This chapter is un-beta-ed! So ignore any spelling/grammatical errors for now.

"I don't have a brother."

He closes his eyes, running hand roughly through his wind-blown hair. "God," he mutters. "Just...forget I said that, alright?"

"What? No, you can't spring something like that on me and then tell me to forget about it!"

"Never mind," his tone implies there will be no more words spoken on the topic.

"Why am I here, again?"

"I didn't get to tell you."

"Tell me what? Jesus, just spit it out." I'm becoming impatient, and in the distance, I hear the loud crack of splitting, cracking ice.

"Angels aren't supposed to leave—they aren't supposed to fall...but one has, and he can't be here."

"What in the world are you talking about?" I rub my temples—can you get a headache in a dream?

"I'm talking about a fallen angel. You've heard of Lucifer? He fell, but he never got back up, because he refused to bow to mankind. What I'm getting at is, well, when you're dead, you're dead. There's no coming back, nothing of the sort. But, of course, there are loop holes, and it seems someone has found one."

I shake my head. "What does that have to do with me?"

"Remember that favor?" He grins at me—oh, god, I'm not going to like this. "I need your help to get him back."

"You're talking about this person like they're your friend," I mutter.

"We were friends, Clarissa," Jonathan says, if I'm not having auditory hallucinations, his tone is quiet, like he's sad.

"Great," I say rather loudly, and quite insensitively. "Now, can you tell me what you want from me?"

"Convince him to come back," he says, eyes snapping up to meet mine.

"Convince who?"

Jonathan grins wickedly at me. "It's all part of the fun, little sister: you get to figure out whom." The ice let out a thunderous crack, it echoes for miles, it seems, and before I can process what's happening, the ground splits in two, swallowing me up. Air ripped from my lungs, mind blank, arms flailing, as if it will stop the inevitable fall.

A dry scream rips from my throat; I struggle to sit up, blankets acting as an anchor, holding me down and in place. I place a hand on my chest, feeling the erratic, unsteadying beating of my heart. It felt as if I were really falling, just as it had the first time. My forehead is beaded with sweat, my books lying scattered on the floor. They must've fallen off when I started tossing and turning. When will he leave me alone?

Rolling my shoulders, I stand up and stretch. He might be able to control my dreams, but the waking hours are mine, and mine alone.

The clock flashes 6:34 p.m. and I know my mom isn't home. Otherwise, the smell of paint would be heavier, or I'd have already been woken up. And then I remember: she won't be back for a while.

We may live in a small Brownstone with a creepy downstairs neighbour, but we are by no means poor. My mother gets her money from her paintings – and her divorce settlement – while my father gets his from his company – whatever it is that he does.

My phone begins buzzing furiously on my nightstand, coercing me to give out a surprised yelp. The noise rings through the empty apartment, causing me to turn a little bitter at the thought of my mother's clear conscience despite leaving her only child alone for weeks at a time.

Shaking my head, I grab my phone from where it has neared the edge of my nightstand, threatening to fall off completely. I look at the screen, where a blue screen with Alec's name is lit up. I swipe to answer.

"Hello?" I ask, almost hesitantly.

"Clary, what are you doing?" His tone is somewhat jovial; leaving me to ponder over what it could be that has him so...happy.

I groan loudly into the phone, just to make a point. "I was napping, thank you very much, Alexander," his name comes out as a hiss.

"Napping – Clary, it's nearly eight-thirty, why are you napping at eight-thirty?"

"Because my best friend isn't around to keep me entertained," I retort.

I'm almost positive I hear him rolling his eyes at me.

"Moving on – do you want to come over?"

"Is the Ken Doll still there?"

"Yes."

"Then that'll be a no," I'm tempted to hang up the phone, and end the conversation right there, but Alec's sigh-like exhale of breath stops me in my tracks. "Alec, what?" I release a sigh of my own.

"Nothing, Clary."

"Alec," I whine, dragging out the last syllable of his name.

"I just wanted to hang out, but I guess I'll see you tomorrow." The dial tone sounds in my ear; he hung up on me. I stand stock-still, shocked. What was with Alec's mood?

