An: Alright, kiddies, time for part two. Oh and just a little tidbit. The name of the school Jace's soccer team is playing means evil in Latin, something I deemed appropriate for a school with the mascot of a devil and the worst enemies of Jace's team. Reviews+Awesome sauce.

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, locations, or events are the property of Cassandra Clare.

Of Demons and Cellars

I do it because my friends are watching and because I'm so pumped for the game all logic had fled in the wake of adrenaline. She attends Pravus High so I know I'll undoubtedly never see her again and doing it doesn't bother me in the least. I guess she must be a furry, with the wolf-ear head band on top of her braided her and the dog collar at her throat, this means she sticks out as an oddity-the reason why my friends choose her.

I wait until the bookish man she is talking to meanders towards the concession stand before approaching her. I flash her a grin, one I knew girls can't help but notice, and casually lean against the bleachers underneath her, "You here to see someone special or just how a game of soccer ought to be played?"

"My adopted brother is playing. My father never misses a game." She nods towards the boys from the other team and then turns away, indicating she doesn't want to talk.

"So that's it? No boyfriend to speak of?"

"Not at the moment. My last one was a cheating bastard who apparently prefers rich sluts."

"So that would explain the get up? Not trying to impress anyone?" Me eyes slowly travel up and down her body. "Or trying to scare anyone like him off?"

"Excuse me?" Her head whips around and her tone sounds how shocked she is that I would say something like that. "I don't even know you and you're already acting like an ass-hole. I guess what they say is true?"

"Oh and what is it these mysterious people say?" I raise an eyebrow.

"That while you may have an angel as a mascot all of you trust fund babies here act like dicks."

I snort, they always seem to think that. "What can I say? We're entitle too it. When you aren't an anchor baby you can act however you want." If she raises her eyebrows any further she's going to have to have them surgically removed form her scalp.

"You're unbelievable!" She jumps to her feet. "I'll tell your coach you're harassing me!" I smirk and turn to show the last name on my jersey. "Oh, just 'cause you're daddy is coach and bribed the other coaches to let you on the team you think you can act however you like. I wanna see you somewhere where you don't have your precious daddy around to protect you so you can say whatever you want. Come into the town someday and say something like that. My boys will kick your ass!"

I choke back a laugh, "Your boys?" I catch a glimpse of a tattoo of a wolf poking out from under her tank top. "Aww, you're in a gang? Isn't that adorable? Guess that makes you the pack bitch?"

"Get lost, pretty boy." She snarls, I've obviously hit a nerve but I know my friends will think I wimped out if I don't keep pressing her.

"Oh, so you think I'm good-looking? I know that I look pretty damn near angelic. Glad to see you aren't as blind as what you're wearing would suggest." I think she might slap me if she wasn't awkwardly leaning over the railing above me.

"I swear…if you don't get out of here right now. I'll-I'll-"

I cut her off before she finishes. "Call your boys?" I wink and clap my hands around my mouth, my blonde hair tickling my neck as I lean my head back and howl. A well muscled man with a scarred face turns at the noise and he glares at me. "Is that your alpha? Try to shoot himself in the face for having to deal with psychos like you all day?"

She's fuming now and I know my friends will be pleased at the performance, nearly everyone is looking at us now casting pointed stares at the girl's strange attire. I take a step back and shrug. "Well enjoy the game. I'll be the one destroying your team." I cast her another false smile before turning on my heel and jogging back towards my friends, exchanging a few high fives as I return.

"Dude, did you see her face? She's never gonna come watch a game here again; makes one less rotten demon to deal with." Will, our team's keeper states and then jerks his head in the direction of a person dressed in a demon costume, Pravus High's mascot. "Maybe we out to see how well that fabric burns."

Even this is a little much for me, while I may hate the other school I'm not going to do something that stupid. "Nah, we'll all get kicked off the team and that means Verlac won't have anyone to put him in his place."

"Which you are going to do today, right?" Alec asks and I roll my eyes.

"Of course. I heard someone say there are supposed to be some scouts here today and there is no way I'm letting them pick him over me." I spare a glance towards the boy that is apparently better then me.

