I have one last chapter to write in this story before I am finally finished, only two thousand or so words, but how that chapter ends up will all depend on this chapter. This chapter, otherwise known as the reason this story became an actual story rather than just a one shot. So that's pretty surreal. As for how much you guys have to read, this is like the end of Act 2 out of 3 Acts, so you've still got a bit to go. I'm glad you guys enjoyed the Clace last chapter and hope you enjoy what is in this just as much, if not more.
It was quiet when Jace awoke.
Static filled his ears as he stared at the rumpled bedding underneath him. It was empty; lost was the expanse of creamy pearl skin that had been tangled up within them earlier. The silence felt jarring to him, as he remembered just hours ago when they were anything but.
She had been lying on top of his chest, sweaty, panting, and naked. Her finger was tracing absentminded circles on his chest as they filled the tent with quiet murmurs and hushed laughter. He smiled lazily back at her, knowing that he had never been a cuddler and kicking himself for not knowing what he had been missing all these years. He had never been the guy that felt the need to stay up with a girl after the job was done and just talk. The girls he usually went for never seemed to have much interesting to say anyway. Even with Kaelie, they had never stayed up, wrapped in one another's arms and just talked. While they loved each other, they both also loved their own space. He had never known how good it could be until now.
Clary was warm. He felt the urge to hold her tighter to him, as tight as he could and never let go. Just being near her, wrapped in a tangled jumble of limbs, made him feel whole. Jace couldn't remember the last time he had felt peace. But he knew, he felt it now. It was as if the world full of lame brains and corrupt humans hunting them no longer existed. He was safe, he was healed, because Clary was there and Clary was warm. And she was smiling. He loved seeing her smile. After all they had been through and all that they had to go through to get to where they were now, seeing her smile reminded him of how far they had come together.
"I used to want to be an artist," she breathed into his chest, her warm breath fanning upon his flesh like a kiss. Their topics of conversation had shifted sporadically throughout the night. Clary had told him about how she had first met Simon at an art gallery of hers when he had insisted she had taken inspiration from a comic series he liked and she nearly slapped him for the insinuation (even though he had been right). In turn, he told her about how his mom had died when he was just a little kid. It had seemed sad then, but now he was glad she hadn't made it to witness what the world—and her son—had become.
"She'd be proud of you," she had murmured sleepily. "When you aren't being super annoying, that is." And he had smiled, and nudged her playfully, and wished his mother could have at least met her.
"Do you ever think about what it would've been like if we had met before?" The fantasy had plagued Jace's thoughts like a pesky fly that couldn't be swatted off. Clary's brother had lived in his hometown and she went to school in the city only an hour or so away. How many times had their paths so closely intertwined?
Clary shook her head though. "We wouldn't have been the same people as we are now."
And Jace knew she was right. Before Clary had been helpless and he had been hopeless. If they had met back then, they would have brushed the other off and gone their separate ways. As sick as it was, the only way they ever could have been together was through the apocalypse. So many had died for them to be where and who they were now.
"In that case, I guess we better make the most of this fucked up world." His breathing grew labored as Clary began to kiss up and down his neck. Slowly. Wetly. Was that tongue? He looked at her sharply and by god, did he feel warm from that smirk she was shooting him. The blanket had suspiciously fallen down, exposing just the right places. He heard his blood pump in his ears. Her shit eating grin grew wider.
"Well, what are you waiting for, Herondale?" She clucked teasingly. "Carpe Diem, right?"
He loved her. It wasn't something that needed to be said or confirmed. It just was. How long had he known? It seemed his love for her was as entangled up with her as the two were locked in their embrace. He didn't know where she ended and he began just as he didn't know where his love for her ended and began.
The apocalypse had taken everything from them, but it couldn't take love. That was theirs. Their love was a giant middle finger to the universe. She loved him too, he knew. It wasn't something that needed to be said. When every moment could be your last, there was no point in wasting time saying what they already knew. Everything they did was a testament—from the way their eyes would go to one another first in a battle or the ways they would gravitate towards each other.
