CLARY
The sun beams through the tattered blinds of her Brooklyn Academy of Art dormitory. Clary's eyes flutter awake as the sunlight dances across her lashes and she opens them hazily to look around her cluttered room.
She stretches, her legs caressing the bed sheets. She reaches for her phone and it reads 9:21am, and she's happy she's beaten her 9:30am. She'd decided last night that today she'd go out and look for a job, so she may as well get a head start on the day, since she doesn't have class on Tuesdays.
Job-hunting is also in celebration, truthfully. Her new ID just came in the mail yesterday and her fresh start is waiting for her to seize it. Clary's stomach still twists when she recalls waking up in front of the abandoned church those months ago, in an impossibly gorgeous dress and tears streaking her face. And no memory whatsoever of anything that had happened in her life prior.
The police and doctors were bewildered to find nothing reminiscent of a drug in her system, and she'd spent a night in the hospital bed while they tried to figure out who she was. All she had was a name - Clary Fray. For some reason, she knew that still. And yet, it still didn't feel right. Doesn't, even now. The authorities found nothing proving she existed, and every week or so, she gets a call from her case worker just telling her another county, another region, another state or country, has sent back negative results for a Clary Fray in their system. Most recently, there was a near-match in Toronto, and she was hopeful. But it was a dead end, and she returned to the life of being a ghost.
She has no family. It makes her sad to feel alone, but haunts her to know she just might not have a memory of them. Then she always shrugs these feelings away, because if she belonged to someone, they'd come for her. They'd have to, right? They'd miss her...
Her case worker helped Clary get accepted into the Brooklyn Academy of Art, and most amazingly, they offered her a full ride through her program. They loved her art that much. What she never expected was for her work to change so much. Her style, which she remembers being more realistic and graphic, somewhere between the Before and After became a more abstract, surreal version of landscapes and images she can't quite place.
She wonders sometimes if they're memories.
Today marks four months since she woke up. Clary hopes that by the end of the day she can say she has a job. She also knows it'll prove difficult - having no resume or job experience isn't exactly enticing in an applicant. But she's determined, so she makes quick work of getting ready for her day.
Her roommates have already left for class or work or wherever it is they go, and she has the dorm to herself while she cycles through her small pile of clothes (all she has is what she's been given since she Woke Up). She settles for a pair of jeans and a generic grey top coupled with a black blazer she thrifted.
She shoves a granola bar as she heads for the subway, and her first stop is a secondhand bookstore off the corner of Duffield.
It only takes 20 minutes to get there and she's grateful to find it with ease. When she enters, she knows instantly that it's a frequented spot for people because the cushions are well-loved and the books have frayed pages. And the smell - well it smells like old paper and candle wax.
She introduces herself to the boy behind the desk with her charming smile. "Hi," she beams. "I'm Clary Fray. Is the manager in?"
Ten minutes later she exits the shop and crosses the place off of her list before she keeps moving. The owner liked her and she gave him her number in case something becomes available, but right now they're fully staffed and don't have a position for her.
Her next chance at a job is a small café near the Academy, a place she sometimes visits to get her biscotti fix. The people there are great, but she never really could see herself in the food industry. She needs money, though, so she tries it out anyway.
If anything, she'll at least walk away with a snack.
Clary heads inside the café and realizes she may have made a mistake by trying to stop by during peak brunch hours when she encounters a full seating area and lines at every register.
She's a people watcher. As she waits in line to speak to someone, she watches as ordinary people find the joy in something as trivial as a latte with a cinnamon sugar smile on its foam, or a double raspberry truffle. She looks on fondly as a mother wipes the chocolate from a giggling child's cheeks, and the woman typing away on a laptop with such concentration she could probably cut through the air if she tried hard enough.
She takes special notes of people who may not be having a good day, because their feelings are just as important as the chocolate-covered child's. In particular she noticed a couple, rigid shoulders and broken expressions on their face, perhaps grief-stricken, as they alternate between staring at each other and staring at her and she watches them. Their gazes are always fleeting, but Clary knows they're there. They must be embarrassed to be seen as she interrupts what she assumes is a break up. The woman, whose tattoos are covering her head to toe but somehow making her more ethereal, lets tears doll down her cheeks, and the boy, who looks like someone she'd want to be friends with, lets his face drop and he fidgets with his fingers. Clary prays for them a happy reunion and shuffles forward as the line moves, too.
She doesn't get a job. She does, however, get a biscotti and a latte - her order of choice - and takes the time to walk through a park nearby on her way to another potential employee.
