~Epilogue~
New Beginnings

Chaos.

Thats what the battle on Brocelind Plain had been.

It had also been exhilarating in a way that Luke never imagined it would be. He had felt the runes that Jocelyn had Marked herself with—runes he never thought he would feel again. And he had fought side by side with Shadowhunters. The battle had brought him immense joy while at the same time leaving a hollow ache that reminded him of what he had lost all those years ago when he got bit. And then there was the fact that he had gotten to fight side by side with Jocelyn again. Not since the Uprising had they done that. But the battle on the Plains had been short lived—the demons retreating almost as quickly as they had arrived. Jocelyn had looked at Luke in surprise, the seraph blade in her hand still raised. The sight of her standing there with the glow from the angel knife lighting up her green eyes in the night like emerald fires, had reminded Luke of a time when they had been much younger, and it had sent his heart racing.

But the battle really was over. Around them, he could hear the cries and murmurs of the injured and the silence of the fallen.

It wouldn't be till later that they got word from Clary about what had happened and where they were. Jocelyn had nearly come unglued, clinging to Luke as she shook. Not even the battle on the Plains had instilled this much fear in her. But then . . . facing a demon was much less frightening than the idea of something happening to your child. And truth be told, Luke had not faired much better at hearing the news. Clary may not have been his daughter by blood, but . . .

Valentine isn't my father, Luke is.

Her words from weeks ago at the Institute echoed loudly through his head. He remembered how surprised he had been to hear her say that. He had always hoped she might feel that way, but she had never actually come right out and said it before. And then after learning the truth about who she was and what he was . . . but no, she'd said it. She was his daughter.

With his arm tightly around Jocelyn, they stepped quickly through another Portal and onto the sandy beach of Lake Lyn where Jocelyn immediately broke away from him and ran to her daughter who was sitting next to an alive but unconscious Jace. Not far from them was Valentine, dead, and Luke froze. He couldn't count how many times he had imagined this moment—had thought his years of hatred had prepared him for it. But now that it was here, he felt it like a punch to the stomach. Taking a breath, Luke approached Valentine's body and sat down next to him in the sand. Drawing his knees up, he looked across the rippling water of the lake.

The pain of severing ties from your parabatai was supposed to be an immense one. That's what Luke had been taught—what all those who go through the parabatai ritual are taught. But for him, after he had Changed the first time, he had barely felt it. He knew it had happened, of course—that the cord tying their lives to one another had snapped. He even remembered feeling a sense of loss. But that had been the extent of it. There had been no physical pain . . . at least not like what he had been lead to expect. At the time, Luke thought that it might have been because the agonizing torture of his first Change had cancelled it out, but upon looking back years later, he hadn't been so sure. It had been years since he and Valentine had been parabatai. Years since their link to one another had been severed by that fateful night in which Valentine had betrayed him. And yet, as crazy as it might sound, Luke still thought he would have felt Valentine's death. That some part of him would still have known the moment it happened. This was the man that Luke had loved and followed blindly, after all. Valentine had helped him—guided him. He had taught him how to fight and asked him to be parabatai over any other he could have picked. Many would have considered themselves lucky. And many did consider Luke lucky. They had been unable to see just what it was that Valentine had saw in him. Even now, Luke could still remember the feel of the intense heat that had come from the flames ringing the runed parabatai circles.

Entreat me not to leave thee,
Or return from following after thee—
For whither thou goest, I will go,
And where thou lodgest, I will lodge.
Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.
Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried.
The Angel do so to me, and more also,
If aught but death part thee and me.

And yet, Luke hated the man who lay dead next to him. Valentine had hurt the only woman Luke had ever loved. He had torn her family apart as well as countless other families. He had torn Luke's own family apart. He had taken his sister's husband and brother from her. Left her with nothing but shame. And he laughed. Had called it for the better good, even. Said that it had been necessary. The amount of atrocities Valentine had committed were too many to count.

