CHAPTER 1

YOU'RE NEXT.

The dripping red letters burned into the darkness of her shut eyes, enamoring the fact in her brain that she couldn't escape them; no matter if her eyes were closed or not - no matter if she wanted to or not.

And she did want to.

She guessed, in a way, she was sort of escaping. Leaving one broken household for one a bit more put-together. A bit more foreign.

And just a bit unwelcoming.

She stood in a foyer the size of her old apartment building, lights orange and dim, imitating the fading sun just outside the closing doors behind her.

After sixteen years, she was finally standing inside her mysterious father's house. If you could even call it that. Manor. Mansion. These seemed to more accurately describe the building she had traveled, alone, all the way from New York, to call her new home. Places like this weren't exactly common in her neighborhood, and she was feeling a little awe-struck and nervous at the grandness of just the entryway.

"I can take your coat," offered a small, black haired woman in a maid outfit she didn't think women actually wore. She looked like someone straight out of Clue, and Clary couldn't help wondering if she chose to dress like that, or if she was forced to by who she could only imagine was her father, seeing as how it was his house, so this had to be his housekeeper. Or one of them.

"Oh, um - sure," Clary sputtered, not expecting the hospitality, feeling it might be a bad idea to decline it.

The woman bowed and peeled it delicately from her shoulders, and Clary winced at the fact that she wasn't actually any smaller than herself - and she had thought she was so tiny upon laying eyes on her. Just went to show how she thought of herself, then. Or how small she actually was. "Thank you," she said quietly.

Footsteps intruded her thoughts. Someone was walking along the balcony up above, rounding the corner to stand at the top of the stairs, gripping the railing with one outstretched arm.

He was probably doing this, she thought, because his other arm was bound in a cast across his abdomen, and he was pretty old and frail-looking, judging by the deep set wrinkles in his face. She could see them even from here, shadowed under the wrap-around balcony, standing at the entry of the room. Even so, his shoulders were set back proudly, his chin high, as if he couldn't feel the strain of his age at all. Maybe he couldn't. Then again, she doubted he'd be grabbing the railing the way he was if that were the case.

"Clarissa Morgenstern," the man greeted, and his voice sounded weathered, like a dusty street. "Welcome to the Morgenstern Manor, my lady. Valentine-" he coughed, grunting, as of correcting himself. "I mean - your father, has been looking forward to your arrival." He smiled, and it looked stiff, as if he hadn't done it in a long time. "We're so happy that you're here," he added. And just as his smile was stiff, his words sounded forced. Like he'd practiced them as part of a script but was unfortunately, a terrible actor.

"Um," she started, feeling deeply uncomfortable that he'd called her 'my lady.' They weren't in the 1800's, where stuff like that was acceptable. "Thanks?"

Clary had an algorithm. Say as little as possible, in every scenario, and it was highly unlikely that your words would end up getting you in trouble. Which was something her mouth had a tendency of doing, if she actually spoke her mind in most situations. She had vowed not to make this one of those situations.

The man bowed slightly, as if he couldn't find a good verbal response to her. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am the butler of this manor and you may call me Hodge, as do the master and his son."

Oh God. A name to learn already. Hodge. Remember that. Hodge. Hodge. Weird old butler.

Really, though, who still had butlers? This couldn't be real, right? She felt like she was being cruelly pranked, with no evidence to prove it aside from the un-explainable wildness of the events that led her here.

An awkward length of silence passed before Clary realized he was waiting for her to say something to him. "Oh, right," she blurted. Wow she was awkward. "Nice to meet you, Hodge." She hoped that's what he wanted to hear.

Judging by the unmoved look on his face, she couldn't really tell. "I will take you to your father and brother. Follow me." And then he turned and began walking, without, she noted, even bothering to see whether she was following him or not. She told herself, as she ran up the massive stairs to catch up with him, that it was because he figured she was trustworthy enough to find her way, not because he didn't deign to care.