The park is impossibly green on the chilly April day, not yet rid of the whispers of the winter but not quite ready for a bountiful forage of plants. She absently walks toward a bridge and watches the water rush beneath it, like it beckons her. Clary gets entranced by the currents, almost hypnotized, then jolts at the sound of an incoming text.
Dead end in Ireland. Sorry, Clary. I'll keep looking.
She sighs. She'd expected as much. She'd begun to reconcile with herself that she may never make sense of her old life, and that she may as well try to embrace the life she still has and make the most of it.
Hence, the job search. The thought of losing everything again terrifies her. Sometimes, she'll wake up in a cold sweat and reach for someone she expects to be beside her in her bed. But no is ever there. No one to help chase away the dreams with no discernible features. Nothing but the feelings of debilitating fear and insurmountable grief and somehow the sense of belonging she's been craving for months.
Every time she wakes up from a nightmare, she has to paint it. Some of her best work has been a product of sleepless nights and a combination of adrenaline and terror running through her veins.
It's ok. Thanks for looking.
She meanders to the next stop on the job hunt, a small antiquities shop on a narrow street between buildings and surrounded by other small, independently owned businesses. She takes in the beautiful exterior of the building, and is compelled to go inside for more than just a job. Everything about it is inviting. The window decor, the rustic door, the sign that simply says Maryse's in charming font. Even if she doesn't get hired (and at this point, is proving less and less likely as the day goes by), she can't pass up the opportunity to see the inside.
The bell dings as she enters, and she's awestruck. It's absolutely breathtaking. The art stylistically placed all over the walls and the trinkets flooding every inch of shelving somehow doesn't feel cluttered. There's a small desk where an employee would sit, and a table with chairs for customers. It's beautiful here.
A woman scurries out of the back then. She's exactly the type of person that would come from a place like this. Ethereal and captivating. A wide smile and jet black hair that goes for days. She hasn't seen Clary yet, just knows that someone is here. She strides toward the front of the shop and is busy straightening her bracelets. "Good afterno-" The woman stops dead in her tracks when she sees her. "Cl-I-Wh-" She shakes herself off and continues. "Hi," she greets warmly.
Clary smiles nervously. "Hi!" She extends her hand out. "I'm Clary Fray."
The woman takes her hand. "I'm Maryse," she smiles.
"This is a beautiful place," she murmurs, getting swept up in the stories around her, begging to be told.
"Thank you," Maryse nods. If Clary didn't know any better, she'd suspect Maryse was nervous, though she couldn't even begin to imagine what for. "I took it over about a year ago from the previous owner."
"I can't imagine why anyone would give this up," Clary coos. Her hands reach for a shelf of books and let her fingers gently flutter against the spines.
"It wasn't his choice," Maryse answers quietly. "He… passed away."
"Oh, I'm so sorry." Clary's face flushes in embarrassment.
"Don't be, you didn't know," the woman folds her hands together and looks fondly at her. "What can I do for you, Clary?"
"Uh-right," she chuckles. "I'm sorry. I'm looking for a job," she explains.
"Oh?"
"Um. I go to the Brooklyn Academy of Art, and unfortunately the scholarships don't cover the subway or eating outside of the school or even art supplies that don't align with my program," she laughs. "And… I'd like to have something to tie me somewhere."
"What do you mean, dear?" Maryse gestures at the table, inviting Clary to sit, and they do.
Clary debates telling this woman about her story, but feels so safe in this moment with her, she knows she could tell her anything. "They call it dissociative amnesia," she explains, fidgeting with her sleeves. "A few months ago, I woke up wandering the streets near an abandoned church. I was okay, I was clothed. But I'd been crying. And had - well, have - no memory of literally anything leading up to that point. I don't know if I have parents, family… the police couldn't find a thing. Doctors don't know what caused it. I… I just want to have roots somewhere. If it happens again, I want someone to remember me."
Maryse has tears in her eyes and Clary feels guilty. She never meant to make this woman cry, nor did she intend to freely give out the information that, until right now, she's only kept near and dear to her heart. "I'm sorry," Clary blurts out again.
The woman shakes her head. "I'm… I'm so sorry that happened to you, Clary. But I promise you, someone loved you. You mean something to the people of your past." They're silent for a moment and Maryse wipes her eyes gently. "I'll tell you what. I'll take you on. I have another guy that works here. I think you'd like him. He's very sweet. But he hates working the weekends because his husband only gets weekends off. Can you work Fridays to Sundays?"
Clary's heart swoops, both in excitement and gratefulness. She nods, ignoring her own tears welling. "Absolutely, yeah."
"You know what else? I'd be honoured if you'd consider selling your art here, too." Clary pauses, the woman continues. "For your own profit, of course. I wouldn't take a dime. You can use the downtime between customers to do your school work and you can use any extra money you get from your work for all the Outside-School food your heart desires."
