The world used to make a certain kind of sense. Jonathan had never been much for the concept of pity or compassion for his foes. As Valentine had so thoroughly reminded him during his upbringing, pity was a staple of the weak, the cowardly. It had no room in a Shadowhunter's life when the world was filled with monsters. To pity a thing that should be put down only endangered your fellow hunters. Jonathan understood that. He did his job. He achieved his goals at all costs. If a downworlder was marked to die, than in his book that was the end of it.

It wasn't as if he held any real malice toward the downworld. Purging them from the Earth was his father's obsession. Jonathan had partied with witches and warlocks, he'd played dark, delightful games with vampires, wrestled a werewolf for the fun of it. When the fairy queen made it clear her interest in him was not purely for his augmentations, he hadn't balked at her suggestion to follow her to bed. Hell, it had been a wild night he'd never forget. How many men could boast they made a forest sing by pleasing their lover? Even demons, those capable of higher reasoning like the ever mysterious Lillith who claimed they shared blood, could be used for her gifts and expertise. He did not hate them as his father did. Yet he would slaughter every one of them if that's what needed to be done. He wouldn't hesitate if it furthered Valentine's cause, and cemented his place in this new budding world. He was not afraid to get his hands dirty. Even if it was another Shadowhunter who needed to be erased. Even if it was a worthless mundane.

Why then had he spared that weasle of a waiter for Clary? Had it been her pleas? Those had never swayed him before. To give in to begging simply because the creature was desperate was just another kind of weakness. He'd promised the man in his ear that he would see him again, though Clary hadn't heard it, but even that had felt like a lie. For all his anger, all the red head had to do was beg him for mercy, and he had given it freely.

This was not the only of his newfound conflicts. When Jonathan brought her back to the apartment, he had planned nothing less than her utter surrender to him. To force her once and for all to give herself over. Yet when it worked, he hadn't reveled in the victory. He hadn't taken her in ways that would keep the red shame that often colored her cheeks alive for days. He had done something he'd never done before. He was...soft, entreating. He touched her with the gentle hands of a loving suitor. He felt...but then that was the question wasn't it? What did he feel in that strange, quiet moment after, holding her and gazing into her bright, green eyes? What was the warmth that fluttered through his chest, the weakness he felt at her hands? It was weakness, of that he was certain. A desire to give in to her, to relinquish some form of his hard won control. What else was he supposed to believe it to be, affection? Love?

Sitting in the dark mouth of an alley, watching the closing cafe across the street, he decided he didn't want to know. It was too foreign, too confusing. The night had left him equal parts ecstatic and off balance. He didn't like the strange question of feelings. He didn't like that he couldn't tell what they meant. Where was his black and white world? Where was the sense?

The man walking out of the kitchens with a short wave rewrapped the scarf around his neck and stepped out onto the sidewalk. After a few moments, Jonathan fell into step far behind him, still lost in thought. He wouldn't be noticed by any of the mundanes milling the darkened street, but he was too focused on his inner conflict to act just yet.

Clary was changing. The depressed, pitiful thing that Valentine kept locked away, was slowly showing her light again. She was waking up, and in this new awareness, she was finding her way to him. Was it possible that somewhere along the way, something had gotten into him as well? Was the beautiful angel girl changing him in some way he hadn't noticed until last night? Was that possible? If it was, did he want that?

The man ahead of him turned a street corner and jogged his way down the next sidewalk. His attention seemed to be on the shadows on the streets and alleys, as if something might spring out of one at any moment. Jonathan couldn't blame him for that. There were terrible monsters in this world. Until last night, he had thought himself to be one of them.

Jonathan followed the man to a small apartment building and stopped on the opposite side of the street. He waited there in silence, watching the drawn windows and hoping he'd chosen the correct side to survey. After a few quiet minutes as the sun finally finished setting, one of the lights in the windows flicked on. He pushed himself from the wall he'd leaned against in his wait and ducked under the street light in front of the apartment building. The fire escape was loud as he dragged it down, but no one seemed to notice but a dog somewhere off in the distance. He climbed the stairs two at a time, quiet as he could manage until he came to the window. Slipping a knife from the sheath in his boot, he worked it into the old window frame, edging it along until the locked spun free. Honestly, they needed to update their security.

The apartment was quiet when he slipped silently through the window. The sink was on in the bathroom, but it didn't seem as if anyone else was here. That was good. Things would go much more smoothly without adding any witnesses. He had a purpose tonight. Something he had to prove to himself in order to quiet the doubt and confusion that had taken him last night.