Sighing, Luke looked to the stars. He could see them clearly, though he was not in wolf form; nor did he have his glasses. The Alliance Rune was still working and he was drawing on the Vision Rune Jocelyn had marked herself with. The moon was bright in the sky. Luckily it was not completely full, so there was no pull to Change. Nearby he could hear Clary talking to her mother—going over what had happened. While he managed to catch bits of it, Luke didn't really need to hear it. He didn't have to be told what happened. It was an easy enough guess.

"You left me years ago," he breathed softly, watching as a star shot across the sky. He knew that Valentine couldn't hear him. That he would never be able to answer, and yet Luke didn't care. "You left me and you did not allow me to follow you. So I will not follow now. And when my time comes, it will not be here and it will not be with you." Blinking, Luke was surprised to feel a tear slip down his cheek. Swallowing hard, he turned his gaze from the moon and looked over at Jocelyn. She was hugging her daughter tightly . . . though Clary's hand was gripping Jace's unmoving one. The boy had known nothing but rejection and neglect from everyone he thought he could trust. He was a Wayland, raised as a Lightwood, only to learn he was a Morgenstern. And yet, he wasn't even that. He was a Herondale. The last of his blood line. "You don't deserve my grief," Luke whispered sadly, wiping away the tear that had escaped as he looked back down at Valentine. "Nor do you deserve to be mourned by Jace." Getting to his feet, he took a breath. "Ave Atque Vale."

"He doesn't deserve that," said a voice at his elbow. A voice Luke would know anywhere. Looking up, he saw Jocelyn standing there with Clary under her arm. Anger flared through him at seeing the long cut that ran from Clary's hairline down to her jaw—at the blood that crusted her face. And then he met Jocelyn's fierce green eyes as she said, "He doesn't deserve anything."

Luke nodded. "I know," he said softly. "I didn't do it for him."

Together they headed back through the Portal.

.

The moment they set foot back inside Alicante, it had been a whirlwind. Maryse had immediately closed in on Jace and demanded that he be taken to the hospital to heal. Clary, on the other hand, had been summoned by the Council to give testimony of what happened at the lake. Jocelyn had objected, of course, but Clary insisted she was fine. All the same, both Luke and Jocelyn stood protectively by her side the entire time.

She started by telling them how Jace had gone after Valentine, which Luke had known about. He could still see the boy standing on the steps of the Hall after telling him his plan, looking up at Luke as though he had nothing to lose—as though he had already accepted his death. Clary had come to be at the lake later, where she was met by Valentine who was getting ready to summon the Angel. She told them about what he had said, and what he had intended to request from the Angel when Jace showed up and began fighting Valentine. A fight he would not win, given that his fight with Jonathan Morgenstern had left him severely weakened. Jace had been close to death when the Angel was summoned. When Clary said this, her voice had cracked and Luke couldn't help but look at her. There was something off about the way she said it. As though Jace hadn't just been close to death . . . but had actually died. But before he could think too much on it, Clary had moved on. She told them how she managed to change the commanding name from Valentine's to hers in the ritual before the Angel arrived—which had filled Luke with both immense pride and immense terror. Clary had seen the Angel Raziel—something no other Shadowhunter had done. Not since Jonathan Shadowhunter himself. She had told them that after the Angel had killed Valentine, he had offered her one request. And of anything she could have asked for, it had been to heal Jace.

Not a lot of Shadowhunters had been thrilled about that. Luke was sure that they probably felt she should have asked for something else. Something that would have been more beneficial to the Nephilim. Luke on the other hand, would have been more surprised if she had asked for something else. He had seen Jace and Clary both over the last several weeks—had watched sympathetically, unable to say or do anything, as they tortured themselves over their feelings for one another due to a lie told by Valentine. A lie even Luke had believed. And sadly, Luke knew it would never change. At least not for Jace. Clary had tried to move on with Simon, but Jace? He saw himself in the boy, in that Clary would be the only girl he ever loved—just as Jocelyn would be for Luke. But what was done could not be undone. And if Clary was the least bit bothered by the angry glares and tone she received for what some called her juvenile puppy love request, she didn't show it.

