A/N: Thank you dearly for all the reviews and follows and favourites and all the other stuff that makes me feel oh-so happy and tingly inside. They are fantastic mood-lifters, so please, keep them coming! And three cheers for my first reviewer, the lovely xXxJaceInWonderlandxXx. HUZZAH! FOUR FOR YOU GLEN COCO. four for-

Ok stop. stop throwing potatoes at my face. No more mean girls quotes. i get it jeez

OH AND WARNING: chapter 2 sort of tides over to the next chapter, so I will personally make sure that chapter 3 is up for you by tomorrow (or at least the day after, since you've all been so brilliant). So be patient. Yes, you. Sit down.

And read on.

CHAPTER 2: Lord of the Hebes

'10 o'clock. On. The. Dot.' Simon said approvingly, with a self-satisfactory nod.

'It started at 9.' Clary reminded him before throwing on an exaggerated smile and patting his arm, 'but yes, well done. Claps for you.'

All that was important was that they had arrived. The sun had slipped under the horizon- even it was too impatient to wait for them- leaving behind a bruised sky; not even a sliver of moonlight daring to compete with what stood before them—what seemed to be the most extravagant, not to mention energy-consuming, light display since the Las Vegas Strip. The club's entrance flaunted its prestige with thousands of teeny tiny light bulbs bordering the sign that claimed, 'Where the PANDEMONIUM begins' casting a gaudy glow on seemingly everything within a two-mile radius.

The red ropes stretching from the entrance snaked along the edge of the building and around half a block, usually restraining an impossibly large bustling crowd of teens and young adults on most nights. But tonight was an exception. Although, how Isabelle's parents had managed to book out New York's hottest under-aged club for their daughter on the busiest night of the week, still remained a mystery. Generally, the idea of booking a single room for private functions in the club would send most sane-minded parents into fits of tears as they reach into their wallets - but booking out the whole club? Now that's an entirely different matter.

There were three sleek black limos parked along the curb closest to the bars; each with its own chauffeur standing guard at the door. Clary watched as a goth couple made their way down the carpet with a 'what's going on?' look on their faces, before a bouncer pointed out the 'PRIVATE EVENT, GUESTS ONLY' sign. They walked off, looking a tad pissed, and the guy made a pathetic attempt to lob a cola can at one of the windows on their way out.

Simon examined the place, eye roving from roof to foundation. 'Well, at least we know she's not deficient in the financial department.' He muttered as Clary flashed her invitation to the bouncer guarding the door. They passed through a short corridor that seemed to vibrate along with the music, before Simon dramatically pushed open the double doors into the heart of the club. Streaks of coloured lighting danced across the room, illuminating the tendrils of artificial fog creeping through the masses of scantily-clad bodies.

On the opposite end of the hall, a DJ with holes the size of ten-cent pieces in his ears stirred up the audience. He hugged his mic to his chin, booming through it whilst shaking his ringed fingers in the air, bringing up a roar from the crowds below. On their end there was a line of bodies swarming mindlessly around a bar that promoted non-alcoholic spritzers and mocktails. However, the hammered couple throwing breadsticks and thrashing around on top of a nearby table in a booze-fuelled high told a different story.

A girl in a black spaghetti-strapped number that dipped dangerously low down the middle suddenly shrieked and sauntered over to them in studded stilettos, making her half a head taller than Simon. Long black hair cascaded over bare shoulders, and ridiculously green eyes glimmered under the disco lights; she was unnervingly beautiful, but you could tell it wasn't the type of beauty that could be wiped off with a Kleenex and a bit of make-up remover. She grinned, showing off a set of perfect white teeth.

'Oh, Clary! You made it!' She shrieked, making a happy squealing noise—akin to the sound of a beaver after inhaling unhealthy amounts of helium— and pulled her friend into a hug. 'You could, like, stop traffic with that dress. And you brought your friend… Sam, was it?' She grinned at him.

Simon gulped, and wiped a bead of sweat that had made its home on his forehead. 'Simon,' he tried to say in an manly low voice. Despite his best efforts, however, it came out as an awkward little squeak. It hardly mattered. Isabelle appeared not to hear anything he said anyway.