The sink was still running, so Jonathan busied himself with a quick look around. The apartment was sparsely furnished. A small couch, an old television set on top of a beaten up, wooden table. The kitchen seemed mostly empty except for a coffee maker shoved into the far corner and a worn knife block. The refrigerator was decorated with a handful of magnets, mostly those that doubled as bottle openers, and a single picture tacked to the front. Jonathan stared at the smiling faces in it a moment, his attention settling on the tall, dark haired man at its center, holding a mug of beer up at the camera. He felt a sliver of something cold and determined fall into place within him and was briefly comforted by its familiarity. The last magnet that caught his eye was a novelty piece with the American flag emblazoned across it, scrawled in silver across the flag was a name. Matteo.

The water shut off in the bathroom and he heard the door open. Jonathan's muscles tightened in anticipation, his fingers flexing as shuffling steps moved toward the small living room. He waited in the darkness of the kitchen until the tall man crossed the doorway and then he was in motion. His hand shot out flat to chop into the unsuspecting mundane's throat. His gag only lasted a moment before he was dragged into the doorframe, his head bouncing off the wood. Dazed, the man stumbled back a step and Jonathan kicked out a leg to send him clattering to the ground. The whole exchange lasted less than a two seconds, not loud enough to draw much attention. At most, his neighbors would think he'd tripped, if they heard it at all. Thanks to a nifty toy from a warlock he'd threatened last year, sound wouldn't be an issue for much longer.

Matteo clutched his throat, eyes wide and searching the dark as Jonathan stepped over him. He grabbed the back of his collar dragging him into the living room. When he lifted him up and tossed him onto the couch, Matteo's eyes grew wide as diner plates and he shook his head, struggling to speak. Jonathan planted a boot on the couch beside him and leaned in to hold his knife out against the man's throat. He went suddenly still.

"Don't scream." He watched him a moment until he was sure the waiter would comply and then he smiled. Jonathan pulled his nifty little talisman from his jacket pocket and tossed it into the middle of the room. A crackle of energy surged out to engulf the room and was gone in the next moment. Now it didn't matter what sounds of terror the mundane made. No sound would escape the field he'd just created. Matteo swallowed against the blade, licking his lips nervously. He hadn't seen the energy, but he could certainly feel the static that had passed through the air. Lucky for Jonathan, his attention was firmly on the knife pressed into his skin.

"It's you," he rasped. Jonathan shrugged.

"I promised I'd find you, didn't I?"

"L-look, please I don't want any trouble. Last night was...I never meant to-"

"Try and steal away my girl?" He asked simply. A shadow of the anger he'd felt over it passed through him, but nothing more. Once more he wondered if Clary had done something to him, forced a shift in him that would make him into something unrecognizable. With the thought came frustration, so he focused on that instead. At least that made sense.

"I'm sorry!" Matteo rushed out, holding up a hand of surrender while the other gripped the couch with white knuckled intensity. "I never meant..." he paused at the quirk of Jonathan's eyebrow and started again more honestly. "I didn't know she was with someone like...you."

"And what am I?" He asked, honestly curious what the mundane might come up with.

"You're not normal." Matteo took a deep, shuddering breath. "You picked me up like I was a child's doll."

"You pissed me off," Jonathan replied with a soft chuckle.

"I...I'm sorry, I swear it. I-I didn't even tell anyone. How could I explain?"

Jonathan tilted his head nodding once. "That is preferable, I'll admit."

"Look, I swear this isn't worth it man. I won't touch your girl again, I won't even look at her if you come to the cafe. I swear I-"

"Surprisingly, that's not why I'm here." Jonathan sighed. At the look of confusion on the waiter's face he shrugged again. "Ok, in part it is, but not for the reason you think. No petty revenge."

Matteo sucked in a breath, his horrified expression twisting in shock. "Then why?"

"Because I still don't understand why I let you go."

There is was. The gnawing question. What had changed? How had Clary chased away such rage so surely that he would worship her after? He'd punished her, sure, but even that was mostly for his pleasure and hers. How had she made him release such a need for violence, the assurance that a death could salve his ego? How had she taken his certainty away, and perhaps the most important question of all. Was it gone for good?

"I don't let things go," Jonathan explained. It was as much for the mundane's benefit as it was to work through his thoughts aloud. "When I decide to kill something, I do it without hesitation."