After Clary's initial testimony, Luke had spent a lot of his time running back and forth between Amatis's house and the Accords Hall to work with the Clave on hammering out the details for the Council seats that had been promised to Downworlders. And they had made it clear that they wanted Luke to take the seat meant for the werewolves. Patrick said that it made sense given that while it may have been Clary's Alliance rune that allowed Shadowhunters and Downworlders to work together . . . it had been Luke who had convinced the Downworlders to come in the first place. The fact that Luke used to be a Shadowhunter also didn't hurt. Much to his surprise, Luke had told them he would think about it.

Valentine's funeral was held two days later.

Luke stood at the door of Amatis's house wearing one of his old flannels and a pair of jeans. He had no intention of putting on mourning clothes for Valentine, regardless of whether they had once been parabatai. It had been hard enough the last two days to convince the Clave to give Valentine a proper Shadowhunter funeral, as they had been content with just burying him at the Crossroads and forgetting about him. Had it not been for Jace, Luke probably would have agreed with the idea. But the boy had been through enough without also being denied the right to say goodbye to the only father he had ever really known. Jocelyn had also agreed to go, though Luke had a feeling it was more to make sure that Valentine truly did burn this time.

"Clary's not coming."

Blinking, Luke pushed up the glasses that had started to slip down his nose and saw Jocelyn standing there. She was wearing a simple black dress, her ruby hair pulled back into a loose bun. She looked beautiful. But still, the color of mourning was white for Shadowhunters so Luke was a bit surprised to see her wearing the traditional Mundane black mourning attire. Maybe this was her last dig at Valentine, who had hated Mundanes almost as much as Downworlders. Luke wondered if he should attend in wolf form. Valentine would have loved that.

Reaching up, Luke pulled a green sweater off the coat rack. "I'm not surprised," he said as he helped Jocelyn into it. "Clary didn't really know him, and what she did know of him was pain, war, and destruction."

Jocelyn took a shuddering breath. "I didn't want her knowing him at all. I tried—"

Reaching forward, Luke pulled Jocelyn into his arms, ignoring the flips his stomach did in the process. He had gotten good at ignoring them over the last twenty years. "Joce," he breathed as she shook in his arms. "This world . . . our world—and it is our world—was not something you were going to be able to hide from her forever. On some level you had to have known that."

"I did," Jocelyn conceded, pressing her forehead against his chest. "I just thought that when that time finally came . . . it would be me telling her—explaining it all to her." And then she met his eyes. "Luke, I can't thank you enough. If it hadn't been for—if you hadn't been there . . ."

Taking Jocelyn by the shoulders, he pushed her gently away, holding her at arms length. And for just a moment he thought he had seen surprise and disappointment shadow her face, but upon looking again he was sure it had been a trick of the light. Jocelyn had only ever loved him like a brother. "I will always be there for Clary." And then he sighed, taking another step away from her and letting his arms drop to his sides. "We should get going."

The sky was a cloudless blue. At least, it would have been if it weren't for the pyres. The smoke rising and swirling through the air. The last two days had been an endless stream of funerals; which meant an endless stream of smoke. Luke had even gone to some, both Shadowhunter and Downworlder alike. This was the last one for him. And from the looks of it, he and Jocelyn would be the only ones attending—though Luke had thought Jace might come. He knew the boy had gotten released from the hospital today, though he hadn't seen him. According to Magnus, Jace had been fine physically. Mentally and emotionally, however, the boy had been exhausted beyond what any one person should have been able to withstand.

In front of them, Valentine had been placed meticulously on the pyre. He had been dressed in Shadowhunter gear, his sword placed tightly in his hand. As was custom, a white silk had been wrapped around his eyes. Even in death, he had been treated better than he deserved. Luke turned his gaze away from Valentine and instead watched as one of the few remaining Silent Brothers took his place across from them. His parchment hood was drawn up, but Luke could still make out the runes that had been burned across his lips. It hit Luke, as he looked at the Silent Brother, that he too was just one more victim of Valentine's. This man had lost countless of his brothers to Valentine, and now he was about to perform his eulogy simply because his duty required it of him. Next to the Silent Brother, Patrick Penhallow stood quietly with a torch in his hand. Around them, Luke could feel the stares of both the grief stricken and the curious.