Clary put on a weak smile, and tried to keep her face neutral, despite her growing desire to throw a napkin at her best friend's face. 'Wouldn't miss it for the world. Yeah, and sorry about—' she flapped her hand vaguely in Simon's direction, 'I hope you don't mind, he was my ride,' she explained, 'This is—'

Simon cleared his throat loudly; a bit too loudly—seemingly bringing more attention to the phlegm clogged in his throat than himself. 'Simon—it's uh, Simon. I mean my name.' He pointed to himself. 'My name's Simon.'

Clary's mouth twitched. I like a woman of sophistication, my ASS.

Isabelle laughed, 'Oh, you two are so cute.' She winked at Clary. 'And don't be silly, Clary, of course I don't mind, this is a party, the more guys, the more options for us girls.' She giggled and threw Clary a wink.

'Oh, actually, uh…'

'No, I get it. This one's reserved for you...' Isabelle nodded, glancing between them two knowingly. Simon was rapidly shaking his head. 'Anyways, I've gotta run. My girls are looking for me. So nice meeting you, Sean.' She blew a kiss as she turned and disappeared into the crowd once again.

'Oh, actually it's—' spluttered Simon as he ran a sweaty hand through his hair. 'Uh, bye, then. Bye Isabelle. Nice meeting—'

'Wow,' Clary muttered shaking her head, once Isabelle had slithered off into the sea of bodies.

'Wow is right,' Simon sighed with a glazed look in his eyes. 'She is just so perfect.'

Clary looked back. 'What?' She asked incredulously, 'No, I mean… you, you are such a…you're like—' She turned her head to see Simon staring blankly at the gap into the crowd that Isabelle had disappeared into. She covered her face in shame and stalked off, Simon hot at her heels.

Half an hour later, after a couple of light spritzers, Clary spotted a bunch of guys from their school in heavy metal t-shirts. Two of them were actually hanging a decent catch around their waists.

'I didn't know Eric was invited.' Clary murmured, as they made their way towards a gang hanging out in a corner.

'Apparently almost all the girls in the grade were,' Simon said, matter-of-factly.

'Oh, that does answer my question.'

Their little 'group' consisted of three guys; Matt, Eric and Kirk. Good old Kirky boy. Clary found him quite entertaining, really. Simon had formed a rock band with them a couple years earlier, and to this day, it was still named 'Untitled', which Kirk thought was the wittiest, most brilliant, inspired thing anyone had ever thought up. Clearly, Clary thought, he didn't do much thinking in his lifetime. Kirk aside, they were all quite good with numbers and test tubes and calculator buttons and what have you. Looks-wise, they were half-decent. Shame the three of them had the most pathetic one-liners that would make any girl want to keep their distance.

Clary groaned inwardly. She really didn't want to stay long enough to have to hear Eric tell some girl that she was the 'apple of his i-mac', and go through the agony of watching the girl attempt to exercise her two brain cells to try and decipher what the hell he was saying.

Then, like the sound of an angel, she heard a faint ringing from her purse. Yes, yes yeeeeeeeeeeees, Clary breathed, giddy with relief. She swivelled around to face Simon. 'Hey,' she pointed at the group, and gave a curt nod. 'Go join them, I needa get this,' she said vaguely, waving her cell at him.

She headed through a series of corridors, and finally found some silence in a cloakroom of sorts. Upon looking down at her mobile, she realised with a start that the whole screen was plagued with the name 'Mom' followed by 'Missed call'. Scary. Real scary stuff.

Her thumb hovered briefly above the green answer button, already predicting the incessant interrogation of the classic overprotective mother. She took a deep, meditative breath to brace herself, as she put the phone to her ear.

'Clary?'

She flinched. It was her mother's voice, sounding a little unhinged. As per usual. 'Yes, mom.'

'For God's sakes, where are you?' Her voice sounded a little off key. 'Why won't you answer my calls?'

'I told you… and I even left a note next to the fridge, I'm with Simon. At his house. You know, homework. Um, project on…' her mind spun rapidly, trying to recall what she had written on that piece of paper, 'whatsit, ah, the culture of the uh, Hispanic…s,' she gulped. Smooth going, Simon. Of all things you could think of, it just had to be Hispanic culture, eh? Really, Simon. Hispanic. Or was it Hebrew? Crap, definitely Hebrew. Say something. Say something medieval. 'The uh- Renaissance.' She blurted. 'You know the Renaissance period, and like how there was that whole kerfuffle between the… great lords of… Hebe—rew… land and the, ah Scottish Gaelic tribes. And how—'

Silence.

