I do not own The Mortal Instruments or the Characters.
They are all property of Cassandra Clare.
All that I take credit for is the twist in the storyline and any original characters that may pop up.
Authors Note: I am so touched by the amazing feedback I've been getting so far! This is only my second fic ever, so I'm amazed that it's being accepted so well, so far. 3 On a side note, I did re-upload this chapter after I noticed a TON of mistakes.
Unfortunately, I'm really bad about editing when I'm half asleep. I'll do better next time, I promise! :P
In the mean time, feel free to let me know if you see any big mistakes (I'm awful about slipping from third to first person. Especially when dialog is involved D:). And, I of course adore little notes and PM's :)
Anyways, there aren't any big changes to this chapter aside from some moved around commas and things like that, but I did add a tiny bit more to the ending.
Enjoy 3
This is your life there's no way to run from it
The doubt in your brain or the pain in your stomach
I only have but one complaint at the moment:
Don't paint me black when I used to be golden
Sleep was a frivolous and unattainable goal, apparently.
Every night, Clary lay down in the large, plush bedding. It was a magnificent bed with the kind of mattress that her body just sunk into, all of the extra down material filling in around her body and leaving her in the worlds most comfortable position, no matter how she turned. The sheets were like silk, cold and smooth against her skin, and smelled glorious.
Still, sleep eluded her.
With an exasperated huff, Clarissa untangled her limbs from the sheets before dropping her legs over the edge of the bed and pressed her feet to the cold hardwood floors. The room was extravagant, nearly the size of the entire apartment that she and her mother had occupied throughout her life. It was meticulous, everything in its spot and showing not the first bit of dust or trace that anyone had ever stepped foot within its walls before her.
However, aside from the large king-sized bed that was placed in the center of the room, there was very little to fill the large space. Only twin nightstands at either side of the bed, a grand desk, and an armoire decorated the room along with a small stack of books and what looked to be an antique jewelry box pressed into a corner.
Standing, she moved over the armoire and sifted through its drawers. Much like the room, every piece of clothing that she came across was extravagant. There were no simple jeans and t-shirts to be found, only the highest quality blouses, skirts, and dresses. Everything was, remarkably, her size. With a sigh, she fished out the closest thing to normal that she could: a dark green silk blouse and a pair of designer jeans that probably cost as much as a car.
It had been ten days since she had left Luke's house with Jace and Jonathan. It had been over a week since she'd seen, or spoken to, anyone that she loved. She hadn't been so far away from her mother for so long since Valentine had stolen her away, and the fact that she'd left without a word gnawed away at her constantly.
They had left so quickly. She hadn't been allowed to say goodbye or to leave a note telling them that she would be okay. She hadn't even had time to pack a bag or grab her toothbrush.
She had just crawled out of the small window, taken Jace's hand, and followed him into the unknown.
Swallowing, she made her way out of the door, through the heavy door, and down the stairs, following the sound of a conversation only to find Jace and Jonathan relaxing like old friends rather than sworn enemies.
"Hey," She breathed, her eyes ghosting over her brother's statuesque and all too relaxed form before settling on Jace.
Even with the alleviation that came with Jace's presence, an enormous weight remained on Clary's heart as her emerald eyes moved over the boy that she loved. Though he still looked like Jace – a mass of golden curls, topaz eyes, lean muscle, and impish smirk – he wasn't truly her Jace.
The intricately drawn rune just over his heart that kept him tied to Jonathan made sure of that.
A million heartstrings tugged at Clary's core when Jace's entire face seemed to light up with her presence. Ever since they had first kissed in the atrium atop the institute, they had both taken on the habit of brightening when the other was around. They complemented each other perfectly, his golden features to her bronze. But here, he didn't seem to contain himself as much as he had before. There was no fear in his topaz eyes, no need to keep his feelings under check and his face concealed behind a well-constructed mask.
It had a strange affect on her heart to see him like that: a weird mixture of pride and worry.
How could he open up so much with Jonathan so close?
Didn't he understand how unstable her brother was?
He had tried to kill them both, for Gods sake.
"You look beautiful," he said, pulling her into his embrace without moving from his seat on a barstool.
An involuntary shiver ran through Clary's entire body as Jace's warm breath washed over the exposed skin of her neck. She was hyper aware of his eyes as they moved over her and of his hands that brushed against and warmed her skin while he tucked a rogue curl behind her ear with expert fingers.
Instantly, a crimson blush colored her cheeks and a shy smile painted across her features before she finally tore her eyes away from Jace only to find Jonathan watching them intently.