Up on the balcony, she was led down a hallway straight ahead, the archway of it eating them up in its vastness. She suddenly wished she'd kept her coat on instead of letting that tiny maid take it. It was still late summertime, as far as she could tell, outside. But inside it felt like winter in Alaska, as if there had never been any warmth here at all. "So-" the butler's - Hodge's - voice said, breaking her train of thought. "I heard what happened to your mother. That's . . . just terrible. I can't imagine what you must feel. I'm deeply sorry . . . for your loss." His tone made him sound genuine, and because he was ahead of her facing forward, she decided she'd just take it that way since she couldn't see his face.

"It's okay," she said awkwardly, despite it very obviously was the farthest possible thing from okay that anything could be. This was just a conversation she hadn't been very prepared to have yet. "Thank you."

He seemed to nod, continuing his long stride despite his frame. "Hopefully," he began again, brighter, "being around your family will be beneficial to you all."

Your family.

In her entire sixteen years of life, she had not once met her biological father or brother. By all technicalities, they were, of course, related to her. Her family. But no matter how she looked at it, she was on her way to meeting a couple of strangers. She had no idea what her father or her brother were like. Her mother hated talking about her father, and she hadn't stuck around long enough to know anything about her brother. She couldn't help feeling nervous at the prospect of finally coming face to face with them.

But a simple "Yeah" was all that came out of her mouth. "Hopefully."

They had reached the end of the hall, and he leaned forward to press the call button on a silver-gilded elevator that started rattling down seconds later. Clary wondered if taking the elevator in a house was really necessary, but upon remembering she was walking alongside an ancient relic, she decided it was probably faster than watching him crawl up the stairs.

The rest of their journey was silent. Even when he stopped in front of a set of doors covered underneath an archway held up by two marble pillars, bowed, and stalked away, did he remain silent. She wished he would have said something to the effect of "We're here" or "Welcome to the master's dungeon." Anything to prepare her for what she would find on the other side of the double doors. But no. Her ears just rang in the silence, focusing on the heavy beat of her erratic heart.

What was she supposed to do? Just waltz in there? Say 'open sesame' and wait for the doors to open themselves? Turn around and leave? Oh God. Now was the moment of truth, and she couldn't do anything besides ponder all of the ways this couldn't be any weirder. She was about to - she didn't even know, grab the handles, smack herself in the face, God only knew - when the doors did open of their own accord, and she wondered if she'd accidentally opened them with her mind, like Matilda. But as soon as they were open, she saw the boy on the other side of them, and realized that she wasn't having her coming-of-age superpower moment. He had just opened them for her.

Or maybe not for her, seeing the surprised look on his face. It was clear he hadn't been expecting to find her outside of this room.

"You - you're here," he stammered. He might have tripped on his words, but he sounded confident nonetheless. "I didn't realize. Where's Hodge?" he asked, peeking his fair head out into the hallway to scope it out in both directions.

Clary wondered if he had been supposed to stay but she had somehow found a way to scare him off. Now that was a new record. She'd barely said four sentences to the older gentleman. "I don't know . . . " she began, suddenly feeling a little overwhelmed. Was this her brother? He didn't look anything like her. Like, at all. Maybe it was just another servant. Then again, he was dressed in a partially buttoned-up black dress shirt and matching pants, looking very relaxed. So probably not a butler. "He brought me here and then left."

The boy furrowed his silvery brows. "How rude. He was supposed to let you in." He sighed, turning back to look at her. He had very dark eyes, and they contrasted shockingly against the fairness of the rest of him. He seemed to be struggling with his next words. "You'll have to . . . forgive him. Everyone's a little on edge around here lately."

That, she assumed, could be very true. She was on edge and she just got here.

"Jonathan?" came a deeper voice from inside the dimly lit room. "Who are you talking to?"

The boy - Jonathan - so he WAS her brother - looked over his shoulder towards the voice. "Our guest, Father. She's here."

Our guest. Not your daughter or my sister. Their guest.

