And just like that, his father had been basically shredded to pieces. The demons had still been there, but they were all covered in his father's blood. Even Kit. He had been sure he was going to die. And had he been alone, he definitely would. There were so many, they were so close. And his father had abandoned him. Abandoned his own son to protect himself. He had known something like this might happen. But so soon? And this bad? He hadn't been trained for this. He was fifteen. The stench of demon ichor had reeked when he'd thrown a chair at one advancing on him. He'd known at the time he shouldn't have been able to do that, but with adrenaline coursing through him, he knew that he had bigger problems. Much bigger problems.

And then the blonde girl, Emma Carstairs, from the shadow market had burst through the door, weapons blazing, with two others. He'd seen them too. And the brown haired woman had called him by his full name. Christopher Jonathan. Nobody called him that. And a name he hadn't recognised. Herondale. Kit Rook, son of Johnny Rook, that's who he'd always been. Everything was loud and there was more blood, more demons screeching as they were decapitated. And then he was hauled out, alive, from his home.

He hadn't wanted to talk the entire journey. It was their fault. They did this. They put him in danger and let his father die and killed the guardian. He'd had to watch his own father die and then fight for his own life. And these almost strangers wanted him to talk to them. Yeah, right. Like, he'd trust shadowhunters. His father had told him all about them. He wasn't stupid.

Except maybe he had been. If his only source of information was his father... That would mean fifteen years of lies. Fifteen years of not having friends. Except When. But they weren't really friends. Sure they were the same age, she was cute, they flirted. But she was dead now, so it didn't matter. His dad was dead. Wren was dead. He didn't have a mom. Wow, his life sucked.

And now he was one of them. He'd wanted to refuse it. But if he didn't stay with them, he'd probably die. Die in the same way his father had done. And then he'd opened that door and stumbled through. And he'd been there. The boy who'd held a knife to his throat. How beautiful had been his first thought and the boy hadn't been phased at his dramatic entrance.

It is been several days since Kit had last left his room. A room he chose to be s fr as possible from them. The Blackthorns. They said he had to stay, to be safe. They didn't say he'd have to see them or speak to them. He wasn't in the mood to see them or speak to them. Besides, they didn't know him, what would they care. He wasn't and would never be one of them.