She moaned beneath him, and he paused to take her in. He wanted to remember this. Her red tinged cheeks that matched her hair, her glazed eyes that rolled upwards, the exact curves of her body that felt smooth against his skin, despite every scar which only made him love her more. Survivors knew that life was never guaranteed in the apocalypse. You had to make every moment last. He intended to make every moment with her last. And, as he thought of a future with her by his side, he remembered what it was like to be happy. He was happy. When was the last time that happened?
He continued to stare. And as he finally descended within her because he loved her, he knew the apocalypse no longer felt like one. It was as if life had returned. And suddenly, things weren't so bad.
Later, as they began to finally drift into sleep, he whispered, "good night" and she responded with a sleepy smirk, "sleep well". But instead of continuing with the usual ending, he found himself whispering, "I'll see you in the morning." Because he knew they had come this far. They could survive whatever else life threw at them.
If he had known that by morning, the girl in his arms would be gone, he never would have allowed sleep to consume him.
He clutched the sheets, feeling cold in the face of her absence. She had left, despite saying she wouldn't. He had fallen for it all over again. He had been lying awake for an hour, too afraid to go outside the tent for what might lie on the other side. Would he see his stuff gone? Would it then be real?
Or, maybe he was freaking himself out over nothing. Maybe Clary was just on the other side of that tent, being subjected to the knowing taunts of Isabelle over the source of the noises last night. Yes, that must be it. He quickly set about pulling on his clothes and looking somewhat presentable to exit the tent. She was just on the other side, ready to tease him with some comment about how long he had slept. "Well it looks like sleeping beauty has finally decided to grace us with his presence," she would say and he couldn't wait to smirk back at her and make her swoon with an equally witty quip.
His hand now no longer shook as he moved to pull the zipper of the tent down and stepped outside. There was no Clary waiting for him with a tantalizing smirk or a teasing Isabelle seated next to her. What lay before him was a slowly unraveling nightmare. Clary was nowhere to be seen and just feet away from their campfire lay Isabelle, unconscious and sporting a bloody head wound. Cold ran through him, but he didn't hesitate. Had lame brains attacked without him hearing? Was Clary off somewhere fighting them without him? If zombies had attacked, why was Isabelle unconscious and in one piece instead of being feasted upon like the easy prey she was? Something was wrong. He felt it in his gut. With a nonstop barrage of questions running through his mind, he made to move toward Isabelle immediately when his feet stumbled into something hard protruding from the earth. Though he knew he shouldn't have, and Isabelle needed him, he looked down.
Just like that decisive morning that sent him after Clary, a stake was plunged into the ground. He recognized it immediately. It was the stake that he had spent so long on and had caused him so many cuts upon his palms. Clary's stake. But, he knew with dread that this was nothing like that morning because next to the stake was carved the initials: VM.
Valentine Morgenstern.
And just like that, Jace's world came crashing to a halt. His knees hit the ground and then his stomach was rolling and he was ridding himself of last night's dinner (and copious amount of alcohol) into the nearest bush. Valentine had found him. His worst fears had been realized. The man that had been chasing him down for six months had finally caught up to him, gaining the upper hand. But it wasn't Jace that he had wanted. It wasn't what Jace had stolen from him.
He remembered when he had grabbed Clary desperately on the roof following their encounter with Valentine. She had looked at him with fear and he had hated making her feel that way. If she had only known what he did, if she had only understood, then she would know why he reacted the way he did. If she had seen the way Valentine looked at her—with a look that he remembered because it had been scarred into his brain long before—she would have known. It was crucial that she told him what Valentine had said to her. Though Jace had a feeling he already knew, he had needed her to confirm his suspicions. Nonetheless, he remembered her answer like she was whispering it in his ear beside him.
"He told me that he looked forward to seeing me again."
And it was then that he knew that no matter how many lame brains Clary had released into the mall, Valentine had survived. That man never broke a promise and he would continue to hunt them.
Now Valentine had taken Clary. She was gone and it was his fault.