"Do you think anyone else will come?" Jocelyn asked quietly.

"I don't know," he shrugged in response, turning to look down at her. "When it comes to Valentine . . ." Luke trailed off as he saw a familiar face standing back toward the opening of the necropolis. Jace looked lost as he stood there staring at the bier that held Valentine. He was wearing a what looked like a white fitted sweater under his jacket and dark blue jeans. It was as though he had wanted to dress in mourning clothes but couldn't quite go all the way through it. Making eye contact, Luke raised his hand and waved at him. "Jace! Over here!"

But Jace shook his head, taking a step back. Jocelyn, who had been watching, frowned. "This must be hard for him."

"Yeah," Luke agreed, running his fingers through his hair as he watched Jace climb part way up the hill before turning and taking a seat in the grass. Lowering his gaze, Luke met the emerald eyes of Jocelyn. "Everyone has told him that he should hate his father—hate Valentine—for what he had done to him and to others. And on some level, I think he does. But I think he loved him, too. So he's conflicted." And then Luke sighed. "I don't know. I just know that he has a long road ahead of him. Trying to figure out who you are even when you already know is hard enough. But Jace? He's been so many things in such a short amount of time. How do you come back from that?"

"You care about him," Jocelyn said quietly looking up at Luke, her emerald eyes shining.

"He grows on you," he conceded with a slight grin. "Plus, Clary cares about him."

Jocelyn turned to look back over her shoulder to where Jace sat, but all she said was, "I noticed."

"He's a good kid, Jocelyn. A pain in the ass sometimes—" Luke let out a breath of laughter, "—but a good kid. As for your other question—who else will come? I think it will be complicated. Valentine is responsible for every death here. Every injury. Every lost home . . ."

"Him and Jonathan, both." Jocelyn breathed and Luke frowned. She was staring ahead at Valentine's body now, but she was hugging herself tightly—a comforting move she only did when she was truly upset. "And it's my fault."

"Joce . . ." Reaching out, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and brought her closer against him. "Jonathan was what Valentine made him."

Jocelyn shook her head. "I should have killed him, Luke. I should have—"

"You thought he was dead." Luke cut her off. "I know we weren't sure about Valentine, but we both thought that those small bones in the manor fire had really been Jonathan's."

Jocelyn was quiet for a long time. Taking a step away from Luke, she sighed. "I would just feel better if they had found Jonathan's body, too."

"I know," Luke said softly.

Across from them, the Silent brother opened his arms wide.

Let us begin.

.

The funeral didn't last long.

Not that Luke thought it would. There wasn't much anyone could or would say about Valentine that was complimentary, so the Silent Brother had stuck with the basic words of goodbye. Jocelyn had also refused to speak for him, and had instead remained stoic during it all—her hands balled into fists at her sides. Luke noticed that as it progressed, very few had wandered over while others watched from farther back. It wasn't until the pyre had been lit, however, that Jocelyn let out a haggard breath. Luke could almost see the weight that had been lifted from her shoulders.

As the crowd began to disperse, Luke turned to see that Jace hadn't moved from his spot on the hillside. With a quick word to Jocelyn and a promise to meet her back at his sister's house, Luke made his way across the necropolis and up the hill. Jace, he noticed, was plucking the grass up roughly by the roots and had already started to amass a small pile.

"Jace," Luke said as he came to a stop next to him. The boy looked up, his golden eyes filled with surprise as though he hadn't heard Luke approaching. Up close, he could see the bruises that had yet to fade from Jace's face blooming across the boy's jaw and trailing down his throat. Luke's stomach twisted with anger. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to gesture toward the burning pyre "It's over," he said. "The ceremony. It was brief."

Jace looked back down at the ground. "I'm sure it was," he said flatly, digging his fingers into the grass and dirt again. "Did anyone say anything?"

