To date, the only female who actually had hit him was Isabelle, who frequently trained with him. And, well, she did have that penchant for throwing shoes at him when he remarked on her wardrobe. Or anything she could get her hands on in the kitchen when he insulted her cooking.

But Isabelle was different. She was his sister, really. She really didn't count as female.

And girls loved Jace; they were certainly more inclined to fall over themselves in an attempt to get him to notice them than they were inclined to hit him.

And then there was Clary, who had definitely had yet to fall over herself to get Jace to notice her. Noooo. She had hit him, Jace, after he saved her life. She was way out of line. She was infuriating.

And she was interesting. Unexpected. She had totally blind-sided him.

Unsure as to how he should be feeling about that, Jace was slouched against the elevator wall by the control panel, ignoring Clary, who he really had no idea what to do with.

When the doors creaked open, he exited the elevator and headed through the cathedral to the heavy wooden doors that separated the Institute from the world that lay beyond. Lost in thought, he let his feet carry him to the train that would take him and Clary to Brooklyn.

Born of long habit, he quickly assessed his surroundings: his eyes glanced across the graffiti splattered the interior of the train. It smelled like cat litter and old people: his eyes landed on a wispy looking elderly lady seated at one end of the train next to bags of Friskies and, indeed, cat litter. He also smelled pomegranate; this time his nose led him to Clary, who kept on sneaking quick, contrite glances at him. He listened to the train as it labored to pick up speed, and to Clary, who apparently still had to catch her breath from trying to keep up with him on their way to the train. He had forgotten how short her legs were. Feeling that making a study of the graffiti would best serve his mood, he began with the space directly across from him.

Ricky hearts Lilly.

Idiot mundanes.

He sensed Clary looking at him again, but this time she didn't avert her gaze like before.

Unable to resist temptation, he turned his head with the intention of saying something that would undoubtedly be incredibly stupid, like pointing out the graffiti. He stopped, though, when he looked into her face, which was, for the first time since he had met her, completely unguarded. The softness of her features took him completely unawares. She was studying him with the exquisite care one might devote to a delicate and beautiful piece of art, her green eyes following every plane and curve of his face in a way that left him feeling exposed; like she was seeing more than just killer cheekbones and a gorgeous mouth.

No one had ever looked at him like that before.

Forgetting himself, Jace looked into her eyes, which were at the moment busy studying the line of his cheekbones, something that had wisely avoided for the past few days. Unguarded, he was unprepared for the effect they had on him.

Her eyes, the color of home, ensnared him, and held him fast. They called to him and he knew he was in danger of becoming the victim of a cliché by falling into them.

He knew with a startlingly calm certainly that he was grossly unprepared for whatever was happening, whatever she was doing to him.

And he wasn't really sure he cared.

"Clary…," hoarse, he said the word like it was the only one he knew.

The train gave an unexpected jerk, shaking him free from the strange feeling that had crept from his chest all the way to his fingers and toes.

Feeling like himself again, he said her name again, stronger this time.

She met his eyes directly then, and jumped. She stared at him wide-eyed, her eyes huge and startled like a startled deer in headlights. Then she twitched, like a guilty child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

Amused, Jace asked, "Can I help you with something?" He could feel the warmth that exploded from her cheeks, which were now stained with a painful looking blush.

Her eyes flew to the bench opposite them. His eyes, somehow still connected with hers, followed. "Those girls on the other side of the car are staring at you."

There were indeed two giggling girls who were not-so-covertly watching them. Well, him, really.

He hadn't noticed them, though they were pretty, in a preppy tan and blonde, cookie-cutter way. Compared to Clary, they paled in comparison.

Heeding the warning of his still stinging cheek, Jace didn't point out that just a few seconds before, Clary was doing some pretty heavy duty staring herself.

"Of course they are. I am stunningly attractive." He wondered exactly when she had noticed them staring. It seemed that she had been too preoccupied to notice if he had begun strolling the streets of New York naked in a top hat. Which, thanks to that party three months ago, he had actually did.

"Haven't you heard that modesty is an attractive trait?" She sounded annoyed; someone was irritated at herself for staring at him.

"Only from ugly people. The meek may inherit the earth," he told her, "But at the moment, it belongs to the conceited. Like me."

He winked at the girls, seeking to make Clary as uncomfortably as he was at the moment, still reeling from what happened with Clary. They squealed and hid coquettishly behind their straight hair, which is one of the responses that Jace had come to expect.

Clary would have probably shot him the finger if he had winked at her.

Looking weary and maybe slightly green at the antics of the behavior of the girls across the car, she asked, "How come they can see you?"

Shop talk. Glad for the distraction, he explained. "Glamours are a pain to use. Sometimes we don't bother."

Seemingly placated, Clary sat in silence for the rest of the ride. They disembarked from the train at the appropriate stop and began climbing the hill towards her house.