He stands separate from his team, except for one boy, his silvery hair bright in the sun light and a look of disdain plastered on his fine features. The boy he is talking to is one of the few on his team I've ever seen him talking to expected to be team Captain when Sebastian graduates next year. He looks like a number of other boys on his team, dark hair and eyes with tan skin, he's a decent player but that isn't what makes him stand out; this boy, Raphael, is so infatuated with religion it's almost unsettling, there's a rumor going around that he held a crucifix in a flame until it was red hot before pressing it to his chest, leaving a white scar in the shape of the cross, so that he would always have a reminder to whom he was devoted.

When the team captains are expected to shake hands Sebastian and I stare stonily at each other, giving a tense handshake that is over almost before it begins. Before he returns to his team he leans towards me. "They're gonna need a body-bag when I'm done with you, Morgenstern."

I respond with a lazy smile. "Better watch yourself, Verlac. Threats like that sound awful unsportsman like."

The game isn't going as planned for Sebastian, I can tell that by his expression when I slide past him to sink the soccer ball in the corner of his goal. His team is trailing by three points and I know that this is something he doesn't know how to handle, he hasn't lost a game in years and now it's happening in front of the people who could decide our futures. "Hey, Verlac, maybe you ought to drop back down to JV. I'm sure there is someone there who might be worse than you. Though, even if they had Lewis on your team I doubt that would be likely." I brush past him and I see the only reason he doesn't retort is because we're in earshot of his coach.

The next time I dart in and steal the ball from underneath his feet his temper, which is known for being remarkably short, snaps. He's fast, one of his biggest advantages in the game, and as I tear away from him with the ball I can hear his feet pounding along behind me; of course, I expect him to go after the ball so it takes me by surprise when he throws away the rules in favor of him releasing his temper.

The black and white ball is lost to me when he throws himself forward, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and one hand catches at my throat while the other comes from the opposite direction, scrabbling to pull me into a headlock. I know I shouldn't fight back, the refs will pull him off me in a few seconds, but with him trying to cut off my air and his fingers cutting into my face I don't care what I'm supposed to do or not. "Get the hell off me."

My body twists, as if on it's own accord, in his grasp and my fists connects solidly with his jaw. It's a hard enough punch that he loosens his hold for a fraction of a second; long enough for me to drive an elbow back into his ribs and wind him. He let's go and whirl around, ducking as he retaliates with a swing of his own before he throws himself at me and we both fall to the manicured pitch. I can feel that I broke one, if not two, of my fingers from the initial blow as
I curl my hand into a fist again and strike up at his face, satisfied at the crunch of bone and the blood that instantly spurts from his nose.

The referees pull us apart before either of us can land another blow and I can hear the cheers in the stands, people always attend the game against Pravus High because brawls are far from uncommon and these weren't disappointed. I catch a glimpse of red as we are pulled farther apart as Sebastian lunges forward, only to be stopped by a strong hand on his shoulder. My father will be livid that I got into a fight, with the red card Sebastian and I will have to sit out the rest of the match, leaving each of our teams without their strongest player. I'm approaching my team, breathing heavy, when a man pushes through the crowd and onto the field.

"You keep your filthy hands off of him!" He reminds me of a man at my father's last dinner party, though certainly less civil, as he bellows. "If you've hurt him I swear to God you're going to pay for it." I stay in my spot, glaring at him as he approaches, though with his fists I doubt these are empty threats.

My father steps in front of me just before the man is close enough to swing and catches the man's wrist in his hand. "Do I need to have security escort both you and your ward off school grounds? Do I need to remind you that he was the one who attacked my son?" The man seems to wilt under my father's glare and he shakes his head before slipping back towards the bleachers. "Get to the bench." My father is still scowling at the man but I know this is aimed at me and he leaves no margin for argument so I do as he says. Of course when we get home he no longer will care that I didn't start the fight, simply being involved will make him murderous.

Alec's mother is already off the bleachers and waiting besides the benches when I get there, a frown pinching her cheeks. "Are you alright?" She asks me and when I shrug she takes my face in both hands. "Stop looking away." Maryse demands when I glance away at this attention.