I think it's working, a little voice inside Clary's mind rejoiced. Maybe I should keep going.

'Clary.' She had never heard her name packed with so much viciousness before.

Maybe not.

'Would you like to lie to me some more?' Mother of God, it's the voice of death. 'We both know you're not at Simon's. I want an explanation.' Then her voice wavered a little, 'please tell me you're okay. Are you in trouble?'

'Mother, I'm fine.' She twirled a lock of her red hair nervously around her finger. 'Okay, so I lied, I'm not at his house, but we're both safe. I didn't want you to worry. We just took a walk. A long walk—we went to check out this new place in town. But we'll be back. Oh and I'm sleeping over at his place tonight, just by the way. I mean, if that's okay,' she added as an afterthought.

Of all things that characterised the overbearing, won't-let-you-out-of-my-sight mother, the reassurance that she was with Simon, always calmed her down. Oddly enough, her mother had always been completely fine with her sleeping over, but coming home at three in the morning would, without a doubt, result in a yelling match that Clary could do without.

'So you wanted to make sure I didn't worry, by lying to me? Because that always seems to work for you does it?' Her voice was uncharacteristically sharp. 'Leave wherever you are, and come home. Right now, Clary.'

Clary was astonished. This was beyond nuts. 'What? You're kidding. Why?'

Her mother's tone was marked with distaste. 'I'm sorry, do I sound very humorous to you right now? Because I don't feel very humorous. I want you to walk home, right now. You're really starting to wear on my patience, Clary. Wherever you are- and I know you're not out for a walk, Simon's mother said you two are at a party downtown. That is not safe, Clary. You need to come home. It's dark outside, and it's dangerous. I'm worried about you. Please.'

Clary exhaled loudly in exasperation. She always knew her mother could be on the nutsy side, but this was a bit extreme, even for her. 'Oh, when are you ever not worried about me?' Her voice had gradually phased into an anguished sort of tone. 'Mom, what's gotten into you? I told you, I'm with Simon. We're both safe, and we'll be back before midnight. Please, please, just let me have one night at a party. Is it that much too ask?'

It killed her that her mother didn't trust her enough to take a single step out of the shadows of a world she had spent sixteen years of her life in. Sixteen years she'd been walking on the face of this earth, and yet her mother would always insist on having at least one hand on her shoulder at all times. She was exhausted of hearing her mother's perception of the world, where the world's occupants were more often than not, horrid, gargantuan thugs that hid away in dark alleyways in their spare time, just waiting for little children to ride by in their bicycles so that they could rip off all the rainbow tassels from the handles, and haul them into a potato sack. She still recalled a time in sixth grade when her mother had adamantly refused to sign a permission slip to go to the petting zoo. A petting zoo. Honestly. Her mother's face would wrinkle in fear, as if it was bad parenting to send your child to a place where there were known goat terrorists on the rampage, mercilessly threatening the lives of young New York City school children.

She couldn't even make it past their front lawn without being interrogated and having her perfectly innocent motives incessantly questioned. But one day her mother would just have to realise that her daughter was no long six years old. Clary had waited ten years for that realisation to strike her, but evidently, it was a lost case. She would just have to let her mother know, by her own means. Sixteen years, Clary was held under the tightest restraints of her mother, with little objection from her side. It was out of sympathy; sympathy for a mother who had already lost a son, and she knew couldn't bear to lose her only other child. But she would just have to realise that Clary wouldn't be able to live within her dead brother's shadow forever. Freak accidents don't happen twice. They just don't.

Swallowing down her guilt, she held her phone away from her ear, suppressing an exasperated groan as her mother's rant vaporised in the wind. She paused, and briefly brought it back to her ear, feeling a wave of determination, powering the shock of cruelty she was about to deliver. 'Mom, I'm sorry, but I just… I don't care anymore. I don't care what you say, or do, or—just…' She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, 'just don't call me again.' She hung up, and switched off her phone.

A chilling wave shot up her spine. Guilt wracked her mind, but she shook it off, and headed straight for the bar.

She needed to forget this. And alcohol just screamed good choices that night.

TO BE CONTINUED in chapter 3.

(Jace that's you, you're up. Get up you rat bastard. Yes, you. STOP SLEEPING ON YOUR BEAUTIFUL GOLDEN LOCKS DAMMIT YOU'RE FLATTENING 'EM MATE. We need them in the next scene! they're the star of the show)