"You have to say that." She said, her throat barely releasing the words as the nearly crippling fear that came from being around her brother began to take hold of her. Instinctively, she leaned further into Jace, wishing that she could simply mold her body into his and no longer be the subject of Jonathan Morgenstern's attention.
"You're right," Jace spoke once more, his arms circled around her waist and he ducked his head so that he could place a light kiss to her shoulder, seemingly unfazed by the fathomless black eyes that were trained on them, "I did have to say that," he agreed, "I literally couldn't resist."
Once again, a shock wave coursed through her veins in response to Jace Wayland and she rolled her shoulder slightly under his touch, earning a soft sigh from him, telling her that he finally sensed her discomfort.
His eyes turned upward then as if noticing Jonathan's dark presence for the first time, tightening his arm around her in a more territorial manner, before sliding from his chair and into a standing position.
This earned a soft chuckle form where Jonathan stood, apple in hand, at the other side of the kitchen island. "Did you sleep well, sister?" He asked, his voice dripping with honey.
Or poison.
She swallowed and straightened her posture slightly, forcing herself to meet his eyes without flinching. "Like a baby," she lied, unwilling to admit her nearly complete lack of slumber.
She was far too eager to sleep, too nervous. Her eyes were heavy, but they could never seem to close knowing exactly whose roof she was under.
She closed her eyes, blinking a moment too long, in attempt to force the thought from her mind.
"Where are we?" she finally asked, amazed by how calm my voice sounded despite the panic that filled her.
"Just outside of New Orleans," Jonathan voiced without giving Jace the chance to answer the question that had obviously been directed to him.
Over the past few days, Clary had made it abundantly clear that she wished to avoid any sort of contact or communication with Jonathan and it seemed that he had made it his mission to intercept her whenever possible.
"There are a few…. errands that I need to run in the Quarter," he explained as he took a step forward, causing Clary to take a step backward – forcing herself against Jace and as far away from Jonathan as possible, earning a wicked grin from in the process. "You're more than welcome to join me."
Jace's hand moved up Clary's arm slowly before hooking under her elbow and tugging her out of Jonathan's path. "Back off," he said, his voice a slow warning.
Jonathan's smirk twitched with amusement and he raised his hands before him in mock surrender before turning and making his way out to perform whatever insidious acts he had planned.
After a moment, Jace's grip relaxed and he turned to face Clary once more. "So," he smiled, leaning back against the counter and running his hand carelessly through his effortlessly styled locks, "how do you feel about witches?"
Clary had seen a lot of things in her life. In fact, she'd witnessed more in the past year than any normal girl her age. She'd watched an angel's memories in the basement of an incinerated building, seen a grown man – one she had known her entire life – transform into a giant wolf in the blink of an eye, and felt the sting of demon blood on her skin.
Even still, she felt highly unprepared for Louisiana.
Everything was just so different.
Having been raised in New York City, she was used to the crazy tourists and ungodly traffic, but New Orleans might as well have been another country.
Everything around her buzzed as if the city itself was bursting with energy. She could practically feel it seeping from the streets and up into her bones. Clary had never given much thought to the state - or the city - unless Mardi Gras, Popeye's, or Hurricane Katrina were being mentioned. But now, being completely immersed in the colors, sounds, and smells, she didn't know how she'd stayed away for so long.
Her red locks floated about her head as a large gust of wind tunneled through the narrow street, causing her to reach up and hold tight to the thin scarf around her neck. It wasn't anything close to the bitter, bone chilling cold that she'd grown up with in New York, but it was enough to send a chill throughout her small frame.
Jace gave a small chuckle and wrapped a arm around her shoulders, pulling her body into his warmth, and resting his chin on the top of her head. "Don't worry, we're almost there." He said, his voice muffled in her hair, as his hands rubbed her arms and back in attempt to warm her.
With a soft sigh, she slid her hands under his coat and wound her arms around him, pressing her cheek against his chest. She could feel the heat from the rune just below his thin t-shirt. "Where are we going, exactly?"
"I told you, I've just gotta pick up something for Jon from this little coven, then we're free to explore."
Clary quirked a brow and looked up at him, "I thought Magnus said that warlock's didn't really run in packs."
He gave a short laugh, his golden eyes taking in their surroundings, "They don't... usually. That's part of the reason why we need to make an appearance." He raised one hand to stroke her hair, "We think that whatever it is that brought them all together, is just what we've been looking for."
The way that he casually used 'we' to join Jonathan and himself chilled me more than the cold weather ever could.
"What do you mean?" She asked, giving a small cough in hopes of masking the quiver in her voice.