I sleep fitfully, never staying asleep for too long, fearing that I'll dream of the angel that haunts my dreams. I have no choice but to sleep when a strong wave of drowsiness washes over me, drowning out my thoughts, drowning out the faint light emanating from my window.

This time, there is no ice. Suffocating heat surrounds me, flames around me like a fence – a prison, to keep me inside its perimeter. I think I prefer the cold over this – this hellhole.

"Time is ticking," his voice booms over the virtually empty space. I can't see him though, my eyes straining as I squint up at a ledge high in the air, like a small chunk of the black rock had been cut out. I see disheveled black wings peaking out over the edges of the ledge.

"Stop with the riddles, would you?" I shuffle my feet to the left, trying to avoid some flames that had started growing dangerously close to my skin. I see the flames on my left before I feel the pain, the flames on my left having grown even higher than those to my right. They appear to be leaning towards me, seemingly trying to devour me. I curse colorfully, staring down at my burned arm. Just great, another scar to add to the collection of marks that cover my fair skin.

A loud noise bounces off wall of rock, to wall of rock. I look up; ahead of me is Jonathan, his white hair hanging in his dark green eyes, wings spread out behind him as he stands from his kneeling position.

"Careful, little sister," the flames dance in his eyes. "I wouldn't want you getting hurt."

"Yeah," I mutter, "of course."

"Did you figure it out yet?"

"Figure out what?" I ask, exasperated with his coded speak.

"Who it is – the fallen one?"

"Okay, I'm done with these weird dreams," Raising my hands in surrender, I head towards the edge of the small chunk of black rock I'm standing on. My toes edging over the jagged ending of rock, flames licking at the delicate skin, giving rise to a series of desperately hidden hisses, and my biting my tongue to keep in the utterly pathetic noises that want to escape me.

"What are you doing? You can't just walk over the edge," Jonathan gives an unsure laugh. I hear his footsteps, his heavy boots crunching small bits and pieces of rock underfoot.

I look over my shoulder at him, watching as his long strides easily cover the short distance between us. "Watch me." I step over the edge, letting my body free fall into the flaming pits of wherever it is we are. Air is ripped from my lungs; distorted voices fill my ears, whispers of the dead, laughs echo madly through the air. As if someone were watching with delight as I fall to my death.

A dry, guttural scream rips from my throat, and then the sobs wrack my body. Tears coat my pillow, the wet fabric sticking to my face. I somehow curl in myself, wishing for nothing more than to be left alone.

And then, my sobs catch in my throat, listening for the noise I very well might have just imagined: the clicks of heels against the hardwood fills the apartment. Hastily, I pull the covers up, wiping my soaked face against the somewhat rough material. Sniffing, I hide my head under the covers – now covered in blotchy wet spots – hoping my mother will think I'm asleep and leave me be.

"Clary, I know you're under those ugly covers," Isabelle's voice rings out like a bell, her tone knowing. I can see her outline through the covers, a tall, curvy silhouette, hand perched on her hip.

My first mistake, was thinking I would appear to be asleep – even to someone who is as in-space, and unobservant to everything but her art as my mother. My second mistake, was letting out a sniffle-hiccup type noise.

A few more clicks of heels, and my bed sinks down. Isabelle places a slightly hesitant hand on my side. "Clary, please," her tone is something akin to pleading. "It's just me – Izzy."

I meet her words with silence, knowing I'll only cry more if I open my mouth. And there's no need for Isabelle Lightwood to hear my pitiful sobs.

"Alright," Isabelle sighs. "You're probably wondering what I – of all people – am doing here, in your...humble abode. Well, the answer is simple: my brother is a complete, and utter jerk."

This time, I can't hold back my words – okay, more like snort. "Damn straight," I reply with too much enthusiasm for the circumstances. Isabelle's musical laughter fills my ears, her gentle hand on my side convincing me that maybe – just maybe – she actually cares.

"He is, and I don't know why he's being the way he is," I can hear the disapproving tone in her voice, even though she tries to keep her voice light.