"Really, Maryse, I'm fine. I did more to him than he did to me." I respond but I look at her just like she wants, I've spent enough time with Alec that I sometimes feel as if this woman is my mother instead of the woman who ran away shortly after my birth.

"Well it doesn't look like you have a concussion. Which is a relief, because with you and your habits we know you've had more of those than you ought to have." Her sharps eyes inspect me, "Anything else hurt?"

I don't mention my broken fingers because she'll simply pull her husband down to look at them as well before advising my father to take me to the hospital and have them put in a cast. "No, Ma'am."

She doesn't believe me but to my relief she doesn't press the matter. "Well then if you aren't hurt I think we need to talk about you getting into these senseless fights."

"I'm going to get that lecture from my father anyways. I don't need to her it twice."

"Jace Morgenstern, I just don't know what to do with you. Heaven knows you need someone with sense to tell you about fights, someone other than your father." She practically hates my father, although they were good friends in college they had a falling out and sometimes I feel as if they are out for each others blood.

Which is why it doesn't surprise me when my father approaches the two of us, "Excuse me, Ma'am, we can not have any bystanders down on the field. Now get back to your seat or I'll have to seriously consider what influence you have on your son and his place on the team."

If I had something like this to her I would have received a tongue lashing but because it's my father she simply pulls herself to her full height and says, "I was just making sure your son wasn't hurt. Something, I notice, you didn't do." Before turning on her heel and marching back to her seat.

Though my team still manages to win the game without me I can see the anger smoldering in my father's eyes as he talks to the team after the game ends. He ends with a sharp "Get to the showers." And all the boys obey; they can tell he's upset-though they probably assume it's because of the two goals they let in within four minutes of each other. But when I move to shower off and change into my normal clothing my father stops me with a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Go get in the car. I'll be there as soon as I can. I don't want you talking to the other boys seeing as all they'll do is fill your head with foolish notions that you were correct in fighting him."

I know better than to argue with him and trudge towards the car, ignoring Will as he walks besides me. "Did you hear? You broke his nose? He's gonna know better than to screw with you again. Brilliant punch, by the way, took the stuffing right out of him." He continues to blabber on and I know my father is watching, he won't appreciate this conversation.

"Will, shut up!" I snap. "And get lost. Go talk about how 'wonderfully' you played with everyone. I'm sure everyone will forget that you almost let us lose by letting those goals in." I don't bother to see how he reacts to this as I get into the car and slam the door behind me.

I sit in the car, waiting for my father, cut off from the flurry of leaving, just outside; I glance down at my hands, still trembling from the adrenaline caused by the fight and grimace. My index and middle fingers are turning swollen and discolored, the break particularly obvious in my index finger. The longer I wait to reset it, the more painful it will be so I do it before I can change my mind; biting down hard on the inside of my mouth as I reposition the bone.

My father says nothing as he gets into the car and backs out of the parking spot.

Today I keep my eyes fixed on the seat in front of me, looking anywhere else would indicate that I'm afraid of his temper or remorseful about getting into the fight-something I refuse to do. He drives faster than he ought to, the scenery flashing past the windows and his hands practically crushing the steering wheel.

I yank at the door handle as we pull into the garage and instantly shot a glare at my father before thinking if that is the best action right now. "Really? Child-lock? Remind me to stick a crow-bar in my duffel bag so the next time I want to kill myself by jumping out of the car on the highway I don't have to worry about the damn child-lock."

"Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern I would recommend keeping that smart mouth of your shut." My father snaps, the first words he's said to me since he got into the car. He doesn't continue beyond this, we sit t here in silence for several minutes, glaring at each other in the rearview mirror; it ends when he gets out of the car. I might have counted this as a victory, he looked away first-I still know he holds all of the power since I can't even get out of the car without him opening the door for me.

"Get changed. I want you in the study in five minutes." His voice is calm as he gives me his instructions, holding the door so I can't push it all of the way open, but it carries a sharp edge as if daring me to argue with him. I keep my head up as I brush past, when he lets me out of the car. I hear my cleats scratching against the wooden floor as I walk up to my room on the top floor, just another item to add to the lost of small infractions that my father will be furious for.

