Because I'm feeling generous. :)
"JACE!" I yell, running through a meadow with grass that is so long, it brushes against my shoulders. I am even shorter than I am normally, about the height of your average eleven year old. "Jace, slow down, you're going too fast!" I hear a soft, hearty laugh from behind me and I whip around to see Jace standing with a lazy smirk on his flawless face. He's younger looking; less runes mark his skin and his face is a little rounder.
"No, you're just too slow," He says, twisting a small, emerald encrusted dagger in his long fingers. I glower at him. "You just have abnormally short legs"
"You just have abnormally long legs," I whine in a stronger British accent then I usually have. Jace chuckles.
A loud bang erupts overhead and it's suddenly raining; pouring down heavily on our heads. I sigh.
"We should get back, Jace," I say as lightning lights up the gloomy sky. "Come on, Jace!" I reach out to grab his hand but he stares fixedly at the end of the meadow- towards the road that leads back to the Institute. "Jace?" I pin a piece of dark, wet, red hair out of my eyes.
"We need to leave," He murmurs, turning to me and grabbing me by the upper arm.
"Thank you!" I exclaim and hurry to keep up with him. "What's wrong?" His tight grip on my arm begins to hurt and I try to pull my arm back. "Jace, you're hurting me!" Jace stops and sharply turns his head towards the old oak tree we had engraved with our initials a few years back. I follow his gaze.
A dark silhouette is leaning on the trunk of the tree-arms crossed, filing their nails with his stele. Jace steps protectively in front of me and pulls his seraph blade from the sheath strapped to his hip; warning me under his breath to stay behind him.
"Ahh." The person breathes, walking out of the shadows as we come nearer. Jace stays a step ahead of me, shaking his wet hair out of his eyes when we step under the thick canopy of leaves. "Jace, Clarissa." The person – a tall, toned boy – walks forward with a sly, smirk that twists his features; his arms crossed across his broad chest. He has pale skin which is relatively rosy compared to his platinum hair. He has a flawless, handsome face with black, bottomless eyes framed with long eyelashes.
"What are you doing here?" Jace demands and pushes me back behind him so I am out of view of the boy.
"Do I need a reason to visit my sister and, for all intents and purposes, my brother?" Jace growls under his breath.
"I'm not your brother," He spits. The boy laughs without humour; an intense glint in his black eyes.
"I don't think it's me you don't want to be related to." The boy looks at me with a teasing smile. "I think that you don't want to be my brother because that would mean your Clarissa's brother too." Jace growls again but doesn't deny it. "You like her don't you, Jacey?" The boy teases.
"You see, that's where you're wrong," Jace retorts. An unfamiliar jab of pain shoots through me and I look up at Jace with hurt eyes. "I love Clary." The boy laughs. My heart hammers in my chest. "Yes, I don't want to think of her as my sister. But I'd rather think of her as my sister than you as my brother." The laughter stops and the boy glares at Jace.
"Jace," I warn. I know he has gone over some sort of line; an invisible barrier which keeps the boy – my brother – calm and collected. "Jace, come on." I tug desperately on Jace's arm. "Please, Jace. I want to go." Jace finally breaks eye contact with my brother and looks down at me with dark eyes. My brother's eyes. This isn't Jace – Jace is gone. He grabs my wrist in a vice like grip. "Let go of me." I say breathlessly, trying to twist out of his hold.
"Now, Clarissa, play nice," He whispers in my ear. His arms wrap tightly around my shoulders and he points towards the other end of the meadow. Jace is standing there, throwing himself desperately against some invisible barrier.
"JACE!" I scream and try to pull myself out of the boys grip. He's older and taller than me – I'm fighting a losing battle. "Jace," I whisper, defeated. Jace screams with fury as he throws his shoulder once again, against the invisible wall.
The rain has ceased. In fact, the long grass that we're standing in feels dry, parched even. "Please," I mutter as Jace crumples to the ground; his hand resting on the barrier that separates us.
"What, Clarissa?" The boy asks, smoothly. The grass that brushes against my shoulders starts to buzz; warmth flowing through each strand.
"Please, let him go. Please," The boy starts to laugh again- his body shaking. The grass rustles and the warmth intensifies. "What are you doing?" I ask.
"Nothing, Clarissa," He drawls. I don't believe him of course. And that's when I see it. A flicker of red, out of the corner of my eye.