"Just the usual words," Luke shrugged before lowering himself down gently next to Jace. His body, though healed, was still sore in some areas. While the fight had been short, it had also been intense. Not too mention he wasn't as young as he used to be.

"And Clary wasn't—" Jace hedged, not meeting Luke's eyes as he looked out over the necropolis. "I mean, she didn't—"

"Come to the funeral?" Luke asked, watching the swirling black spirals of smoke that was rising toward the sky. Luke shook his head and turned his gaze back to Jace. "No. She didn't want to." And then he cocked his head curiously as he realized why the boy was asking. "You haven't seen her? Not since—"

"No," Jace cut in ripping up more grass. "Not since the lake." Tossing the green blades down, he shrugged as if it were nothing. "This was the first time they let me leave the hospital, and I had to come here."

Luke took a breath. "You didn't have to," he said softly. "You could have stayed away."

"I wanted to," Jace sighed, dropping his eyes to the ground. "Whatever that says about me," he mumbled irritably, as if it had been an afterthought. And Luke's heart constricted. He wondered what the boy would do if he put a hand on his shoulder. Probably push it away. That was the thing about Jace, Luke had come to learn. You couldn't force Jace to open up. He either would or he wouldn't. The boy had been broken and put back together so many times since Luke had met him . . . and yet despite it all, Jace didn't like people knowing how it had affected him. But if he did choose to let you in . . .

Luke leaned back on his hands. "Funerals are for the living, Jace, not for the dead," he said as kindly as he could. "Valentine was more your father than Clary's, even if you didn't share blood. You're the one who has to say good-bye. You're the one who will miss him."

Jace exhaled sharply, disbelievingly. "I didn't think I was allowed to miss him."

This. This was exactly what Luke had been telling Jocelyn. The boy didn't even feel like he was allowed to grieve the loss of Valentine because of what everyone else felt about him. Screw everyone else. This wasn't about them. Jace owed no one an explanation for his feelings for Valentine. Sitting forward, Luke tried to catch Jace's eyes but the boy had suddenly become very interested in a long blade of grass he had just plucked up from the ground—wrapping and unwrapping it around his finger. Luke sighed. "You never knew Stephen Herondale," he said gently but pointedly. "And you came to Robert Lightwood when you only barely still a child. Valentine was the father of your childhood. You should miss him."

At that, Jace finally turned to look at Luke. It was brief, but Luke could see both gratitude and relief on the boy's face. Pulling his knees up to his chest, Jace shook his head. "I keep thinking about Hodge," he said. "Up at the Gard, I kept asking him why he'd never told me what I was—I still thought I was part demon then—and he kept saying it was because he didn't know. I just thought he was lying. But now I think he meant it. He was one of the only people who ever even knew there was a Herondale baby that had lived. When I showed up at the Institute, he had no idea which of Valentine's sons I was. The real one or the adopted one. And I could have been either. The demon or the angel. And the thing is, I don't think he ever knew, not until he saw Jonathan at the Gard and realized. So he just tried to do his best by me all those years anyway, until Valentine showed up again." His golden eyes swept up to meet Luke's, and Luke was surprised to see how open and honest the boy who was usually so guarded and closed off was. "That took a sort of faith—don't you think?"

"Yes," Luke said softly. "I think so."

Jace took a deep breath and nodded. "Hodge said he thought maybe upbringing might make a difference, regardless of blood. I just keep thinking—if I'd stayed with Valentine, if he hadn't sent me to the Lightwoods, would I have been just like Jonathan? Is that how I'd be now?"

Luke knew by the look on Jace's face that the boy wasn't just speculating the possible outcome of a different scenario. He was actually asking Luke if that was what he would have become. Another Jonathan. Another Valentine. And the truth was . . . Luke shook his head. "Does it matter?" He asked instead, more forcefully than he had meant to. But Jace had to understand . . . "You are who you are now for a reason. And if you ask me, I think Valentine sent you to the Lightwoods because he knew it was the best chance for you. Maybe he had other reasons too. But you can't get away from the fact that he sent you to people he knew would love you and raise you with love. It might have been one of the few things he ever really did for someone else." Reaching out, Luke clapped Jace's shoulder before giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I wouldn't forget about that, if I were you."