Clary suppressed the urge to shiver. She supposed she didn't think of them any differently, but it still - what, hurt? She didn't know these people at all. Why should she have been expecting a big happy welcoming party with abundant hugs and smiles and champagne? That was all fantasy. This was reality. And reality was just a bit colder than she would have liked, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

"Where's Hodge?" the voice inside asked.

The boy - JONATHAN, she reprimanded herself. His name is Jonathan, and he's your brother. Not just some boy.

Jonathan threw a hand up, letting it flounder back down to his side. "Who knows," he said casually. "She was just standing here alone. He's been acting so strange lately, it's getting on my nerves."

"Most things get on your nerves," the voice observed.

"Yes, well, uncommunicative neanderthals top the list."

She could almost hear they eye roll in the sigh that blew from the room. "I'm going to ignore the fact that you said that. Please bring Clarissa in. Now." The last word was a command, albeit light, but still a command. And like a good servant obeying his master, Jonathan leaned against one of the doors and gestured for Clary to enter. Hesitantly, she did.

The room was very darkly lit. Only a few candles displayed at random intervals provided any light aside from the almost finished sunset. She entered looking straight at a wall composed entirely of glass, showcasing that sunset, and in front of the glass sat a man in a low-set chair, arranged in front of two others of similar fashion. Except those chairs were empty, as if he were conversing with imaginary friends. Although this didn't look like the kind of man who had imaginary friends. In fact, this didn't look like the kind of man who had friends at all. He was fair, just as fair as Jonathan, with shorter hair and a much sterner face, as if the concept of joy was foreign to him. He looked so stiff, too. He was obviously lounging, a hand propped against one knee he balanced with his foot on the other, but he didn't look comfortable at all.

"Clarissa," he said, pleasantly. "Please. Have a seat." Although he asked nicely, this, too, sounded like a command.

She sat. Jonathan slid into the chair next to her.

Now they were all seated, looking uncomfortable, and silent. She noticed belatedly that these were the only pieces of furniture in here.

God, this is awkward.

She wondered what kind of effect throwing herself out of the giant window would have on the tension in the room.

"So," the man - her father, her actual real life father - began, finally breaking the silence. "I see you made it here okay."

Depends what your definition of 'okay' is. If it includes being traumatized by the sight of my mother's dead body, a threatening message left behind, and severe jet-lag, then yeah, I made it here great.

Clary just shrugged. "I managed."

A nerve above her father's eye seemed to twitch. Oh, goodie. Two words and they had already managed to piss him off. She was off to a rocking start.

"I'm glad to hear," he said, which was funny, because he didn't sound glad at all.

He was clearly avoiding the elephant in the room. Or elephants. Like, oh, hi, Clary, I'm your father. Nice to finally meet you. I know I made zero effort your entire life, but I'm here now. Now that your mother is dead and you have absolutely nowhere else to go. Oh, yeah, sorry about your mom, my ex wife, by the way. Terrible, what happened to her. Just terrible. By the way this is your brother and this is my mega-mansion that can fit half of New York if I so wished. Did you like my maid's outfit?

"Clarissa?" She snapped back to reality, realizing that she'd left it momentarily. "Did you hear what I said?"

No. I was thinking about all of the things you could be saying, but aren't. "Um . . ."

Her father sighed, letting his eyes fall away from her.

Shit. Maybe he had been saying all those things and she had been ignoring him. "I'm sorry . . . I, was just -"

"Father," her brother cut in, saving her from a crumbling excuse. "It's been a long day. For everyone. Perhaps we should let her rest before piling everything on at once."

"I wasn't piling anything on, Jonathan. I was just asking her a question."

Jonathan, for some reason, seemed the most comfortable with this situation. As if he'd been preparing for it, and now that it was finally happening, it was a bit underwhelming and easier to manage than he'd originally calculated.

"I'm sorry," Clary blurted again. "I was spacing. What was the question?"

"Yes, obviously," her father muttered coldly. Maybe the chill in the house emanated from this one source. Him. Like an ice king in his frosty castle. "I asked if you've ever been homeschooled before."

