Huge thanks to my amazing beta: HeronFrayWood, who can not only pick up my grammatical errors and such, but she can get my chapters back to me in record time.
EDITED: MARCH 18TH 2016
Five and a half hours later of silence and pressing rain did Isabelle's car pull into a gravel driveway. The gravel, as well as her shiny red car, were soaked by the heavy droplets falling from the dark sky.
The clock on Isabelle's dashboard was bright and burned Clary's eyes after being subjected to darkness for such a long period of time. It was nearly three in the morning. Clary stepped out of the car, her limbs numb and stiff. Rain made ripples in the lake and doused her ruby hair. Mascara traced a path down her cheeks, but in a matter of moments, the heavy rain had washed away all of the tracks and had her soaked inside and out. The cold wind that accompanied the unforgiving rain cut through her soaked clothes like tiny knives, and it felt as though her blood had cooled and her bones had frozen.
"Rain: Mother Nature's very own shower," Magnus approached a shivering Clary, hands braced on his hips. He flashed a grin, but was beginning to feel the effects of the cool weather himself.
"Come on," Isabelle waved her arm, motioning for Clary to collect her bags.
With shaking shoulders did Clary load her slight form down with the weight of her bags. She headed for the stairs leading up to the front door, hoping that Isabelle had the key to get inside. "Biscuit, you silly, silly girl—give me some of those bags." Magnus did not give her a say in the matter, prying her backpack and duffle bag from her trembling hands, the tips of her pallid fingers taking on a blue hue.
Magnus pursed his lips, his eyebrows nearing his hairline. "That can't be good," he said, his eyes flitting to the blue tips of her fingers.
"I'm freezing," Isabelle's teeth chattered as she reached the top of the stairs, pulling out the keys. They clashed together as she fumbled one in particular into the lock, the jingling noise hardly audible above the pounding of rain on the awning above them.
Mercifully, the door swung open as a gust of wind brushed by. Isabelle nearly fell over trying to take the keys out of the door, weighed down by the incredible mass of all her suitcases and bags.
The dark-haired girl made a sound of awe and shock, dropping her bags by her feet, cursing when the when of one of her suitcases hit one of her toes. Magnus, who would have laughed in that bright way he had, stood still in utter shock.
"I never thought I'd find as much beauty anywhere else but New York," he murmured softly, tracing a tanned finger over a piece of the lightly-coloured paneling that lined the walls, after having dropped both his and Clary's bags by his own feet. She winced, praying that her perfume bottle hadn't shattered with the motion and soaked everything inside of her duffle bag.
Clary, too, began tracing her finger over the wood paneling, drawing odd designs with the tips of her finger—she highly suspected it was real wood, unlike the synthetic type her mother used for decoration at the Gallery back home.
She lifted a foot, attempting to step over the bags littering the entryway, managing only to trip and stumble over her own backpack. Even with her sneakers on, the floor felt smooth, like polished glass. It was dark, the hardwood, so dark and polished she swore she almost could see her reflection—a blurry mess of scarlet and yellow. It looked black, not that she had really ever heard of black hardwood, but then she looked again. Her inner artist knew it wasn't black, more of a dark, dark coffee colour. But if she didn't scrutinize the flooring, it would certainly pass for black, Clary felt.
The redhead turned her gaze to the left. It was a living room type area, with a flat screen plastered to the wall, a clear, shining glass coffee table with the remote controls for the DVD player and flat screen lined up neatly next to one another. And despite the pristine, plush-looking leather couch, all Clary could think was, Jace is going to love how neat it is. She wanted nothing more, at that moment, than to beat her head against the wall, than to ruin the neatness of it all—smash the coffee table, paint the walls, rip the couch cushions open.
But she did none of that—only turned and smiled a particularly forced smile at Isabelle and Magnus, who looked equally impressed by everything they had laid eyes upon thus far.
Pivoting to her right, she saw a gleaming kitchen. Stainless steel appliances seemed to litter the open floored space. A few feet away from the island, was a sitting area, with extremely comfortable-looking leather chairs. In the middle of the chairs sat a small, round table.
Separating the kitchen and living room, was a simple staircase, though to Clary, it seemed to be the centre piece of it all. The wood of the stairs, dark like the floors, were finely sanded, though they, unlike the floors, did not gleam like polished glass.
Unable to be bothered with kicking off her shoes, Clary ditched her suitcase at the bottom of the staircase and dashed upstairs. Magnus and Isabelle followed suit.
A long hallway stretched out before Clary when she reached the landing. Absently, she wondered whether they had taken a wrong turn at some point and this was actually a model home, and not where she was to spend her summer.
Mirrors hung on the walls along with a few water paintings, Clary noticed as she wondered, semi-starstruck, down to the end of the hall. Isabelle bounded ahead, Magnus going the opposite way of the girls—to the other end of the hallway.
"Iz?" Clary called to the girl, who had frozen in the open doorway.