Jace let the ghost of a smile slip through at Luke's words, though he said nothing. Nor did he pull out of Luke's grip. Instead he dropped his head against his knees as if suddenly exhausted, wrapping his arms around his legs. And Luke stayed with him, not releasing his grip on Jace's shoulder in hopes of comforting the boy for as long as he would allow it. Lifting his eyes, Luke watched the last tendrils of smoke escape silently into the sky as the bier below collapsed into a pile of ashes.

.

Opening the door of his sisters house, Luke walked in slowly and sat down on the couch. He had stayed at the necropolis long after Jace had gotten up and left, saying something about finding Clary. And he had watched as the boy walked away with his hands in his pocket. But Luke hadn't been able to make himself get up. The Clave was planning their meeting tonight before the celebration to decide which Downworlder would take a seat on the Council. It was when he was supposed to give them his answer. And he was seriously considering it, too—except that it would mean staying in Idris. Which would mean leaving Jocelyn and Clary, because he knew there would be no way she would consider staying too. Jocelyn hated everything Alicante reminded her of. Not to mention he hadn't even told Jocelyn about the Clave's proposal yet. It had just never seemed like the right time. And so he had laid there in the grass, trying desperately to think of what he should do. And how to tell Jocelyn. In the end he had decided he was going to do it. The thought of being away from Jocelyn and Clary pained him, but he knew it was something he had to do. That this change among the Clave was monumental. Besides, it wasn't like he would never see Clary again. He knew that she would never give up being a Shadowhunter which would at least ensure occasional visits. And maybe he would even be able to some day get over Jocelyn. There was a thought.

"Luke?"

Luke's stomach did a little flip as Jocelyn walked out of the hallway. She had changed out of her dress and was wearing a pair of loose jeans and a stripped black and white t-shirt that had old paint splatters on it. Her ruby hair was still up in its messy bun, however. She stopped upon seeing Luke sitting on the couch, like she was unsure. Did he look that bad, he wondered?

"Is everything okay?" She asked with uncertainty, looking around. "Is Jace okay?"

"Yeah," Luke said pushing his hand through his hair. "Well, as okay as he's going to be right now, I think. He'll be better with time." And then he looked—really looked—at the woman he had been love with all his life. His heart was beating fast. He could do this. "Jocelyn . . . I need to tell you something."

Jocelyn smiled nervously as she came over to sit next to him. "Luke, you can tell me anything. You know that. What's going on?"

Luke let out a sharp breath of laughter. If only that were true. Seeing the confusion on her face, he shook his head. He could do this. And he truly planned to. But just as he opened his mouth to speak, he noticed the suitcase sitting nearby. "Are you packing?" He blurted out instead.

"What?" Jocelyn followed his gaze. "Oh," she said understanding then. "Well, yeah. We're going to have to get back to New York eventually. It's not like we can stay here. Or like we would even want to stay here," she added. "In fact, I was hoping you would be back soon. I wasn't sure what all you brought with you—"

"Jocelyn," Luke said softly, pushing his glasses up his nose, his heart pounding painfully.

"I know you said that you and Clary came unexpectedly," she continued as though she hadn't heard him. "But I'm sure you've gotten some things since then—"

"Jocelyn . . ."

"—so I really need to know what you want me to pack for—"

"Jocelyn!" Luke practically shouted, watching as she jumped—her eyes wide. Taking a breath, he covered his mouth with his hand as he looked at her. "Joce . . . I'm not going back to New York."

Jocelyn blinked. "What?"

"I'm staying," he said slowly.

And Jocelyn leapt to her feet, her head shaking. "What do you mean, your staying?" She asked pacing. And then she stopped, staring at him with wide dismayed eyes that cut through him. "You mean you're not coming back to New York at all?"

Luke swallowed hard and leaned forward, his elbows digging into his knees. "I've been asked to remain in Alicante and represent the werewolves on the Council. I told them I'd let them know tonight."