He gripped the stake, clenching and unclenching. His breathing was rapid, shaky, and on the verge of hyperventilation. Briefly, he glanced at Isabelle. She stirred gently, giving him the invitation he needed. He took off, not knowing where he was running to or where they were, just that he would find them. If Valentine could track him down, he could do the same. He would. With Clary trapped in Valentine's clutches, he knew exactly what would be done to her. He had seen it happen before. He could still remember the look in her eyes as she…
Jace ran faster. And he unleashed a string of curses. And then he ran even faster. Clary needed him. Jace needed her. He needed to kill Valentine.
Visions of green pallored skin, a twisted smirk, and eyes that filled with a thirst for blood flashed through his mind. Yes, Valentine couldn't be allowed to live. Not just for what he had done to Jace, but for what he was capable of doing to others. Jace had once thought that by leaving and stealing what he had, he could stop him; he could save people. Really, all he had done was run and selfishly hoped that what he had done had been enough. Back then, he hadn't been ready to kill his own family. Even despite what Valentine had caused, he remembered the uncle that visited him on Christmas dressed as Santa and snuck him into R-rated movies. He had thought that by being reduced to a killer, he would only be allowing a cycle of inhumanity to continue. But no, now he was ready. Now he could kill.
Leaves crunched underneath his wake. It would be winter soon. That would be a new challenge that would await them. By then Clary would be safe and Valentine would be dead. He would make sure of it.
He began to run faster. How had he allowed this to happen? Why hadn't he woken up when they had taken her? He had been right there. Right there. They had both been drunk, he reminded himself painfully. Not drunk enough to not remember or consent, but drunk enough to assure that they slept like corpses used to sleep and awoke with a nasty hangover. It had been perfect timing on Valentine's part. So perfect, in fact, that he knew it hadn't been by accident. How long ago had they found them? How long had they been watching them, waiting? How much had they seen? His stomach churned at the thought of them having witnessed his private moment with Clary. Had they laughed, knowing their joy would come to a crashing halt come morning?
Faster, his mind screamed, fighting his body. Never before had there been more reason to run. New images flashed through his mind. He saw her. Her smile, her laugh, her scowl. The way she moved in a fight, the way she moved underneath (and on top of) him. Her snarl, her scream, her moan. Her. God, he had to see her. He needed her. He—
A weight crashed on top of him and he fell sprawling upon the earth, a sharp pain flashing through his arm. He ignored it, instead focusing on his attacker. The lame brain was a blur of teeth, blood, and the bedraggled remains of blond. Jace nearly let out a groan. He didn't have time for this. Clary didn't have the time to be wasted upon some dumb lame brain. And this lame brain was surely the lamest of them all to attempt to attack him while he was itching to kill.
Out of habit, he held the groaner away with one hand, being sure to keep a steady control upon its movements. This allowed room for his other hand to grasp for a weapon. The only weapon that Valentine and his gang hadn't stolen. Clary's stake felt more powerful than any gun in his grip.
In one swift movement, he flipped the lame brain onto its back and struck downwards. Dead. Now he could move onto better things and—
Jace froze. He had seen this lame brain before. It had been the only one he had let live at the mall. He could practically hear Clary's cries. "Please Jace. Don't, please. It's just one zombie. We can just go!" He hadn't known who he was at that point, though he had suspected given the desperation in her face. It had been the first time he had ever seen her tough composure break. And now he knew why.
Clary's brother Jonathan lay dead at his feet. He had killed him. And, despite all that had happened, he couldn't help but worry she would hate him. He hadn't known, but he had broken his promise nonetheless. This was, of course, far down the road. He still had to save her first. But he dreaded telling her.
His arm moved to run through his air when a flash of red caused him to pause. Slowly, cautiously, he brought his arm closer. Blood, that's what he had seen. But where—
Everything stopped. The world disappeared and for a moment, he forgot about Valentine and Clary and Jonathan. His knees gave out from underneath him, but he never looked away from the crescent mark that scarred his skin. He had been bitten.
This complicated everything.
I'm just going to leave this here and let you guys unpack everything that just happened in this chapter. And I'm going to request that you unpack what you're feeling in a review and let me know what you think and what direction you may want this story to go. It will be very helpful to me as I try to end this in a way that will be both satisfying and realistic to the story. Oh, and plus, the more you review, the sooner the update will be. And we may just get to see some familiar faces next chapter...
-Anika