He took in a deep breath – She could feel his chest rise and fall, his muscles tighten – before he reached back to unhook her hands from behind his back, but lacing his fingers with hers as if that would mask just how obvious the change was. "You'll see," he squeezed her hand lightly before leading her down the sidewalk once more, leaving no room for me to further the conversation.
As they walked further, the multicolored buildings and bars lined with neon lights were slowly replaced with rustic rot-iron gates and older style formations until they were replaced all together, statues of weeping angels and columned mausoleums taking their place. The chalky, white dirt floated up from the ground with every step that we took, coating their shoes in the process.
She'd never seen a cemetery so…. elegant.
Despite it's obvious age, the resting ground was in pristine condition. There was no sign of vandalism or graffiti that often disgraced the older cemeteries in New York. The monuments were clean and defined, like they'd been erected only days earlier; the above ground tombs, with their crosses and carved figures, stood proudly and untouched aside from the fresh flowers that rested in a few scattered vases.
It was beautiful, but in the way that a storm was beautiful: tantalizing and mesmerizing, all the while masking something devastating.
"What are we-" Clary began to ask, just as she heard the soft hum of voices.
Jace's back had straightened considerably, him becoming more alert with the new sound, and his eyes had taken on a more far-off expression.
"Jace?" she asked, tugging on his hand and coming to a halt when he didn't seem to hear her. Her pink lips pursed slightly when he gave her only the briefest acknowledgement.
"Stay here," He told her, his voice sounding distant and not his own before he untangled their fingers. He placed his hands on her shoulders and stared into her eyes – the black of his pupils expanding to cover the caramel of his eyes almost completely. "I mean it, Clarissa. I don't want you to follow me."
"Clarissa? Since when are do we go by full names?" She asked, hoping that her attempt at a joke masked the fear that his change in demeanor had brought to life inside of her.
Obviously, he was not amused.
"Stay," he ordered simply – harshly – before turning and moving in the direction of the voices, his hand curled around something tucked and hidden under his coat.
Too shocked to protest, Clary watched as Jace pulled a seraph blade from it's hiding spot and disappeared down a row of oven-vaulted graves. All she could do was stare in disbelief that Jace, her somewhat-rough-around-the-edges-but-always-gentle- with-her, Jace, had just ordered her to stay put like some kind of dog in training.
Jace was a lot of things. He was reckless, dauntless, and brave. He was stubborn and he was egotistical at times, but he was never mean. Not to her.
It took all of ten seconds for her to snap out of it and, filled with enough annoyance to mask her fear, stomp after him.
This wasn't right.
He wasn't right.
"Okay, I don't know if your possessed or something, but," she began, rounding the corner that Jace had disappeared around, only to have her words freeze in her throat at the sight before her.
Jace stood a mere twenty feet ahead of her. Only it wasn't him.
Where Jace practically shined the most vibrant of gold, the man before her wore a dark façade. He had Jace's features – those perfect cheekbones, strong lines that defined every part of him – but she barely recognized him now.
Not with one arm shoved into a woman's throat, holding her against a grave, and the seraph blade buried to its hilt in her gut.
He was asking the woman something in a low growl that she couldn't even recognize as coming from him. When she didn't answer, he twisted the blade inside her, bringing out a sharp scream as her bloodshot eyes locked with Clary's.
The next thing Clary new, she was falling, and the chalky taste of the dirt wafted into her lungs – choking her.
The pounding of Clary's heart echoed throughout her entire body. She had never been so cold, soaked through to the bone, and her damp hair, crimson in the dull light of the candles that surrounded the lake, sticking to the exposed skin of her neck and shoulders. Everything hurt, she discovered quickly. It was a raw kind of pain, the kind that you feel in the marrow of your bones and in the back of your teeth. Something was stabbing into her skin, scraping away at her as if it were a stick carelessly tracing a pattern in the sand. Her eyes flew open as the black sludge of lake water forced its way out of her lungs and coated the cold, damp, ground until she could breathe again.
Rolling to her side, she found that her hands were bound behind her back and her legs felt much too heavy. A sort of stinging sensation coursed through her, as if she were rolling around in a batch of pushpins. The back of her hand burned as if a bee had stung it. She gasped as she attempted to push herself into a sitting position – legs sprawled awkwardly before her as if she were some sort of rag doll. Looking around, Clary found herself on the bank of Lake Lyn, surrounded by the sand – gray and full of glittering mica – and a mixture of candles and witchlight torches. A few feet from where she sat stood an altar of some kind with the Mortal Cup and Mortal Sword sitting atop the mound, runes traced into the sand around them.