"JACE!" I scream. The grass on the other side of the barrier – the side Jace is caught in – has turned to flames. I sink my elbow into my brother's stomach and he releases me from his tight grip. "JACE!" My cries seem to echo around my head, and I can't see anything but smoke and flames. "JACE!"
"CLARY!" I hear him rasp. "Clary, run!" I can't see anything. I can't see my brother. I can't see Jace.
And then all I can see is darkness. And all I can hear is Jace screaming my name, the smell of burning grass and flesh, fresh in my nostrils.
"Jace!" I cry, sitting bolt upright. I clutch at the unfamiliar purple, velvet covers and draw my knees up to my chest. Where am I? My anxious eyes dart around the room; my head rushing with dizziness. I'm lying in a large four-poster bed, standing in the middle of a dimly lit room. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I can make out many paintings around the room; many handing on the maroon walls, others sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall. These paintings tell me I can trust whoever's brought me here. Because these paintings are my mother's work.
The soft brush strokes with her elegant signature in the bottom right-hand corner. The same scenes: rich woodlands, tall magnificent buildings and peaceful lakes. These are all my mother's paintings. This is the person who buys my mom's work; the person who has kept us alive for the past four years.
"Clary, are you awake?" A voice asks as the door opens, sending bright light dancing into the room. Indie looks around the door – her green eyes squinting in the darkness. "Clary?"
"I'm awake," I reply. Indie pushes open the door wider and enters the room quietly. She's wearing white skinny jeans and a tight fitting navy blue top, which seems to ripple like water in the twilit room. "How long was I out?" Indie perches herself on the edge of the bed; studying me anxiously.
"About a day," She says. "How do you feel?" Like one of those cartoon characters with those birds that fly around their heads and that lump, the size of an egg, protruding from their skull.
"Fine," I lie. "What happened?"
"You were attacked by a Ravener demon," She explains. "You killed it. I mean, I've watched you kill demons before but you've forgotten all your training! You just seemed to remember and act on pure instinct. But you got hit just before it died and, well, demon venom is very poisonous-"
"I've had training in killing things?" Indie nods. "I've killed more than once?" My head swims with unpleasant images of screaming creatures; begging for a quick death that will never come.
"Clary," Indie says softly. "You're a Shadowhunter. It's what you were brought up to do."
"To be a cold-blooded murderer?"
"No. To protect the ones you love," She answers. "That and the fact that you are – were one of the best Shadowhunters of your generation." I drag a blistered and bruised hand across my face.
"Where am I?"
"Magnus Bane's apartment," My eyes narrow. "The High Warlock of Brooklyn." I nod, scratching some dried blood off of my arm.
"He's the one that took my memories, right?"
Indie hesitates, "Yeah."
"Can I have them back?" I try not to let any sarcasm or frustration seep through my words but it's hard to stop.
"Clary, it's not that simple. You-"
"Oh, I'm sorry," I roll on to my knees and clasp my hands in front of me. "Oh, Mr high and mighty Warlock of Brooklyn, would you please, please, please give back the memories that you stole from my twelve year old head? You see, I need them to save my mother. She's been taking by some psycho-maniac."
"Most people don't physically get on their knees, but the wording was pretty accurate," a smooth, deep voice drawls. A tall Asian man with dark hair that flops in his gold, feline eyes, enters the room; a tabby cat held in his arms.
"Magnus?" I ask. It seems silly to me now, that I could ever forget someone like him; someone who I used to be close to, in the times that I knew him. Four years. Four meetings come rushing to me with one glance into his eyes. But I feel like I've known him longer.
The cat – Chairman Meow – jumps out of his arms and pounced up on to the dark covers. I remember now. "Magnus!" I cry, jumping down off of the bed and stumbling over to him. He seems surprised when my arms wrap tightly around his waist – standing there rigidly but I soon feel his arms wrap softly around my shoulders.
"It's good to see you too, Clary," he murmurs into my tangled hair. I pull back with a shy smile and a faint blush covering my cheeks. Magnus chuckles.
"How long do you think she needs to recover?" Indie asks, twirling a lock of chocolate coloured hair between her fingers. Magnus studies me for a second.
"How do you feel, Clary?" I can't lie this time.
"I feel like I've been hit over the head with a sledgehammer," I say as I rub my fingers tips against my temples, in the hope of soothing the pain. "But, other than that, I feel fine." Magnus nods.