Clary nearly chokes on the sob she'd been stifling. "Are-are you serious?" Maryse nods, beaming. "By the angel, thank you so much."
Both of them come to a halt when she says those words. "'By the angel'?" the woman repeats, seemingly confused.
Clary shakes her head. "Yeah, I-. I don't know. That was weird, right? I've never said that before."
Maryse smiles again, and Clary's sure that her smile could eradicate diseases if it tried hard enough. "Come for 4 o'clock this Friday. I'm looking forward to working with you, Clary."
She offers her a warm hug before she's on her way, and she takes her time going back to her dorm.
LUKE
When he gets home from the Institute, he finds his girlfriend in tears on the couch. She's not sobbing, but she's definitely been crying for a minute. "Hey, hey," he rushes to her side. "Maryse, what's wrong?" He tucks her head under his chin and holds her. "You're okay."
She clings to his shirt for a moment. "I can't believe it," she whispers. "I-I-I-..."
"Slow down," he urges her softly. "Tell me what happened."
She stands up and paces for a minute. "Luke, I…" She licks her lips and takes a deep breath. "Clary came to see me today."
He jumps out instantly, like he was being burned. "What? She what? Where is she, why didn't you tell-"
She raises her hands to cut him off. "She didn't come to see me, Maryse Lightwood. She came to see me, Maryse, the owner of the antiquities shop. She wanted a job." She pauses. "She doesn't remember me." Luke's face falls. "She's in school, Luke. She's still doing her art. She seems happy, more or less. But…"
"But what?" he presses.
She can tell he's trying not to fall apart. "She feels abandoned. She doesn't remember a thing. She wants a job so that someone will miss her if she forgets everything again."
His heart breaks a little (a lot). He shakes his head, seething. "She knows that there's a chunk of her life missing, then."
"The mundanes called it dissociative amnesia," she answers him gently, taking a shaky breath. "I was reading about it, and apparently it usually goes away on its own."
He reads between the lines. "But you don't think so."
"I think the Angels wanted her to forget everything," she answers. "So unless it's their will, her memory won't return, no."
He drops his face in his hands. "I have to tell them."
"You can't," she insists. "It'll just hurt them."
"They're already hurting," he nearly snaps. He takes a deep breath. "They love her, too. They should know that she's okay. Jace already checks on her all the time."
"Then, I'm coming with you," she says with a finality that says 'there is no sense arguing', so he nods.
He sends a fire message to everyone, asking they meet him back at the Institute. It only takes a few minutes to get there, and luckily, they're all waiting for them inside the entrance.
"Mami," Izzy greets when they walk through the door. "I've missed you."
"Me, too, Isabelle. How is everyone?"
"Okay," Alec says, looking at the very much worn-down group before him. "It's been a tough afternoon."
"Why?" Luke asks. "What's going on?"
Everyone hesitates a moment, and Jace can't stop the tears from rolling down his puffy cheeks. Simon is the one who answers. "Izzy and I saw Clary today," he explains. Luke gapes. "We were at the cafe Clary and I used to go to before she became a Shadowhunter. She came in and she looked directly at us."
"What happened?" Maryse asks, her arm linked in Luke's.
"Nothing," Izzy offers sadly. "She didn't recognize us."
Jace closes his eyes as he reels from the rehashed information.
"That's sort of why we're here," Maryse tells them all. Heads snap. "Clary came to the shop today. She was looking for a job."
"What happened?" Alec asks, repeating her words from a moment ago.
She frowns. "I gave her one."
"What?" echoes throughout the group.
Jace remains dead silent, but his eyes feel like they're bleeding from the salt in his tears.
"I gave her a job," Maryse repeats carefully. "I'm telling you because I need to remind you that the Angels did this to her on purpose. If you try to-"
"If we try to jog her memory it could make things worse, we know," Alec says.
"So, what are we supposed to do?" Simon begs, irritated.
"Nothing," Luke answers. Their shocked expressions question his decision. "Look, as much as you love Clary, and I know you do-" he pointedly looks at Jace and Simon - "I raised her. She's my daughter. Not Valentine's. She's mine. It kills me at least as much as it kills you that she doesn't remember us. I remember when she lost her first tooth, okay?" He wipes a tear from his eyes. "I remember her first day of school, her middle school graduation. Her first boyfriend and the first time she smoked pot. I was there through it all. I hate that she doesn't remember me. But the idea of doing anything to make this harder for her makes me sick."
"How do we sit around and do nothing?" Jace demands hoarsely, surprising everyone.
"Watch from a distance," Maryse offers kindly. "I'll take care of her at the shop. And Magnus, too."