"You met the Ken Doll?" I ask her bitterly, peeling the damp covers away from my face and sitting up. The corners of her mouth fold downwards, perfectly-plucked eyebrows furrowing in thought. Her coal eyes, reminding me of the black rock from which I'd jumped in my dream, flit up to meet mine, curiosity and confusion written over her chiselled features that remind me with a stabbing pain of Alec.

"Who?"

"The new kid? Oh – Jake, or something..." I trail off, my eyes wandering to my interlaced hands in my lap. I purposely didn't remember his name, hating it from the second it rolled off of Alec's tongue earlier today, or was it that late? I look out my window, watching the lights scan faintly over my orange walls.

"Jace?" Isabelle sounds surprised.

I nod my head, bitterness pulsing deliciously through my veins.

Isabelle mutters his name, followed by some very – very – insulting words. It makes me feel glad, and admittedly, a little smug to know that Isabelle hates him, too. "Complacent ass," she finishes, looking back at me with an apologetic smile that she drops within the second.

"I know why I hate him – but why do you hate him?" I lean forward despite myself, eager like a child on Christmas Eve, to hear what she is going to say. She drums her manicured nails on her leg.

"He hit on me – multiple times," she scoffs, "and then tried to ask me out!" She says it as though it's the biggest, most shocking thing to ever happen in the history of the human race.

"Isabelle, practically every guy has hit on you and or asked you out, you realize?"

"Well, duh!" She holds her arms out and then drops them to her sides, very nearly hitting me in the face. "But he was so – so smug about it, like he knew I would say yes."

"Did you?"

"God – no!" Isabelle looks and sounds absolutely repulsed by the idea. Good.

Silence follows, and after a few beats, Isabelle's attention snaps back to me, sudden realization flashing in her coal eyes. "But you – you aren't alright, are you? I mean, Alec is your best friend, and he just...up and ditches you for that blonde, brain dead, idiot!" She seethes.

I wish I could muster up that kind of anger, be angry at Alec, but I just can't. Despite myself, I feel my lower lip begin to wobble and my throat feels as though it's being constricted. Even worse, a salty droplet rolls down my cheek, and another, and another.

Isabelle keeps talking, trying to get me to stop crying, only to have her words, I assume are gentle and meant to soothe, fall on deaf ears. I wipe furiously at my eyes, letting out a strangled noise of frustration. When I can finally open my mouth without the threat of tears spilling over, I quietly ask, "why is he angry at me?"

Isabelle opens her mouth, and closes it, repeating the process a couple of times. "He's just excited to have made a new friend," she rubs her hand up and down my back. "And when you didn't want to hang out with him...I don't know, Clary - you'll have to ask him."

I nod, feeling stupid. Of course, it makes perfect sense; now that I have a personality, he doesn't like me. I don't blame him either. I hit my head against my headboard, a sharp pain shooting through my head coerces me to shoot forward, clutching my head in my hands. Jonathan's words echo through my head, nearly drowned out by an even worse pounding, as if someone were hammering on my head from the inside.

Isabelle lets out a sharp gasp. When the throbbing and pounding subsides, I look up at her through my lashes. "Clary...what – on your wrist..." She grips my forearm in her cold hand, I want to hiss in pain at the contact, but opt for squeezing my eyes shut and biting down on my tongue to stifle the hisses and gasps. Her fingers trail across my scarred, porcelain skin, her touch light, but painful all the same.

Her coal eyes meet mine, the lights of New York reflected in them. "What are these?"

I wish I'd have changed my clothes, maybe worn a long-sleeve shirt, because I have nothing to hide the scars. Most of them are small, or are just silver and white marks that fade in with my light skin-tone, but when you look, they're there. The sharpness of her features is softened by the concern that is so evidently written on her face like a vice, stirring up the memory of Alec, when I'd sat outside in the dead of winter, just to have the privilege to feel something. He'd found me, shivering uncontrollably and probably a few different shades of blue.

"You can tell me...I – I won't say anything, I promise." Is she implying what I think she is?

"Isabelle, I didn't do this to myself with a blade, if that's what you're thinking." My voice is quiet, barely audible even to my own ears.

"I didn't think so."