Although the air outside carries a distinct autumn chill I don't bother putting a jacket over the white t-shirt I slip into. My father will more likely than not force me to stay in my room for the remainder of the day, so I don't need to worry about getting cold. My soccer jersey, now speckled with blood and grass stains is tossed into a wicker hamper as I head down to the study.

"Are we having family story time now?" I announce my entrance to my father who seems to be occupied with the book he holds in my hands. My remark seems to bounce off of him as he continues to read; he always been entirely too fond of dramatic pauses, why he's even positioned himself so that when he turns to me I will have to follow him with my eyes. "Jonathan Christopher, would you care to explain it to me?"

"He was choking me! What did you want me to do? Just wait until I asphyxiated?"

He closes the book with a snap, "Is fighting to you what sex is to other people?"

Which is entirely untrue, yes I do get in fights more often than most people, but he makes it sound like it's a daily occurrence. "I thought you hated the demons? Why does it bother you if I get in a soccer brawl with one? I bet you did it when you were my age as well!"

"This is not about me." He finally stands and slowly walks towards his desk which he places the palms of his hands on and leans forward. "This is about how you insist on making it appear as if I can't control you." Of course he would even make this about him.

I clench my hands together behind my back, the pain in my fingers grounding me, keeping me from shouting at him. "Oh, I'm sorry, Father. Did I ruin the perception that I'm your obedient little robot?"

It would almost be better if he showed how furious he is, instead of this calm façade he wears, every word calm and clipped, his face stony. "Do not use that tone with me. We both know you've been wanting that fighter for a long time." He's ignoring my question, whether it is because he has no response or no toleration for being questioned I don't know.

"You know that's only true because you wanted me to fight him. You don't like that he's better than me and he 'doesn't even belong here'. If it had been anywhere else you would have given me a pat on the back and offered me a brandy."

He's staring at me with those dark eyes of his, as if inspecting to see where these flaws had come from-he certainly didn't instill them in me. "Well then I'm just going to have to teach you when it's an appropriate time to get into fights and when it isn't. Make sure you remember when it's an inappropriate time." He opens a desk drawer and pulls something out, but he keeps it out of sight. "Come here."

I don't want to listen to him because I know that now I'm going to receive his punishment, but it will only be worse if I don't comply. So I hesitantly approach the desk, stopping so I can stare across the furniture directly at my father.

"Put your hands on the desk." He directs as he comes around the desk towards me. I know now what he is doing a painful version of the proverbial slap on the back of the hand. I comply, pressing my palms to the wooden surface, with broken fingers this will be more painful than it's been before, but I refuse to let him know that the thought of the occurrence makes my stomach clench. "Jonathan, you know this hurts me more than it hurts you. I do so hate having to punish you." Yeah, right.

"Just do it and get it done with. That way you can stop being in oh-so-much pain." I snap at him but keep my eyes fixed on the wall behind the desk.

The ruler slams down on the back of my hands; he never tells me how long it will last sometimes it's only a smack or two sometimes its more. Today he doesn't finish until both of my hands are red and throbbing, a thin line of ruby droplets well up on one hand where the edge of the ruler sliced the skin; my broken fingers blossomed with pain at this treatment, it will be relief when I'm dismissed to go to my room and I can splint them. "Do you want to tell me when you shouldn't be getting into fights or do I need to continue making sure it's clear to you?"

I can't help the response, the fact that he just punished me for a fight I didn't start forced a bubble of anger to well up in my chest and it explodes with this question. "I shouldn't get in fights at soccer games or at school." I'm calm enough when I start, I think I can hold the rest in but my tongue has always been faster than my brain. "Or any other time that it makes you look like a weak, old man who has no power over his son. If it could possibly make him look anything less than the god that he thinks he is then I shouldn't get into a fight, because people might realize that he really knows nothing about how to raise a child."

My head snaps to the side as he backhands me, "Learn to hold your tongue, boy. Or I'll make sure you won't have a choice." I swear the way his fingers rest atop his golden letter opener with his eyes flashing with fury, I know he wants me to make another remark like the previous one so he can use the tool to force my jaw open and remove the only way I ever fight against him, with my words. Maybe he won't even wait for that, he twists the blade in his hands but as he does so I see him catch a glimpse of the time on his watch and he slams the letter opened back down onto the desk. "Consider yourself lucky that I'm expecting an important phone call in just a message."