"Wait," Simon interrupts. "Isn't Magnus the one who erased her memories as a child?"
"Yeah, but he wouldn't have the power to restore them now because he's not the one who took them this time," Izzy explains.
"Right," he nods knowingly. "But maybe something about him will trigger her memory."
The hopeful tone in his voice eats at Luke but he nods. "It's possible."
"You don't sound very sure," Alec points out.
"He doesn't think it'll work," Jace explains for them, before turning on his heels and storming deeper into the Institute.
"No, I don't," Luke admits guiltily.
"Just… keep her safe, Mom," Izzy pleads softly, hugging the adults before pulling away.
"We will." She looks where Jace was a second ago and sighs. "Keep an eye on him, will you?" she asks her children.
They nod. "We are," Alec promises.
ALEC
Alec expects to find Jace throwing stuff around his room. That's usually what happens when he has a particularly hard day with the Clary thing. He's usually tattered and bloodied by the end of it and sobbing into the crook of his arm and hoping it'll swallow him whole. Alec usually has to activate the iratze rune for him just to avoid permanent damage, because Jace won't do it.
He expects all of these things when he heads to Jace's room. What he doesn't expect is to not see him there at all. It's like clockwork, usually. Jace freaks out, goes to his room, falls apart, and Alec picks up the pieces. Not today. Instead, he strides to the Ops Centre to find Jace debriefing the afternoon shift about the string of demonic attacks near the borders of New York and New Jersey.
"-the Imps are attacking mundanes in swarms," he explains. "They're hiding in alleyways and in shadows and up until now, have been only attacking when the victims are alone." He presses a button on his remote and new information appears on the Ops board. "Now, they're getting bolder. They're attacking in gloop-groups," he corrects. "Groups. And they're not even… uh…"
Alec watches warily.
Jace continues to squint, racking his brain for the words. "Um, oh- killing. They're not uh, killing… their victims." He pauses. "Anyway. Go out in gloo-GROUPS of tree or four. Three. Three or more, and-" he yawns. He doesn't finish.
Alec waits a moment while the Shadowhunters watch on in confusion. He stalks up to Jace's side. "Go out in groups of three or four. They're not killing their mundanes anymore, which makes them increasingly dangerous, and they could expose the Shadow World. Be careful. Dismissed."
The group leaves in a hurry and Jace stands there, looking slightly drunk. Alec knows better. "Jace," he starts.
"I'm fine, Alec," he puts his hand up to stop him. "It's fine."
He turns to walk away but Alec grabs him elbow and stops him. "No, you're not," he dictates. "You need to sleep."
"I'll sleep when the Imps are banished back to Edom - or, I guess not Edom. Edom is… gone." He laughs a little, and it's disturbing.
"You said that about the Halphas," Alec points out, jaw locked. "And then again about the Gorgons. You don't stop."
"I'm fine," Jace repeats.
Alec purses his lips and sighs. "I'm admitting you for a psych evaluation in the med ward-"
"Alec, c'mon," Jace rolls his eyes. "I said-"
"You're NOT FINE." Heads turn and he lowers his voice. "It's not a request. It's an order."
"You're not the Head of the Institute, Alec," Jace points out. "Izzy is."
"She already signed the forms."
Jace rolls his eyes. "Give me a break."
"I'm trying," he nearly spits. "You need to sleep, Jace. You're no good to anyone if you pass out from exhaustion during a mission. Your stamina rune can't fix everything."
"Alec, I-"
"This isn't going to bring Clary back." It's a low blow, but if it'll make him listen, he'll do what he has to. "I swear, Jace, I swear to you, we will get her back. But it's not going to happen by killing yourself from over exertion and exhaustion."
Jace closes his eyes in defeat, and Alec knows he's won. "When I sleep, I have nightmares, Alec."
"We'll give you a sedative. You won't have the chance to dream."
There's a long pause, and Jace nods. "Okay," he croaks. Tears welling in his eyes again. "Okay." Alec envelops his parabatai in his arms and feels the relief flood over his body.
SIMON
His fingers shake as he finishes typing his manuscript for Unseen World: The Divine Implements. It feels wrong, not finishing it with Clary. It feels like he's stealing from her. He wants nothing more than to be with her again. He'd give up almost anything to take them back to her eighteenth birthday and make sure they never went to Pandemonium after the gig.
Almost.
He loves Clary more than almost anything in the world and wants her to remember him more than he wants anything. But he can't bring himself to want a life without Izzy, the other half of his heart.
Still, the ache for his best friend never falters.
In the front pages of his novel, he types a line of words that feels like the missing puzzle piece to his book:
Dedicated to C.F. May you find your way home.