Silence hangs over us, full of questions that I've never wanted to answer – that I don't have answers to. That is, until Isabelle tells me she broke my front door in order to get inside.

"What? I needed to get in somehow, and you sleep like the dead." She says coolly, shrugging as she examines her perfect nails for even a minor flaw.

"So you broke my door?!"

"Yes, I thought we went over this?" She dismisses, standing up, offering a hand to me, one which I just stare at blankly. She rolls her eyes at me. "Oh, come on, Clary. You didn't think I'd actually let you stay here alone and with a broken door, did you?"

I grumble at her, pulling myself from the comforting confines of my bed. She orders me to get dressed and to pack a bag, because – and I quote – I am not "spending God knows how long alone in this apartment, when you have a friend offering you a place to stay." I don't think that's the only reason she wants me to go over, though. I have a sneaking suspicion it has more something to do with the fact that Ken Doll is there.

The Lightwoods have an unspoken motto: go big, or go home. And, well, in this case the "big" is their home. It's an old Victorian-style house, with scaffolded, snow-white pillars, and at least thirty-six bathrooms. Alright, I'm exaggerating, but every bedroom in the house has an en suite. And there are over ten bedrooms. Just saying.

Isabelle's iris blue car, so similar to her brother's shines in the moon light, sending a nasty glare of light my way. I think I still want to key Alec's Mercedes. Yes, I do. I really – really – still want to key Alec's Mercedes, and the black sports car parked across a good portion of the cobble-stone, cleaned-once-a-week driveway. I wonder who that gorgeously expensive car belongs to.

I only turn away from the cars when I hear the lock of the front door click, following Isabelle inside of the mansion. Crystal chandeliers gleam from above, shedding light into even the darkest corners of the mansion. It's the kind of house you only see in movies, you know, the ones with twin marble staircases and flowers more expensive than your entire house perched on even more costly tables?

Well, this isn't a movie, but there are expensive orchids placed most delicately in a crystal vase I'm almost positive is meant to match the breathtaking chandeliers.

Isabelle drops my bag by the staircase, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

I plop down on the couch beside Alec, the smell of popcorn swirling about. "Hey, check this out," he grins at the screen where he's playing some game or another.

"What?" I lean forward, hand on his shoulder.

His head snaps back to look at me. "Clary?"

I frown, furrowing my brows at him. "Who did you think I was?"

"Is this your sister?" Both Alec and I turn in response to the voice.

"Who?" Alec asks, looking like a dear caught in headlights.

Ken Doll nods his head in my direction, all while I shoot him a vicious glare. If looks could kill, I hope the vile glare I'm sending him would have him lying on the floor, unfairly tanned skin icy and white, a sword sticking out of his chest cavity.

"Clary isn't my sister," Alec frowns at Ken Doll. "You met my sister, and tried to hit on her, no less."

"You said you had another sister –"

"I said I had a little brother," Alec cuts him off curtly.

The Ken Doll shoots me a smirk, shrugging as the light catches his tawny eyes. "My mistake." Oh that –

I'm seriously considering committing murder, when Isabelle makes her entrance, striding in, her glossy hair pulled all to one side. "Come on, Clary, we have to get ready."

"Get ready?" Alec echoes, tossing the controller onto the couch beside him.

"Yes, Alec, get ready," Isabelle replies blankly, holding his gaze.

"For what?" Ken Doll inquires, raising a fair eyebrow.

"You'll find out," Isabelle grins at her brother, that same mischievous gleam I'd seen earlier dancing in her eyes.

"What?" Alec demands, sounding once again, like my protective, older brother. He gets to his feet, trying to tuck me behind him, as if he were standing between me and death itself.

"Oh, you know...things," Isabelle draws out her sentence, running her hand along the wall, the ruby pendant hanging from her throat catching my attention – when had she gotten that? She looks up, eyes bright. "Frankly, I don't see how it matters to you, Alec. Now," she shoots me a look as I get up from the couch, shoving Alec a few inches to the right in the process.

"Clary –," he begins, grabbing for me, only to find that I've put my short legs to use, and am too far away for him to grab.

"Bye, Alec," I wave at him as I take a step up the stairs.

