(( Disclaimer: Again, I do not own the universe of the Mortal Instruments, nor do I own any characters that come from this universe. The creator, Cassandra Clare, owns all those things. All I own is the story line, the writing itself, and any original characters I add to the Mortal Instruments universe. Also, to address the 4 awesome reviews I have gotten so far—thank you so so so much! You have no idea how much your interest and enthusiasm for this story means to me. To answer one of the questions, this will definitely be a Clace fic, but Sebastian will not be without a love interest. It's sort of complicated. Stay tuned. ))

"God has given you one face,
and you make yourselves another."

- Hamlet (III, i, 142-143)

Clary could feel herself shrinking, becoming as small as a pencil stroke. Her organs drew themselves in like a hurricane, and her skin snapped into near nothingness, much like the recoil of a rubber band. It was unbearably painful, and then suddenly she filled back up and the atmosphere around her changed. She was outside. It was raining.

She looked down and saw that one of her hands was clutching the rusted pipe of a railing, stretching along the tiny balcony she began to notice surrounded her. Her hand was holding on so tight that it had become the color of milk, and when Clary tried to move it she found it would not budge.

Using her other hand to grab a hold of her stiff wrist, she pulled at it and shook it and even pushed down on it to illicit some sort of movement from the joint, but it stayed clamped to the damp railing. Clary could feel her chest battling against the wild heartbeat it contained; the same peculiar sensation that had recently started taking over her during battles reared its humming presence. Her adrenaline was making its way through her body, focusing her confusion into energy.

She tried one more time to pull her hand away, attempting to uncoil the fingers first one by one. There was no movement. She tried again, a look of desperation brewing in her green eyes, but there was still no movement.

Her frustration prompted a slew of rasping slurs. She tried to focus again. The rain around her slowed to individual, thundering drops. Clary felt her muscles surge with new life, and she suddenly knew exactly what to do. Her free hand fumbled for the under part of the railing. There was a small metal hook just beneath her palm that connected the railing to the balcony. She wrapped her slippery fingers around the metal piece and pulled as hard as she could. The metal appendage snapped, going limp. She was surprised at her own strength.

Suddenly, a sound interrupted her, and Clary whipped her head around to see where the rumble had come from.

The balcony, though exposed to the night sky and the downpour, was still attached to a larger, brick building that continued up much farther than Clary had first noticed. The sound had come from above her, and as she adjusted her green eyes to the droplets that clung to her eyelashes, blurring her vision while she craned her neck upwards, Clary spotted the dexterous shape of a body scaling down the building.

The person must have been wearing entirely black fabric, like a dull shimmering skin that fought against the rain as it fell. Clary held her breath, aware of both her hand that was still stuck to the railing and the free one that held the metal hook she had broken just moments earlier. Gripping it steadily in her palm, Clary widened her stance and braced herself for the moment this person noticed her. She curled her fingers over the cold metal, feeling to make sure the jagged end faced forward.

The figure grappled its way downward, almost moving like a spider as it swayed about, all legs and arms and quickness. Clary could see the bulge of hair—a ponytail perhaps—following the silhouette as it descended.

Then, with the sudden boom of footsteps that were once quiet now unafraid to make an entrance, the figure dropped down onto the balcony and straightened. Clary could tell clearly now that it was a girl, around her same age, and slightly taller.

For a moment she felt as vulnerable as the first time she'd seen Jace inside Pandemonium, threateningly holding a dagger to the neck of a boy with blue hair—the first demon she had ever knowingly seen. Clary pulled her free arm back, running her thumb over the broken edge of the metal piece in her hand. Any moment now, she would be noticed.

And, yet, as the rain fell all around and the sky opened itself wide, exposing veins of lightning and a forest lurking below, the shadowy figure did not stop to acknowledge Clary. They were standing so close to each other that Clary was sure the young woman could see her. Yet, the silhouette simply crouched just by Clary's feet, and took something out of a pocket Clary did not realize she had. The small, illuminating light of a cell phone screen pierced the darkness surrounding them.

Clary took a step back, trying again to pry her hand free of the balcony as she watched the crouched girl surreptitiously.

"This is a complete waste of my time. There's nothing here." The girl's voice was low, the kind of mundane voice that could have sounded like a violin if it sang. A pause followed. Then, "I understand that, I'm not entirely stupid. I may not be one of you Nephilim, but I've spent quite a bit of time finding other ways to be superhuman." She laughed at this, and Clary saw the slightly tan blur of a hand moving up to push hair away from the face.

Lightning speared the sky once more. Now Clary could see the deep brown of the girl's eyes, and the slope of her cheekbones. Her nose seemed to change upon shadows. It was straight, and yet as she turned to the side the angles of the bone underneath opened up. Clary was suddenly reminded of a painting her mother once spent days trying to complete.

It was of a young woman in heavy clothing, fiddling with the fabric as it bunched up by her feet. Her lashes were long and dark on their own, and her mouth sat in this peculiar way that made Clary feel like the very painting itself bored its subject. Jocelyn had still captured the rare quality of the young woman—a face that was both painfully pretty and hideous with feeling.

As lightning exploded around them once more, Clary realized that the young woman in the painting was exactly the same young woman who stood before her, shutting the cell phone in her hand with a smirk and standing up to peer over the railing.

Clary held her breath. The cell phone rang.

"Yes?" The young woman answered in the same low, rich tone as before. Clary almost felt sleepy as she heard it a second time.

"I don't see what that has to do with me. Why can't you send one of your own? Need I remind you that I'm not one of your chosen —." The young woman stopped, as though she'd been suddenly told something that changed her mind. "Alright. Yes. Alright. I'll do it." Another pause. "I know them, I've read about them. It won't be a problem. Just send me the address to the Institute."

With that, she hung up the cell phone, lingering by the edge of the balcony as she did so. Weighing the object in her hand, the young woman raised one of her long, black brows and seemed to smirk like an elegant animal. She then turned to the exact spot where Clary stood, and much to Clary's surprise, offered a greeting.

"You seem confused. Don't worry. I think you'll find that your confusion is the least of your worries right now, Clary Valentine."