"I would say another day of rest at the least."
"Ok, do y-" Indie begins.
"But I have to find my mom!" I cry. "She's been taken and I'm the only one who can find her."
"Not the only one," Magnus says lightly. "You are blind at the moment, Clary, but it hasn't always been that way. The people who you trust the most, aren't what they seem."
"Well, I trust you-"
"Yes, and it's quite obvious that I'm not human, isn't it?" Magnus smiles. "I'm a Warlock."
"I'm a Nixie," Indie says, bored, examining her nails. It occurs to me, that I haven't asked Indie how I know her. I'll ask her later.
"Yes, but is there anyone else?" Magnus and Indie exchange a wary glance.
"Clary, it's not for us to sa-"
"I have to know! I have to get my mom back!" A sudden thought occurs to me. "I need to see Luke," My mind whirls. Luke. Why hadn't I thought of him before? My mother's best friend? The closest to a father I've ever gotten?
"Lucian?" Indie asks, surprised. "You're in contact with Lucian Graymark, still?"
"Garroway. Luke Garroway. And what do you mean 'still'? Why shouldn't I be?" And then a thought – a horrible, unimaginable idea – reached the dark, carefully built barrier in my mind. I swallow the disgusted lump in my throat. "What is he?" I whisper.
"A werewolf," Magnus answers. My head begins to throb with the pain and I feel my knees hit the hard frame of the bed. Sinking on to the mattress, I rest my head in my hands.
"I knew, didn't I?" I breathe. "I've always known?" Indie places a hand on my arm, consolingly.
"You were brought up in England, In the London institute," I don't even bother to ask her what an 'institute' is. "Your mother was on the run from Valentine... your father." Valentine. My father. The person who had taken my mother. The person who had killed –
"Max," I look up at Indie. "Valentine killed Max. Alec, Isabelle and Jace's little brother?" She nods.
"He was as much your brother as theirs. But yes, he was killed when you were twelve."
"Valentine found out where you were and sought to bring you both back; taking down anyone who stood in his way. Your mother couldn't risk having what happened to Max, happen to anyone else because of her. She couldn't risk it anymore. She had tried to bring you up in the Shadowhunter world but she just couldn't risk your lives anymore than she already had.
"The only way she could make sure you – and your friends – were completely safe, was if you forgot all about them and everything else. She brought you to America – slipping you a sleeping potion or else you never would have come. She found me, and asked me to erase all of your memories of the world you were brought up in." Magnus explains, settling himself in a plush armchair in the corner of the room. "Not every spell is as perfect, so flawless, as the one I put on you." I remember the last time I saw Jace; his golden eyes like melted butter.
"Jace?" I look at Indie expectantly.
"The Lightwoods remained in England for two years before moving to the New York Institute," She says, cautiously.
"They're here? In New York?" It's weird to think of Jace, Isabelle and Alec as real people; people who I could actually meet. Well, meet again. This is just getting confusing.
"They don't know you are here. Believe me, if they did, Jace would have barged down the door if he even heard a whisper of your whereabouts. I would have come sooner. I thought you didn't want to be found." The thing is, I didn't remember what I should have been missing.
"Isabelle?" My best friend. What happened to her?
"She's ok. Her fighting seemed to get less tactical since you left; less accurate. That's because of the Parabatai bond you two have. But she fights with a fierce determination only a girl who's been through what she has, could have."
"Alec?" Magnus seems to flinch with annoyance.
"Oh, he's fine," Magnus drawls with clenched teeth. "Probably with some-"
"Magnus," Indie warns. "Ignore him, he's sulking." A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
Another face flashes in my mind; the brown haired boy with the Australian accent. Who was he, if not a Lightwood? And who was this boy who had claimed to be my brother? I battle internally with the barrier but it doesn't budge.
"So, what do I do?" I ask them.
"What do you want to do?"
"I want to see the Lightwoods," Indie smiles and Magnus raises an eyebrow. "But I need to see Luke first."
"I'll come with you," Indie offers, grinning. We both turn to Magnus who stares back at us evenly.
"No," he says and shakes his head. "I'm not coming with you to see and werewolf and that two face-" Indie coughs. "Fine, I'll come but don't expect me to be nice."
"You? Not nice?" Indie retorts. "Never."