"Where are we going, exactly?" I ask, watching curiously as Isabelle tosses clothes anywhere and everywhere. Some are sparkly, not an inch of fabric safe from the glittery substance, others such tiny scraps of fabric I barely see them as they fly through the air, landing amongst the chaos that is Isabelle's room.

Her room is black, with gold swirls so manifestly – and somewhat messily – sponged on. Pink feathers border her vanity table mirror, and the chair sitting in front of it – also covered with clothes.

"We're not going anywhere." She replies without looking back.

"What do you mean?" I sit up, resting my head in my hands.

"We, are throwing a party," Isabelle smiles triumphantly, tossing a balled up piece of clothing my way. I barely catch it, holding it in my lap, fiddling absently with the fabric.

"Isn't it a little short notice?" I'm a little apprehensive about throwing a party, because – well, it's just another thing on the long list that I've never done. And I don't know if I'll like the experience.

Isabelle scoffs, turning to face me with her hands placed disapprovingly upon her hips. I guess that's a no, then. She points to the bathroom. "Just – go get changed."

This thing is a scrap of fabric, much less a dress, as Isabelle refers to it. It barely has a back, not to mention no sleeves – and the lacy fabric feels uncomfortable, unfamiliar, and makes me a little itchy. Don't even get me started on the shoes – I can hardly walk in them.

"I look like a hooker," I pull on the dress, hoping it'll cover more than it does now – just gracing the tops of my thighs.

Isabelle waves a dismissive hand, staring down at a pile of clothes before her. "Lies," she mutters, holding up a white dress, almost silver when the light hits it. She turns, face lighting up at the sight of me – probably because I look ridiculous, and it'll be good for a laugh or two.

"All you need is a little make –,"the door is forcefully shoved open, Alec standing with his arms crossed.

"There are people downstairs," he says blankly, eyes still set on his twin.

Isabelle claps her hands like a giddy child. "Oh, yay! Come on, Clary." She pulls me forward, neatly shoving her brother out of the way with her hand and a bump of her hip.

"Clary – what are you wearing?" Alec demands, his tone laced with poorly concealed anger. He grabs me by the shoulders. It feels weird, having him touch me; we typically avoid contact, for whatever reason. He shakes me, and I rock unsteadily on my feet.

"It's a dress," I frown down at myself, and then up at him. His shockingly blue eyes are dark, colour high in his cheeks. "Surely you've seen one before."

"Funny. But why?" His tone is clipped, his cold fingers digging into my slim shoulders, thumb pressing painfully against my collar bone.

I look at Isabelle, who looks the norm, with her I-could-care-less expression, blood-red nails rapping irritably on the pristinely white wall beside her, like a spatter of blood. "We're having a party," I wriggle free of Alec's desperate grip, taking Isabelle's offered arm, and heading downstairs.

The magnificent crystal chandeliers shed warm, golden light on the writhing forms below it. The air is thick with the overpowering scent of liquor and cigarette smoke. Who in their right mind would light a cigarette up in a place so perfect-looking?

Bubbly, giggling girls stumble up and down the lacquered floors, while others hang back in the shadowy corners. Red solo cups litter every surface available, there's even some broken ones lying on the ground, small pieces here and there.

Isabelle doesn't seem to mind, though. Oh, no – she's pulling me into the heart of the swaying, intoxicated crowd. The ruby pendent at her throat glowing scarlet against her blemish-free skin, against the top hemline of her dress. Suddenly, I feel self-conscious over my arms; littered with scars, some small and white and silvery, others red and prominent like a fresh welt. The dress covers nothing, and I slowly let it sink in that even the long, jagged scar starting somewhere near the small of my back, trailing all the way down to the end of my spine is on display for others to stare with drunk, judgmental eyes.

I swallow thickly; had Alec seen it? Had his blonde ape-companion seen it?

No one seems to notice, though. I suppose the flaming hair is too much of a distraction. For once, the unruly mess atop my head has helped me.

"Oh, let's get some real booze!" Isabelle giggles mindlessly as if she's already wasted beyond comprehension. "Come on, Mary," she pulls me to a door across the room – and that's when I notice the red solo cup in her hand, filled with an amber liquid, the smell pungent. How many had she downed while I'd been worrying about someone seeing my exposed flesh?