Homeschooled? Not unless you counted sitting in her small living room, a canvass in her lap, with her mother standing in front of one much larger, giving Clary pointers on how to blend here and how to layer paint on there.

"No. Never."

"Well," he said, letting his hand fall to hang loosely over the armrest. "It's not entirely different from what you're probably used to. I'm sure you'll adapt quickly."

"What?" she asked automatically, so quietly she was afraid she hadn't even said it.

"I'm saying you'll adapt quickly. To homeschooling-"

"Um," she interrupted. She seemed to be saying that a lot, but she felt so unsure here. Of what to do or even say. "I - I would really rather not."

Her father raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Rather not what?" He spoke so pointedly, so . . . matter-of-factly. It made her feel stupid.

" . . . Be homeschooled," she squeaked out. "I was hoping I could . . ."

"You were hoping you could what?" He sounded slightly impatient now.

"J-just . . ." Oh, dear. Her heart was pounding. Was he really frightening her? It had been all of five minutes since she'd met him. "I was hoping I could just . . . go to school normally. You know . . ."

Her father's eyes bored into her.

"M-meet some friends . . . I thought it would be helpful to get out of the house. Have something to do . . ."

Now he looked irritated. Clary could only imagine why. But when he spoke, his tone was neutral.

"I just don't think that's what's best right now, Clarissa. Not with what happened."

What happened.

It was the first acknowledgement he'd made of it.

"I . . . understand. But . . ." How could she explain that the thought of spending longer in this freezing abyss of a house than she had to was completely un-enticing? Now that she was here, she already couldn't wait to leave. Of course, she was in a completely different country now, but being inside her father's house felt like being in a completely different world. Even the way he spoke was a little unnatural, as if he were in the wrong century. "I-" Her words caught in her throat, and if her father kept looking at her like that, she thought she might explode - or cry. "Nevermind." She let her eyes and head fall, staring down at her hands in her lap, defeated. It was obvious he was waiting for her to make a good point, and she was not delivering.

Jonathan cleared his throat. "Father," he said openly, as if they were having a completely normal conversation. "Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to let her go to school. The Academy is safer than here-" Their father's eyes slit at that, so Jonathan amended quickly: "Mostly. They've got guards and security out the yin-yang. I can't imagine anything happening to her there."

Was he . . . defending her? She understood they were siblings, but they had also just met, and she'd already managed to anger their father. Why take her side? Unless their father was being as unreasonable as she thought, and her request was actually a normal one that other normal people could see the perks in.

"You must have a poor imagination then, Jonathan," their father said flatly. Jonathan looked a bit taken aback by that, but to her surprise, he powered on.

"I could go, too."

Now it was their father's turn to look taken aback. He looked like Jonathan had just hit him across the face, not offered his accompaniment to school with his own sister.

"And why, pray tell, would you want to do that?" he asked levelly.

Jonathan shrugged, as if he didn't feel the tension weighing the room down like thousands of gallons of water. "It's been a while," he explained shortly. "There are people I'd like to see."

"You can see anyone you'd like, whenever you want. You don't need the Academy for that."

"Yeah, but, it's a good excuse."

It sounded more like they were verbally dueling than conversing like father and son. She caught the clear challenge in her brother's eyes, and the intimidation in her father's, and wondered if this happened often. Two bulls butting heads over a rather frivolous topic.

"Besides," Jonathan continued, not waiting for a response. "I need to get out of this place. It's starting to feel stuffy. I could show Clarissa the reigns of Alicante, familiarize her with it. You've never been outside of the U.S, have you?" he asked her.

"No," Clary said quickly, hoping this added to his argument.

"See?" He looked back at their father. "It's never going to feel like home unless she starts exploring."

Her heart was pounding. Their father was silent. Clary wondered if he had helped her case, or just dug her hole even deeper. Her father looked incredibly displeased, as if he'd just heard some bad news. She thought that he was going to reject both of their arguments and force Clary to do as he said. Ten minutes into moving here and she was already fighting for her freedom. Or some semblance of it, anyways.