Then he was there. Valentine, his silvery blue eyes piercing into hers, spoke muffled words and crouched beside her. It was hard to believe that the man before was the same man in the picture that Hodge had given her. The boy in the picture, the one not much older than her at the time and that had gazed at her mother with such love, could not possibly be this man. This man was cold, he showed no sign of remorse or worry, and there was no trace of love or anything close to an emotion. All she saw within the depths of those ice filled eyes was her reflection amidst a cloud of indifference.
After that, everything passed in a whirl of clouds, like the black swirls of dark water when she had first become submerged in the lake. There were flashes of color, images and scenes dancing across her line of vision. Valentine's snide grin; Jace, his eyes seeming to be on fire moments before Valentine thrust the Mortal Sword through his heart; the angel as he rose from the lake and struck Valentine down – a vibrant bolt of Heavenly Fire aimed strait through his heart, the exact place that Valentine had forced the sword through Jace moments before - just before his voice entered her mind: "Close your eyes, Clarissa Morgenstern".
Clary awoke with a start, her entire body shivering despite the fact that she seemed to be coated in a thin layer of sweat, the sheets clinging and tangled around her damp legs. As her eyes flew open, she sat bolt right, an exasperated gasp escaping her lungs as if she'd been holding her breath underwater. Her lungs ached with the release, her chest rising and falling with each rushed breath that she took.
It was just a dream, she told herself, closing her large green eyes tightly in attempts to force the images from her mind.
But it wasn't just a dream.
It was a nightmare, a memory; one that filled her every pore with the most crippling, unadulterated fear.
Months had passed since that night on the shores of Lake Lyn, the night that her father had shoved a blade through Jace's heart but had felt like it had penetrated her own. Jace had died. She had watched him stumble forward, seen the light fade from his golden eyes, and heard the last gasp of leave his lungs.
She had watched, helpless and frozen in place, as the one person she had ever loved – who she was finally able to love with no remorse – be slain by her own father.
A violent shiver coursed through her bones once more as she swallowed back the taste of bile that had begun to rise in her throat.
Jace wasn't dead.
The angel Raziel had granted Clary one wish, Jace's life, and he was fine.
Well, he was alive, at least.
When the door creaked open and Jace's golden hair peeked through the opening, she nearly jumped out of her skin, the images from the day before replacing her fear of the nightmare. At least then, she had known that she was sleeping – was reassured that she would wake up and that terrible scene would be in the past.
"Clary…" Jace's voice was soft, pained, and he moved in slow steps towards her to show that he meant her no harm, "Please don't be scared of me." He sounded so small, his voice shaking as he saw the terror in her eyes. "You know I'd never… you know I would never hurt you. I couldn't, Clary, You know that," his words continued to spill out, like she would bolt if he paused, "I love you. I'm sorry that you had to see that, but I can't tell you how bad those people are. The things Jon told me about them. What they would have done to you if I hadn't..." he closed his eyes tightly and his body shook slightly as he sat at the far edge of the bed, like he was as scared to be around her as she was of him in that moment.
She watched him intently, reading his every move the way that he had taught her to read a predator in order to predict their next move. Before, in the graveyard, he had been so hard and calculated, so unlike the man slumped before her. His hands clutched the bedding, his head tilted downward as he fought for control over his own words. When he finally met her eyes once more, there was no more darkness or anger. His harsh words and actions from the day before had vanished, leaving only the man that seemed just as distraught and disgusted over his actions as she was.
"I don't know what I was doing, Clary," he whispered, "I swear, I would never put you in danger like that. I don't know what came over me. That wasn't the plan. Killing-" he shook his head, swallowing, "It wasn't supposed to go that far. I was just going to snatch the gems, threaten them with some big talk to scare them off, and then we were going to go off and do our own thing like I promised." He whipped the back of his hand across his cheek before fisting his hand in his hair. "I don't know what happened."
Everything was too raw: the taste of the salty water, the feel of the damp sand beneath her and the binds that cut into her wrists; Jace's lifeless form lying just out of her reach. Clary gnawed on her lower lip before giving in and crawling across the space between them and pulling him into her arms.
Her touch loosened whatever hold he had on himself, making him collapse into her. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
"Shh…" She breathed, resting her chin on his forehead. Hearing the slightest creak from the door, she looked up only to find Jonathan's black eyes – so much like the eyes that had stared back at her in the cemetery – watching her, his expression perplexed. Clary's jaw set tightly, she secured her hold around Jace, her eyes never leaving her brother's cold stare. "I know."