"It's Clary," I remind her, despite my brain telling me she won't remember – nor will she care.

"Mm, oh – okay, Cherry," Isabelle fumbles with the brass knob in her hand for a beat, and when she does succeed in opening the door, she comes very close to crashing and burning down the steps.

My hands snag around her sculpted arm, hissing at her to be careful. She mumbles a reply before sashaying down the creaky wooden steps on wobbly heels. Reluctantly, I follow the whirlwind of raven hair and heels down into an unknown room. And despite there being very little light in the room, I know where we are – the sour smell and chill the room gibes off is enough of a hint.

We're in the Lightwood's wine cellar.

"Where is – oh!" Isabelle squeals in delight as I hear the flick of a light switch. An orange glow floods the room, bouncing off of the surely antique bottles of wine placed so immaculately on alphabetized shelves taller than me.

I watch, amused on some level, as Isabelle sways in her higher-than-heaven-heels, swiping at a bottle of wine with her bloody nails – fine, they aren't bloody, but the way the light glints off of them, they look that way.

Before I'm sure of what she's doing, I hear her nails clink against the glass bottle, I hear her slurred cursing, and the popping of the lid. And then, I see her ever so sloppily place the mouth of the bottle against her lips, and then chug it for all she's worth. If Isabelle doesn't throw up within the span of the next four hours – at maximum - I'll be shocked.

"Your hair is s-so pretty," she drags out the last syllable in pretty, tugging at a strand of my copper locks. "It looks – it looks cherriessss –," and without warning, she lets out another squeal of delight and then drops the bottle of wine. It crashes to the floor, pieces of stained-red glass flying every which way, while the little remaining wine cuddles the soles of my borrowed shoes. Small rivulets of the red liquid roll down my bare legs.

"No – help me – help me fix it," Isabelle slurs out in a slight stutter, kneeling down clumsily in the slowly expanding puddle of red wine. She whines in a high-pitched voice, which only succeeds in reminding me why Isabelle and I have never been more than acquaintances, if that.

"Isabelle," I position myself to pull her up by the arm, and when I finally get her to her clumsy feet, she leans heavily on my small shoulder, arm looped around my neck. Her pale, mile-long legs are stained red, as well as the bottom of her silver-white dress.

And all I can think is that she deserves for her gorgeous, expensive dress to be soaked and stained with red wine as I lug her practically immovable body up the stairs behind me.

Alec finds me in the crowd, his stained sister all but using me as her personal, portable bed. His blue irises narrow on his sister, at my scrap of fabric dress, and then again at his sister. He grumbles and groans angrily under his breath, making his way over to me.

And then, just to make the night even better, someone brushes close to me – way to close to me. Their sweaty hand runs down my back, across the jagged scar – which they don't seem to notice – and down my backside. Alec growls deep in his throat, a guttural noise, before he raises his fist and smashes it to the manifestly drunk boy's face. The boy staggers, his cheeks flushing, and then he, too, raises his fist, only to swing at the air. Alec, having ducked down, missed the weak punch, and then, somehow, he's behind the boy, kicking out his locked knees. The boy jolts forward, arms flailing wildly in the air, his red solo cup meeting the dirty floors with him.

He just lays there, face pressed against the hardwood. People step over him, around him, and others right on his limp form.

Tearing his attention away from the boy, Alec takes the weight of his sister on to his own shoulders. She buries her face in the material of Alec's blue thermal sweater. "Christ, Izzy," he murmurs, brushing hair away from his sister's chiselled face.

"Put her to bed," I dismiss him. The last thing I feel like doing is talking with Alec.

He opens his mouth to object, but I look at him, feeling my eyelids like hundred-pound weights, feeling my shoulders sag in defeat, and he just sighs, "what did she drink?"

I chuckle bitterly. "She dragged me down here, I zoned out for a few minutes – maybe longer – and when I came back again, she was beyond hammered. Then, she brought me down to the wine cellar and chugged a bottle of wine – then, she said my hair looked like cherries, dropped the bottle and nearly sobbed at my feet to fix it while nearly laying in said wine."