"Alright."

Clary almost fell out of her chair.

Jonathan, who had made such a compelling argument, looked surprised, as if he hadn't been expecting it to work either. "Really?"

"What did I just say, Jonathan?"

Her brother shook his head, as if shaking off their father's irritated retort. "Right, then. Perfect. It's decided. We'll both enroll at the Academy."

Their father held up a finger, as if to stave off his son's victory.

"Ah-ah-ah." He sounded just like her mother had, when she'd caught Clary red-handed - literally - covered in paint, hand prints all over the white walls of their apartment. The tone of 'you're in trouble, and here comes your lecture.' "Not without listening to my stipulations, first."

Jonathan waived this off with an airy flick of his hand and roll of his eyes, drawling, "You and your rules. Can't we talk about all of that later? It's late-"

Her father looked about ready to break something. "No. We'll talk about it now and you'll listen to me now."

Clary swallowed. Hard.

Jonathan made a tsk noise and settled back into his chair, slumping comfortably into its depths. "Whatever you say," he said in a sing-song voice, almost as if he were playing with the conversation like a game. So relaxed, she thought. Whereas she didn't think she'd moved more than an inch since she'd sat down. If she tried now, surely she would just burst apart.

"First and foremost: you will not live at the Academy, or remain there after school hours. You may go to class, and when the day is over, you will both come straight home, unless I've given you permission to do otherwise."

"What about extracurriculars?" Jonathan questioned immediately.

"What about them?" Their father challenged.

"If we decide to take any-"

"You won't be allowed extracurriculars. Anything you want to do after school, you can come and do here."

"Now," Jonathan chided. "That seems a little unfair, no?"

"Tell me, Jonathan," her father said, and Clary couldn't shake the sneaking suspicion that this conversation was headed down a dark path, "How that is unfair?"

Jonathan looked unruffled, but she could see the tenseness of his jaw that hadn't been there before. As if he were trying hard to hold something back, despite talking very normally. His smile was almost brilliant. "Well, I can't be part of the soccer team and the going home club."

Their father looked as if he were repressing a heavy eye roll. "You're joking."

"I wouldn't dare, Father."

Clary wasn't sure how she was supposed to feel. Was this how normal sons talked to their normal fathers, and vice versa? Her father seemed to be attempting to gauge her brother's seriousness with just a piercing gaze of both beady eyes. Eyes that looked like they saw everything, and missed nothing. Nothing they didn't want to miss, anyways. Perhaps they'd reached a hurdle in the conversation that couldn't be overcome - was she supposed to attempt it? She cleared her throat, ready to say something, maybe, she wasn't sure, she just didn't want to feel this awful tension anymore - when the doors to the room burst open faster than she would have thought doors that size and width could move. Startled, she whipped her head in its direction.

The butler. Hodge. And a woman, slightly taller than him, with short black hair and a black trench coat with a thick belt clasped around the waist. She looked severe, around her father's age, and amused. Had she been listening in on the oddly intense conversation they'd been having? Or that her father and brother had been having, and she'd just unfortunately been present for?

"Valentine," the woman purred. The sound made Clary want to shiver. The familiarity in it was almost disturbing, which was odd, because how could she be disturbed by the greeting of some woman she'd just indirectly met? "It's been so long. I was hoping we could have a little chat." She pronounced the t in chat so hard Clary was worried she'd snapped the tops off her teeth.

Oh dear. That doesn't sound . . . good. Was anyone around here in a good mood? Besides, possibly, her brother?

Hodge looked pleading, as if she'd arrived unannounced and had blown past his restrictions of her coming up here. Which, judging by the sudden interruption, could have very well been the case.

"Lily," replied her father, looking at her with half-lidded eyes. "What a pleasant surprise."

Clary couldn't tell if she wanted to laugh or cry at the level of sarcasm in his voice.

"What's this?" she asked, eyeing Clary and Jonathan. "Clan meeting?"