"S-she's a good person," Matteo rushed out, watching Jonathan as if he might sprout fangs at any moment. "That's all man. She helped you see with compassion and-"

"Compassion?" Jonathan laughed harshly. "No. I don't have that. Nor empathy. At least I didn't use to. Valentine's always been so sure of that."

"Who is-"

He continued over the trembling mundane. Frankly he just needed to get it all off his chest and a captive audience certainly helped. "I am a weapon. Point me at a target and watch them fall. A blade doesn't mourn the throat it cuts." Matteo groaned softly, glancing down at the hand that held the knife to his throat, his eyes glassing over with terrified tears.

"A blade just cuts," Jonathan scowled down at the confused man. "It doesn't hesitate. What would be the point? Isn't that it's purpose? To kill? So why is it you are still alive?" He laughed without humor looking over the human man with distaste. "You're not important. Not necessary. You got under my skin, I'll admit, but that is just more proof that ending you should have been as easy as breathing."

"Please man, you don't have to-"

"Of course I don't have to," Jonathan snapped. "But that isn't the point. The point is I stopped. I doubted if I could simply because she begged me not to. I wondered if I would regret it. I don't regret Matteo. I act and I move on."

The mundane sucked in a breath through his teeth at the sound of his name from Jonathan's mouth. He didn't like him knowing it. For a moment, Jonathan looked him over, the fear, the sweat beading at his forehead, the shaking he couldn't control. He didn't feel anything. No amusement at the pathetic sight, no satisfaction for having broken this weasel with little more than a mild threat. No wicked, creeping joy at the thought of bleeding him with shallow cuts and an hour or two of stripping away his pieces. Nothing of the dark part of himself he had come to accept and revel in. It made his jaw clench. Why was he even talking to this idiot? Why hadn't he done what he came here to do and killed the bastard?

What if you can't do it anymore? What if your doubt has poisoned you? Like she poisoned you. Made you weak and soft. What if it doesn't stop there?

Jonathan couldn't be the champion Clary dreamed of, the angel boy rising from a battlefield. Fighting for love and justice and the safety of small kittens in trees. He wasn't that person. Wasn't supposed to be capable of being that person. He was supposed to be a weapon Valentine wielded against his enemies, then turned the other cheek when it cut down a little extra on the side. Their understanding in his growing darkness was perfect. What if he showed such weakness before his father because Clary begged him to spare some downworlder? Valentine would have him tossed into a cage and beaten regularly until that weakness disappeared again. He would torture him until the savagery returned and aim him on something helpless like an angry dog. All to see if he could do it. His ability to slaughter without question, hell, to do it for fun, was his prized skill in their father's eyes. If he lost that, what would he be worth in this new world they had been building? How quickly would he be put down as a failed experiment, like he'd been ordered to do with Jace? There was no room for failure. No room for weakness. He couldn't change without risking his own life.

"I can't afford to hesitate," he told the trembling confused man, as if he could hear Jonathan's inner thoughts. The mundane breathed out a soft sob, biting it back to shake his head.

"What is wrong with you man?"

"Such a good question," Jonathan sighed, pushing himself up to stand. The moment the blade was off his throat. Matteo scrambled to the far aide of the couch. He watched in utter confusion as Jonathan moved into the kitchen. The wall had a window cut out looking into the living room, so he wasn't concerned with Matteo's escaping. The mundane seemed to have different ideas. He glanced at the door while Jonathan turned on one of the stove burners and dug through a drawer of silverware. Though perhaps the correct term would be utensils in this case. None of them matched and he knew there was no actual silver. All the while he watched the mundane from the corner of his eye. Waiting for him to make the move he knew was coming. Matteo's eyes shifted tentatively between Jonathan and the apartment's front door. He licked his lips and his muscles tensed anxiously.

"I wouldn't," Jonathan said as he settled a metal spoon into the burner. "I'm stronger and faster than you are. You'll just regret it."

Of course, the idiot didn't listen. He shoved himself off the couch and dashed headlong toward the short hallway that led to his front door. Sighing, Jonathan gave chase. He was on the man in three strides and grabbed the arm he had outstretched toward the door knob. He twisted it until Matteo groaned, falling to a knee. A small smirk tugged at Jonathan's lips as he inspected the outstretched arm, placing his other hand against his elbow. With a quick push, the arm cracked, bending the wrong way. Matteo screamed in pain, trying to curl his broken arm against his chest as he collapsed entirely onto the floor.