"Yes, sir." I nod, waiting for him to send me to my room.

He walks away from me, pulling his keys from his pocket as he goes. "I think you need to take some time to consider your actions and words today. I don't want you bothered by your phone or tv or anything else that could distract you. Somewhere nice and quiet, where you won't be interrupted ought to be good for you." He uses a small brass key to unlock the door in the back corner of the study and as he opens it he turns to watch my reaction. "I think the cellar ought to do, don't you?"

My father knows that I have made a point of never going into our cellar; when I was six I watched a movie my father had forbidden me to, one where a murder had snuck into houses through people's cellars. Since that day, I've had an irrational fear of entering the dark underbelly of our home, strange that I would be afraid of an imaginary monster in the basement when there was one who could be just as bad whom I ate dinner with every night.

I must have paled at this prospect because he chuckles and gestures towards the door. "Jonathan, I'm not going to wait for you to act like a child afraid of the boogie-man."

I shot him a sharp glare and step past him, head held high; I'm not going to give into his mocking and I will not let him show the unreasonable fear that is pounding in my veins. But as soon as the door is shut and locked behind me I run my hands along the walls on either side of me, trying to find a light switch. Eventually one hand bumps into a shelf and I hear something fall over, my eyes have adjusted enough that I manage to use the single strip of light coming from underneath the door, and I reach our and catch the object before it hits the floor. Although I didn't find a light switch I had been lucky enough to knock a small flashlight into my hand.

The small beam of light is enough for me to make it down the narrow stairs and into the main area of the cellar. Our house is old and at least one of the walls that creates the cellar is made out of stones and I pick my way towards it, grimacing when a small crunch signals the fact that I stepped on the corpse of a mouse. My father once went through a phase where he was obsessed with keeping dead animals in our house and now I've found where they vanished to: a stuffed owl stares at me with glass eyes, the head of a dear is perched on a ceiling, and a raccoon is permanently frozen in the act of washing a fish. It's actually rather disconcerting being in a basement filled with dead creatures, empty bird cages, and an old wardrobe shoved into the back corner.

The light on a large item covered in a sheet draws my attention, I have no idea how long I'll be in this cellar and I might as well prove to myself that there is nothing worth being frightened of down here, so I move towards it. I pause in front of the shadowy figure and shiver, now I'm regretting the fact that I didn't put a jacket on when I had the chance, its cold down here, maybe I'll find something down here. I use the tips of my finger to pull the sheet off of the object and cough as dust flies through the air, it must have been down here for years. Once my eyes have cleared from the dust I turn the light onto the item.

It must have been an ornament on my father's front porch or a gift from a client that my father accepted but then hid away, because I know I've never seen this statue before. At one point with it's graceful wings and a serene expression this stone angel must have beautiful, but now chipped and faded it looks tragic. It's crumbling, years of neglect in the damp cellar, have caused cracks to appear on it's face, making it appear heart-wrenchingly mournful, and an entire chunk of one of it's wings to fall off. This statue, held prisoner so long, reminds me too much of what I'll end up like if I never get away from my oppressive father and suddenly my heart burns with desire to free it from my father's hold.

I search through the cellar for several minutes, unceremoniously dumping boxes on the floor and destroying any sort of organization down here, as I look for something-anything-to "free" the angel. My hands, still painful, protest as I wrap my fingers around an aluminum baseball bat I find hidden under a pile of sails for our boat.

The first swing is more satisfying than I imagined it would be, the tip of one of the wings splintering as contact is made before falling to the floor. My father will be livid when he finds out that I ruined the organization of the cellar but that will be nothing compared to his rage when he learns that I destroyed an item, even one he didn't care about, that he owned. But as I continue, the features vanishing and body crumbling I can't help but feel glad that I've saved at least one thing from being totally destroyed by the man who raised me.

An: And there you have it, part two. Would you be so kind as to drop a review? I would love to get more feedback than I did last chapter and if it that calls for asking for five new reviews I will do it.