke my fucking hand. And it hurt. A lot. Enough to momentarily blind me to the collection of bite marks all over my body and the leadening effects of blood loss. This feeling, though, my zoning out, it rivaled getting out of bed too fast in the morning, or spinning around a million times in stupid circles just to abruptly stop and either fall flat on your ass or face. It was whiplash in the worse offense.

Somehow, whether I was fully aware of it or not, I had moved to stand not a yard away from the closest archway, my back resting heavily against the wall behind me. It was vaguely unsettling that I couldn't hear anything other than the rasps and incessant droning of the hanging corpses. Rare was Sebastian or the king leaving me alone for this long a time; at least passing servants or guards would've intermittently stepped in, even if they most always fled the throne room shortly after. Wherever they were, I just hoped more than anything that they weren't down this mysterious hallway.

Keeping my ear against the wall as I stepped closer to the exit, my broken hand remained cradled to my chest, blotting the front of my dress with red. Sebastian had been forcing me into countless dresses since he'd first taken me upstairs to be cleaned a little over a weak ago, claiming it was to keep up appearances should Jace decide to barge in. Really, though, I figured it was for his own benefit. The dresses did nothing to hide any of my...attributes. My stomach rolling, I'll leave it at that.

The moment of truth came all too soon as I dared myself forward and slinked around the archway, keeping my back plastered to the stone. My heart did a somersault at the vacant stretch of space; apart from the uncarpeted ground, it held much the same air as the throne room: dank, musty, dreadful. The walls on either side were lit by a few candles, but really there was nothing of grandeur. It was a simple walkway, small and anything but accommodating. Clearly the royal decorators were slacking.

I wasn't brave enough to detach my back from the wall, as if Sebastian were just waiting in the shadows to pounce as soon as I bared myself to him, but from there I made swift work of the hall, keeping a tight ear on any sudden movements. Most unexpected sound, however, admittedly came from my clumsy footing and hitches in breathing. I just couldn't shake the feeling that this was all a setup, that the king wanted me to do exactly as I had only to fall into his clutches as soon as I rounded a corner. He beat and fed from me all without reason, but if this was me giving him a reason...

Swallowing that down was painful.

Up ahead was a large clearing—a dining hall, maybe. Or a meeting room, seeing as vampires only feasted on blood, blood, and more blood. There was an oblong table that nearly spanned the distance, a chandelier that rivaled the sun's magnitude positioned at the center and two smaller copies acting as bookends. The stone floors meshed with an intricate carpet that would've been beautiful save the giant red stain peeking out from beneath the table. I had a feeling that it wasn't from spilled wine.

What caught my eye, however, were a set of double-doors across the way. Standing nearly as tall as the ceiling, it squandered the potential leeway in the form of two arches on either side. The exit—or at least one of them—had to behind those two doors.

The coast was too clear, but it was all I needed. My next step was met with the deafening clang of an ancient candelabrum nearing the floor like the lowering of the castle's drawbridge; my arm reeling from the impact, instinct overtook all traces of reasoning and my hand—yes, my fucking broken hand—clawed at the neck of the candle stand. Each of my fingers curled, nails biting into the untarnished skin of my palm, reacting in the alarm of pain and releasing. Somehow, the candelabrum stood upright, if not trembling like the entirety of my arm, but at least six of the candle pillars had landed against the stone of the floor. Thump. Thump. Thump.

I looked around wildly, back the way I came, forwards, left, right, knowing all too well that my luck had run dry. The damage was done and it was only a matter of time before someone came to collect the residue.

"—hear that?"

And it looked as if it would be sooner rather than later.

My heart gunning in my chest, I made a dash across the spacious room, stopping just short of the double doors at the silhouettes approaching like phantoms down the left hall. They were surely already in ear-shot to hear me opening and closing slabs of wood as large as two stories; it would sound like an earthquake to vampires, hell, like an avalanche to humans.

"What are you going on about again?" a second voice practically groaned. "We can't be up here or the king will have our heads—his sons are already on the move. You saw for yourself that Idris was nearly wrought dry."

When their figures no longer loomed sharply against the wall, outlined by candlelight, but their voices grew in volume and I caught a flash of something that looked dangerously like a hand and the makings of a profile, my eyes guided my movement. The second archway it was, I thought, panting soundlessly under its coverage. Crouching close to the wall—the side of my face pressed rather intimately against cold stone—and low to the ground, I was not deceived: the approaching men were, in fact, vampires. Not Rogues, but just as mindless and even more so obedient. They were soldiers, well-equipped, broad, and able to inflict some damage if need be.

"See? There's nothing here, idiot," one of them said to his partner. I flinched at their closeness—they'd hear my heart beating and racing pulse. They could smell my blood. One moment of upset in breathing and I was doomed. The duo waltzed further into the space, stopping just short of the table. It was a safer distance away, I noted, but if either one of them happened to turn around, there I'd be.

The backs of their heads turned, scanning the room thoroughly, until the ever-suspicious of the two abruptly stilled. "Look! Look there, the candles. I told you I heard something."

The other one scoffed, throwing his head back. "I'm not wasting any more time on this. Unbelievable. That candelabrum falls over if the wind blows in through the windows a little too hard. What's important is that we have the hostages downstairs."

My hearing piqued. Hostages...

"How many of them?" Their conversation ensued, unwittingly feeding my interest.

"Oh, it's not like we counted before they were loaded up in the trunks. I'll tell you this, though, they filled up three cargo vans," the vampire gloated, laughing heartily. "The king is going to be giving me a raise for this one."

Curious Dracula had yet to pull his gaze away from the candelabrum and fallen pillar candles up until this point; he faced his partner, breaking into a grin. "Any vampire missing his limbs could've gotten the job done. The humans, especially Resistance members, populate like bunnies and flee like ostriches. They freeze up in panic, stick their heads in the ground...It's a wonder so many of them are left."

"That's going to change," the other declared. His voice was finalized. Deafening. "That leader of theirs is going to have to surrender. How many of his people do you actually think we'll have to decapitate before the old brood drops to his knees? We've got more than just men, but women—even a pregnant one—and children, and people who look as old as we are in age. Ancient."

It wasn't hard to connect the dots, not even a little trying. They'd raided my village again, they'd taken hostages, and they were going to use them as bargaining chips against my father. If anyone knew him, it was me; he wouldn't let one—not one—of his people die at the vampire's hands if he had any say in the matter. Jace wouldn't be expecting this. Even if they had something planned to overtake the king, the threat of a mass execution would take out their driving force, my father.

Shit.

"See, the thing about people is that they care too much. They feel pain not one of us could even imagine as we inflict it. It's their empathy, their persistent condolences that will have all of them running but never escaping. They pride their weak just as much as they do their strong. Vampires are all strong—"

Something happened then that made the confident fang-wearers freeze deader than the stone they stood on. They heard it before I did, the raw outrage, the strangling hold of fury, but as soon as the sound hit my ears, I felt deader than stone. A scream—a bellow, like the Grim Reaper himself had been cheated, took a choking hold over my throat, leadened my blood. I was cold and terrified in the calm before the storm:

"WHERE IS SHE!"

The king had returned.

So, there we have it. I haven't edited this chapter yet but I'll get to it soon! Please tell me your thoughts—give me some constructive criticism on my writing, tell me if there's anything you want to see happen. I want Captured to be finished and I'll be working hard to make that happen, but this entitles some reviews from my awesome readers(;

Until next time, peace.

For anyone just now reading this chapter, the first part is a dream. JUST a dream, people.