"You know, I thought I'd broken this wrist last night." He grabbed Matteo by the collar and dragged him back to the living room again. "Guess it was just dislocated. Lucky you."

"You fucking psychopath!" The mundane growled. He wanted to be furious, but pain was currently winning out. It must have hurt quite a bit, the way his face had turned pale and damp with sweat.

"That arm's not looking too good. Guess you aren't that lucky after all."

"I'll kill you!" The panicked man yelled. "You hear me, I'll fucking kill you!"

"Now," Jonathan laughed, flipping his knife around in his hand to catch the mundane's attention. "Let's not make promises we can't keep."

"It's just a stupid girl!" Matteo cried, pushing himself up with his good arm. Jonathan pointed the tip of his knife at him and narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Do you really think it's a good idea to insult her at this point?"

"This can't be worth it for some girl! You can't possibly be this freaked over a little bit of dancing."

"I told you already, this isn't about her." Jonathan struck out with his boot, planting it in his chest and knocking Matteo onto his back. He wheezed at the force, trying to drag the air back into his lungs as Jonathan knelt down over him. "This is about me testing myself. You're going to help me do a little experiment."

The knife stabbed down into Matteo's palm, pinning it to the carpeted floor. The mundane let out a howl, trying to tug it free until he realized it only caused more damage. Tears pricked his eyes, both from panic and pain, and Jonathan stood above him a moment to watch. There was no flash of guilt, no regret. That was a good sign.

"So while we're waiting-"

"Waiting for what?" Matteo demanded, looking around as if it should be obvious. Jonathan frowned and kicked him in the ribs, giving him a moment to curl into himself and groan.

"Don't interrupt, Matteo. It's incredibly rude." Jonathan kicked him onto his back and knelt down to plant a knee in his stomach. He pulled another blade from the belt across his chest and flipped it idly in one hand, searching over the mundane's form for a good place to start. Briefly his eyes landed on the bruises around his neck and he smirked to himself. Suddenly the scarf he'd been wearing at the cafe made perfect sense. "So, I take it from your brazen flirtation with my lady friend that you're used to a certain response from women? I guess I can see it. Not a bad face, you're tall, and hey, chicks love an accent. Pull a lot of Americans, huh?"

"I...what does that matter?"

Jonathan shrugged. "It doesn't, I'm just curious."

"I..." Matteo swallowed. "I do ok, I guess?"

"Hmm," Jonathan hummed in response tracing the blade along the man's cheek. He flicked it once and watched him wince at the small cut on his face. "Must be your friendly face. Or maybe it's your eyes. Girls seem to love blue eyes."

Matteo began to babble in frustrated terror when Jonathan stood and left him to return to the kitchen, sheathing his blade. The spoon on the stovetop wasn't glowing yet, but he could tell by the blackening bottom that it was at least hot. He grabbed a rag folded over the sink cabinet and wrapped it around the handle of the spoon. When he returned with the spoon Matteo watched him like he'd grown a second head. He knelt down over the man again tapping the hot surface of the spoon against the mundane's shoulder.

"Would you say ladies usually like your eyes?"

"What is this man?" Matteo watched the spoon and swallowed again. "Are you trying to fuck me?"

Jonathan rolled his eyes at the pathetic display of bravado and shook his head. "You're not my type. Clary on the other hand, well she seemed taken with you. That, I find incredibly annoying. I'm just wondering if it was those big, baby blues."

He sat down on top of Matteo's waist, pinning him to the floor. His free hand went into his hair to hold back his head while the spoon angled toward the eye socket Jonathan had been studying. The moment Matteo realized what he was doing, he started to scream. Thrashing for all he was worth. It made his pinned hand bleed more openly, but he didn't seem to notice, not once the heated spoon pressed up against the bottom of his eye and sank into the socket. He let out a piercing scream as Jonathan worked it slowly deeper and angled the handle down. The heat wouldn't be pleasant against his skin, and to tell the truth it wasn't necessary, but Jonathan was feeling vindictive. He popped the man's eye out like he was balling a melon, watching it tumble down his cheek to dangle on the optical nerve. Thanks to the talisman, he didn't have to worry about the screaming. No one was going to hear them.

"You've got some lungs on you," Jonathan commented with a smirk. "And you scream like a girl. Can't imagine this would win you too many points with the ladies. Though..." He tapped the bloody spoon against Matteo's chin in thought. "I suppose you could just wear an eye patch. Might even make you seem more interesting. Hmm...I think I'll just take them both."