"Very funny," her father muttered. "I just so happened to be in the middle of meeting my daughter for the first time."

My daughter. There it was. Lacking all and any familiarity and love that those words usually held when strung together by someone.

The woman's - Lily's? - eyes lit up, as if she'd just walked in on an early Christmas present reveal. "Oh," she breathed. "Is that so?" The corner of her mouth had pulled up in one direction, and Clary couldn't help but shrink marginally away from the way it changed her features.

She stalked into the room, slowly, swinging her hips, with her heels clacking loudly across the un-carpeted floor. "How delightful to meet you," she gushed, her eyes locked and loaded on Clary's. "My name is Lilith. Your father is a longtime . . . friend of mine," she chuckled, as if this fact were somehow funny. "I've known him since before he even met your mother-"

Clary couldn't help it - she flinched. Lilith, who seemed to notice, stopped walking and talking. Instead of looking confused, however, she just looked suddenly apologetic. "Oh, dear, I'm sorry-"

"Perhaps we should go somewhere else and talk," interrupted her father. He had already risen from his seat and was walking over to where Lilith stood in the middle of the open room.

Lilith's eyes slid from Clary to her father, and she thought that they had somehow gone from shimmering sadness to an almost predatory glimmer. Clary did shiver this time, unable to contain the unease this woman for some reason made her feel. "Right," she agreed, sounding contradictingly disagreeable. Suddenly she smiled, and looked back over at Clary and Jonathan. "It was nice meeting you, little Clarissa. And always a delicious pleasure to see you, Jon."

Jonathan smiled at her, but it felt forced to Clary. Or maybe she didn't know him well enough yet to know when his smiles were forced or not. "Of course, Lilith. I'm sure we'll be seeing you again soon."

"Oh, you will," she promised, a mischievous glint in her eyes. And with that, turned, and left the way she had come, presumably off to wherever it was her and Valentine went to talk.

Their father sighed. "Jonathan, please show Clarissa to her room. Both of you should head to bed. We'll finish our conversation tomorrow morning, once we've all had time to rest."

"Of course, Father." This time when her brother smiled, it looked relaxed, not forced at all.

With that, their father exited the room, Hodge following closely behind after throwing a look Clary couldn't quite gauge at her and her brother. Then he disappeared down the hall to do God knew what.

Clary and Jonathan were alone. She was alone, with her older brother, and her heart was still pounding as if she'd run a marathon.

"Well," Jonathan breathed. "That went well." Judging by his tone, she couldn't tell if he actually felt this way or not. "Now that the excitement's over, I suppose I'll take you to your room," he sighed, sounding slightly disappointed, as if he'd been playing with a toy that had just broke in his curious hands.

Clary, who felt like she hadn't spoken in years, gave a small "Okay" as her only sign of agreement. She felt like she'd just been thrown into the eye of a tornado and spit out a thousand miles from her original starting point. Sleep was probably the only thing that could make her feel any sort of better at this point.

Her brother turned to her and held out his hand in offering, smiling as he did so. Since she'd arrived, Jonathan had looked nothing besides completely in his element, and it gave Clary a sort of motivation and ease to feel similarly. He acted as if nothing was wrong or out of the ordinary. It was hard to ignore his calm, and she willingly let it wash over her as she placed her pale hand in his warm one, melting away all of the tension in the room, in her body, in her mind. His smile broadened.

"Right this way, my lady."

Hello~ If you're still here, thank you for checking out my story! I'm excited to be writing it, I have lots of ideas and can't wait to get this thing rolling! I admit I'm a little (quite) rusty on my writing - it's been a while since I've tried my hand at this. But I recently re-read The Mortal Instruments for like the 80th time and couldn't help my imagination from taking off. Clary and Jace are just too perfect to not fantasize about.

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed! I thought of making this a prologue instead of an actual chapter, but it turned out longer than I had anticipated, so, here we are. I promise the chapters from now on won't be quite so slow-moving. I had to set things up with this chapter, showing the mystery of everything. So yeah.

Until next chapter~

See ya.