Alec frowns at the red hem of Isabelle's white dress, at her stained skin, and then, my worst nightmare: he looks at me. He sees me without my sweater, my long-sleeves; without my security blanket – and then he says: "you have wine on your dress."

My chest deflates, my heart slows it's erratic pattern, and I can breathe again. "Oh – thanks."

He nods his head, motioning for me to follow him. And I do.

Alec offers me a guest room, which I decline. Broken door or not, I don't want to be here – I want to go home.

"Clary, don't be stupid – my sister broke your front door - it's the least I can do," he argues, tucking the sheet under Isabelle's chin.

"I'm going home Alec."

He shakes his head disapprovingly. "God, you are so stubborn."

"Goodnight, Alec," I pivot, ready to stride from his lavish mansion – except, there's someone in the way.

"You need a ride?" His left hand lifts, keys jingling. One corner of his mouth twitches upwards, because she knows I don't have one.

"Not from you," I cross my arms across my chest, behind what Alec would call stubborn, what my mother would call difficult, and what my father would call embracing my bloodline.

"Oh, I'm wounded," he deadpans, tawny eyes mocking.

I snort. "What? Did I deflate your massive ego fractionally?"

Alec stands awkwardly to the side as Jace replies: "are you saying I have a big ego? I assumed I was just confident in my own skin."

"Wow," I tilt my head back, eyes glazing over Alec. "How do you put up with this...thing?"

"You're one to speak," Jace scoffs. "I could ask Alec the same question regarding you."

"He puts up with me because I'm not a complacent, egotistical, jackass."

"Uh, but you are. Maybe not egotistical or complacent, but a jackass," Jace shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Only to you." And with that, I shove past him, purposely stepping on his foot with my deathly sharp heel.

Not even the cold biting at my skin can chase away my warm, strangely satisfied mood.

But the Bentley driving down the road can. Oh, yes, it definitely can.

Hey guys, I apologize for the lack of updates in Fading, but my beta is busy as am I - so as I stated at the beginning of this chapter, this chapter is un-beta-ed.

I'm A Writing Dreamer: You're too sweet! And, yes, this story will absolutely have many plot twists.

ThatBlondeALB: You got me, I couldn't not continue this story. There was so much I wanted to do with it, and it got an amazing reactions.

Mrs. Hemmings96: Thank you!

chesire15: Thank you, I hope you found this chapter as interesting (or, perhaps more so?).

Galindanot: Thank you :) I was hoping to kind of play around with a different theme for this story, whereas all my other stories have been strictly mundane with rock stars (because what's funner - yes, I'm making it a word - than writing about a famous Jace?).

Jace5000: I hope it is :) P.S. I love your profile picture.

Jia Ming: All right, here we go: They are NOT Shadowhunters, nor are they completely mundane. I can't tell you exactly what they are, because, well, that will ruin some of the plot twists I have planned, and take away that *gasp* effect. And I promise that, yes, I will be updating other stories soon. :)

Sorriussuck: I'm trying to update Fading as fast as I can. ;)

Lava: I feel really bad reading all these reviews asking me to update Fading. lol. But I'm trying - I swear it on my non-existent soul. I promise I'm not trying to torture you...ish.

Hi: So sweet! I've been trying to update My Ghost, as for Fame and I Hate You, well, I've been writing - slowly, but surely - it's just hard to get back into those stories now. I hope you like the ones I am updating, though. :)

Guest: I'm going to try and update Fading, I SWEAR IT.

Guest: Honestly, when I started writing on here, I didn't think I'd get any reviews or traffic to my stories...but here we are. So thank you very much for helping me get here.

TheFallenAngel18: (Love your user!) I'm glad you ~*love*~ it, and think everything is so ~*perfect*~

HEY! ONE MORE THING: IF YOU'RE REVIEWING AS A GUEST, PLEASE USE SOMETHING OTHER THAN "GUEST" SO IT'S EASIER FOR ME TO REPLY TO YOUR REVIEWS. ALL RIGHT? OKAY? THANK YOU. :)