Matteo was nothing but a thrashing mass of screams and blood now. He didn't seem to be listening to Jonathan anymore, but that was fine. He didn't have anything else to say anyway. He picked up his forgotten blade and took a deep breath. Still, there was no guilt. Frankly it was all making him feel better. More like himself.

Steeling himself for any change or weakness, he dragged the knife across the mundane's throat. His eyes, he kept glued to the man's face. He watched the shock of pain, followed by the panic of realization. He watched him try to clutch at his throat as if he could catch the blood that poured out, but unable to move his arms. He watched because he needed to know if he would flinch from it. He needed to know if that strange warmth he felt with Clary in his arms had shaken his ability to detatch. If doubt led to guilt, he was all but screwed.

The mundane twisted on the floor. His mouth bobbed, gulping at the air like a fish as he thrashed and tried to free himself from the blade in his hand. It didn't take long for the life to bleed away and his skin to grow steadily paler. Jonathan couldn't watch the light leaving his eyes, but he felt the moment he stopped breathing. He chest collapsed slowly into itself and his head rolled to the side, utterly still and trapped in a mask of horror. Through all of this, there was not even a twinge. No doubt, no hesitation. No guilt.

"Thank God." Jonathan released a sigh of relief, and promptly laughed at the irony of thanking God for the ability to kill without conscience. He was not broken. He wasn't exactly enjoying the kill the way he might have in other times, but he told himself that was simply because of what had been riding on it. Truth be told he needed to go into the field again. Catch a rebel, kill a fairy trying to aid them, it didn't matter. He should be doing what he was best at rather than putting all his energy into the red head he'd taken. Fun as that might be, it couldn't overtake his purpose. He couldn't let her distract him so completely from what he was meant to do.

Of course, the question of the strange feeling she'd given him when he bedded her so gently was still there. He didn't understand it anymore now than the night it happened, but at least he knew now it wasn't going to affect him deeper than he'd like. He could woo Clary with the occasional kindness without having to fear that it might weaken him in the long run. That was all that mattered.

He tugged his blade free of the mundane's hand with a little effort then put it back into its place with the others. On the way out of the apartment, Jonathan snatched up his talisman and a knife from the block on the kitchen counter. He didn't need the blade, but it was similar in size and shape to the one he'd used to kill the waiter, and it's absence from the block wouldn't go unnoticed by any police investigating the crime scene. It might not be the best of coverups, or a good one at all, but it did make this seem more like a senseless crime of opportunity. For good measure, he grabbed the man's wallet and a cheap watch from his bathroom before leaving the way he came. Now that he'd popped out his eyes, he doubted the police would believe this was a robbery, but he liked the idea of making the crime as confusing as possible. At least his finger prints weren't part of any database. Growing up in Idris had some perks after all.

The red head was still hard at work sketching in Valentine's office when he returned to their apartment. She didn't notice him come in until he'd showered and tossed his blody clothes into the hamper in the bathroom towel closet. She asked where he'd been of course, but he smiled it away.

He was meeting a contact, he lied as easily as breathing. He wanted to know if their father was any closer to finding them. She accepted the story with a sigh of relief when he said they were still safe. When she tried to return to her drawings however, Jonathan distracted her with caresses and wicked words on what he wanted to do with her. She denied him at first, as always, but her resolve faded once he'd lifted her onto the desk and stripped away her clothes. After that she was putty in his hands, writhing and moaning and delighting in the rough way he handled her. He could tell she was confused by this shift, perhaps having already filled her head with notions that he was now kind, but he banished that illusion quickly enough. Even so, she responded to his bruising fingers as they gripped her hips, cried out in painful ecstasy when he bit her too hard, moaned as he fucked her into the wooden desk. She drank down the darker part of him that needed to hurt, even if just a little, and Jonathan allowed himself to revel in the fact that it still existed.

On another day he would confound her with gentility again, shock her with a show of sweet and normal physical love. She was right to accuse him of keeping her off balance. Toying with her feelings was one of the many ways he planned to drag her down to his level. If he kept her confused, with him and with herself, she wouldn't have time to realize she was changing. Eventually she would reach a point of complete acceptance, and have no idea how she'd gotten there. Perhaps she would even find herself wanting to be part of their family's regime.

He would try to discover what the strange warmth she'd given him that night was, but now it was not so dire that he had to fear it. He was still in control of himself. She was still his to exert that control over. Nothing had changed. That's what he told himself. Nothing had changed.