Jace took one of the angel blades from his pocket, Sansanvi, and began twirling it around his fingers, a neat trick that Isabelle was still trying to master. The knives haven't cooperated and Jace thought that maybe the kitchen utensils that Isabelle had come into contact with had put out a warning to similar implements to beware of her

The beat of their steps on the pavement reminded him of a song he sometimes played on the piano. He began humming notes that he had long ago memorized.

He went on uninterrupted for a few seconds, then-, "Do you have to do that? It's annoying."

Oh, an added bonus. Eschewing responding to her, he increased the volume with the express intention of being annoying.

Suddenly, she said, "I'm sorry I smacked you."

Surprised, Jace's humming ceased. He hadn't expected her to apologize. Instead of accepting, he said, "Just be glad you hit me and not Alec. He would have hit you back." Which was very true. The Alec SmackDown. If she kept on hitting him, he just might let Alec at her.

"He seems itching for the chance." So Clary had picked up on Alec's hostility. Good to know she wasn't intellectually deficient. "What is it that Alec called you? Para-something?"

"Parabatai. It means a pair of warriors who fight together—who are closer than brothers," he explained. "Alec is more than just my best friend," which was why Jace was wondering why Alec hadn't gotten over his little tiff yet. "My father and his father were parabatai when they were young. His father was my godfather—that's why I live with them. They're my adoptive family." Too late, Jace realized he had taken himself to a subject that he didn't really want to discuss.

"But you're last name isn't Lightwood," she said with a little lift on the last syllable, making it sound like a question.

Just in time, they arrived at Clary's building. "No," he answered as they came to a stop in front of the hedges they had hidden behind not four days ago. He, like Clary, examined the building, looking for any abnormalities. There were none.

"It looks the same," she said, a hopeful note in her voice that pulled at something within Jace. He knew that nothing could be the same for Clary. If Du'sien demons were sent to contain the situation at her house, he doubted there would be anything left that tied to Clary or her mother.

"On the outside," was the only warning he could summon. She would see soon enough. Jace dug a Sensor from one of his many pockets.

"So that's a Sensor? What is it for?"

Aside from the obvious sensing? "It picks up frequencies, like a radio does, but these frequencies are demonic in origin."

"Demon shortwave?"

She might have been making fun of him, but Jace didn't care. He was walking towards the brownstone and up the stairs, the Sensor held in his outstretched hand. It beeped and clicked like faint static, which was odd. The Sensor shouldn't have been able to pick up a signal from almost four days ago.

Either way, it wasn't strong enough to make him worry. Maybe he just grabbed a wonky Sensor. "It's picking up trace activity, but that could just be left over from that night. I'm not getting anything strong enough for there to be demons present now."

He heard Clary exhale. "Good," she said, and untied her keys from her shoelaces. Her shoelaces? Jace had never met anyone before who kept their keys tied into their shoelaces. Maybe it helped her keep up with them, though, unlike her absent wallet. Once they were detached, she unfolded herself and stretched her arm out towards the door. Before she could stick the key into the lock, she froze, her eyes locking on deep, furrowed scratches. Claw marks. Her face drained of color.

Jace touched her arm. "I'll go in first," he offered. He unlocked the door and opened it. He stepped over the threshold and glanced around. All was clear, and he glanced back at Clary to motion to her that it was okay to follow; she was still standing stock-still in the doorway.

They passed the hedge-witch's door, her plaque gleaming, and stepped toward the stairs, Clary much more hesitant than Jace, who was arguably not afraid of anything. Something on the banister caught his eye. It was shining. He ran his hand up the rail; his fingers came away sticky will partially-coagulated blood.

"Maybe it's mine, from the other night." said Clary, weakly optimistic.

Jace wasn't a strict pessimist (that was Alec) but he always had to tell the truth, though admittedly, he sometimes cut corners or told half truths.

This was not such a time. "It'd be dry by now if it were," he said. "Come on," he said, eager to see how this would turn out. They would find answers here: he could feel it.

His booted feet made no sound on the steps up to Clary's apartment. Once at her door, he stepped aside so she could unlock the door. He watched her flounder with her keys until, finally, she found the right one and inserted it into the lock. She was breathing like she had just ran two miles in a pair of Isabelle's boots and her hands were shaking.

Braced against the door, he leaned forward, prepared to take over opening the door again and impatient to find get inside. If he knew she was going to take so long, he would have opened the door for her again. He didn't criticize her, though. He could understand what she was going through.

"Don't breathe down my neck," she whispered vehemently at him; so much for him not chastising her. She jerked her hand and unlocked the door at last.

She went to step through the door, but he grabbed her elbow and drew her back. He didn't know what was in there, if anything, but he wasn't going to be carrying her out again.

"I'll go in first." Thankfully, she didn't argue. Instead, she flattened herself against the doorframe and let him pass.

He stepped through the doorway and into an apartment that was much different than it was the last time he had entered it.