Izzy spun on her heel to face Clary, a colossal grin adorning her model-like face. Raising her arms sky-high, Isabelle shouted: "By the power vested in me, I declare this our room!"
Clary laughed faintly, the sound drowned out by the roaring thunder outside the nearly floor-to-ceiling windows lining one side of the room.
The room truly was gorgeous, even if it had bunk beds—which, according to Isabelle, was very middle-school—Clary thought. The bunk beds, pushed into a corner of the room, were black metal with duvets lying over top of the mattresses. A cherry wood dresser was pushed against the opposite wall, near the door, a long, narrow mirror hanging over it.
Isabelle gasped sharply, breaking through the starstruck haze Clary had been gloriously stuck inside of. She turned to look at whatever it was that had amazed Isabelle so.
"Look," Izzy clutched Clary's forearm, pulling her forward until she was staring into an immaculately white en-suite. A glass-bowled sink was on one wall, the glass-walled shower on another, the porcelain sitting somewhere in between the two. A mirror, round and with a silver, oval border hung above the sink.
Clary turned back to the room as Isabelle began to pose in front of the mirror, jutting out her hip and tugging on the ends of her waterfall-like hair in a way the redhead knew was ridiculous but made her undeniably jealous that her friend could do such a thing and not look like a total moron.
Clary stared out the titanic windows. Waves pounded ruthlessly against the shoreline, lightning seemed to split the dark sky open. Thunder rumbled; she could almost feel the jolt, she thought.
"Nice," Magnus whistled. Clary whirled round to face her friend. He grinned at her in a way that reminded her strangely of the Cheshire cat.
"Do you have bunk beds, too?" Isabelle shouted from where she remained, posing in front of the bathroom mirror.
Magnus's grin seemed to grow wider. "Fortunately, Alexander and I will not suffer such torture."
"What is wrong with bunk beds?!" Clary demanded at the same time that Isabelle made false gagging noises.
"Everything," Magnus and Isabelle responded in synchronization.
The redhead girl glanced sidelong at the bunk beds, suddenly drop-dead tired. Not just tired, no, bone-tired, it felt. "I think I'm going to go to sleep—unpack tomor—"
"No!" Isabelle looked distinctly appalled at the idea. "I am feeling the urge to rub it in Jace's face that we got first pick at rooms."
"And why would that be?" Clary asked wearily, rubbing at her right temple.
"Because," Isabelle said firmly, tilting her head up slightly.
"Because why, Izzy?" Magnus prompted, almost in a knowing manner.
"Because he's Jace, Magnus," she narrowed her eyes challengingly at Magnus—as if to say without words, try me. "Do I honestly need another reason?"
Magnus seemed to slump, shrugging resignedly. "I guess not." With that he turned and left the girls' bedroom. Clary followed, uselessly trying to match his long-legged strides down the hall. Isabelle followed her short friend, grumbling under her breath.
Magnus had reached the bottom of the staircase and had begun to collect their bags. He handed Clary her backpack—which she slung over her shoulder in one easy motion—then her duffle bag—which she hung off of her other shoulder—and finally her rather large suitcase—which she opted to just tug up the stairs.
She began to mount the stairs once more, finding it much more difficult this time around, the weight of all her bags attempting to make her fall backwards. And just as she reached the last step upwards, the door burst open and she jumped, Isabelle flinched visibly at the noise and dropped her suitcase on her toe again, while Magnus pressed a hand to his chest—right over his heart.
Jace came through the door first, laughing obnoxiously. The sound made her head hurt like it had the day before, in Isabelle's closet. Alec followed his friend in, tripping over Isabelle's fallen suitcase. He laid, sprawled like a starfish, one leg hitched up on the corner of his sister's suitcase, his arms flailing, in a way, as he tried desperately to get to his feet.
Magnus held out his hands for Alec to grasp, though his yellow-green eyes stayed narrowed menacingly at the infamous Jace Herondale. Jace stood frozen, the laughter dying on his tongue, his mouth closing promptly. Alec got to his feet, his cheekbones coloured bright cherry, brushing off his shirt, tugging on the hem nervously.
"What?" Jace swallowed visibly, his eyes darting briefly to Clary—moving up and down, as if checking her out. She fought the urge to roll her eyes.
"Nothing," Magnus made a face, turning to speak quietly with his blushing boyfriend. Slowly, they made their way up the stairs, past the redhead, though Clary felt frozen in place, caught in the middle of Isabelle and Jace's crossfire. They glowered at each other, each with varying degrees of bitterness and hate.
Shrugging, Clary took the last step and walked down the hallway, dumping her bags just inside her bedroom. Seeing the bunk beds made her remember just how tired she had felt mere minutes ago. She stumbled forward, forgetting all about taking off her shoes or changing out of her days-old clothes. It just didn't seem to matter. In her nearly exhausted haze, nothing mattered—not Jonathan, not her dad, not the crash, not Jace and how he seemed to make her blank out like she was missing something, not even the way certain aspects of him made her head hurt.
And as darkness began to swallow her, she realized how nice it felt to not have anything matter.