"Couldn't someone else do that?" Jocelyn was pacing again, her arms waiving wildly. "One of the pack leaders here in Idris?" And it took everything Luke had not to get up and take her in his arms. He hadn't expected this reaction from her. He knew that she might not like it, but he also figured she would understand. Maybe even be a little relieved to not have to endure his unrequited love. Sighing, Luke shook his head.

"I'm the only pack leader who was once a Shadowhunter," he said pointedly. "That's why they want me." Reaching up, he raked his fingers roughly through his graying hair. "I started all this, Jocelyn. I should stay here and see it out."

Jocelyn stopped, her shoulders pulled back as she stared at him like she wanted to say something. She opened her mouth, her eyes blinking. What? He wanted to ask. Please say something, Jocelyn. But she didn't. Closing her mouth slowly, she gave a tight painful smile that stabbed into Luke like a knife. And then she nodded.

"If that's how you feel," she said slowly, "then of course you should stay."

And Luke searched her face, trying to see if she really meant it. But Jocelyn only smiled encouragingly in response—her eyes saying that she understood. But then a tear slipped out, ruining her carefully constructed facade. Spinning away from Luke, she wiped it away quickly . . . but it was too late. He had seen. Jumping to his feet, Luke wiped his hands on his jeans. "I'll have to sell the bookstore—get my affairs in order." He said, his voice coming out low and husky. "It's not like I'll be moving right away."

"I can take care of that," Jocelyn said brightly with a wave of her hand as she turned back to look at him, her tears under control now. "After everything you've done . . ." She trailed off, her eyes beginning to swim again as she looked at him.

Luke was breathing hard, his heart pounding rapidly in his ears. This was for the best, wasn't it? He was doing the right thing . . . right? So why did it feel like he was hurting her? He knew that she would miss him, they were friends. That's all they would ever be. She had never wanted anything else. And he was okay with that—had always been okay with that. Turning, Luke took a step toward the kitchen. As he did, he thought he heard her take a shaky breath behind him but he couldn't bring himself to turn back around and look at her. Not if he wanted to keep going. Besides, it seemed they had said all they were going to, so he might as well go and let the Clave know of his decision.

And it was that moment that he remembered the conversation he had had with Clary after the Battle on the East River. They had been driving in his truck when she had caught him off guard with something about Valentine telling her that Luke was in love with her mother. Luke had thought about denying it at the time, but after all Clary had been through—he felt she deserved to know the truth. And he remembered how shocked Clary had been when he mentioned that he had never come right out and told Jocelyn he was in love with her.

"You mean you never told her how you felt?"

"Your mother isn't stupid, Clary. She must have known. I offered to marry her. However kind her denials might have been, I do know one thing: She knows how I feel and she doesn't feel the same way. It's all right," he added when Clary said nothing. "I accepted it a long time ago."

"I think you should have told her," Clary said pointedly. "I think you're wrong about how she feels."

"I'm not, Clary," he replied shortly, his tone clear that the discussion was over. Not that Clary seemed to hear it.

"I remember once I asked her why she didn't date," she pressed on to his dismay. "She said it was because she'd already given her heart . . ."

Luke blinked, his body shaking. He had been surprised to hear Clary say that. But even then, he was sure that Jocelyn had probably meant Valentine. Clary had disagreed. Reaching forward he placed a steadying hand on the wall, his head hung. He couldn't bring himself to leave, but he knew he couldn't stay. His fingers dug into the plaster of the wall.

Don't you hate it? Not ever saying how you really feel?

"Look," Luke said, making a snap decision as he pushed himself off the wall and spun around to look at Jocelyn. She was hugging herself tightly, her emerald eyes shimmering as she watched him silently. Now or never he told himself. "I've wanted to tell you this for a long time," he began quickly, his heart racing. "But I didn't. I knew it would never matter, even if I did say it, because of what I am. You never wanted that to be part of Clary's life. But she knows now, so I guess it doesn't make a difference. And I might as well tell you." Luke took a breath. "I love you, Jocelyn. I have for twenty years."

At his words, Jocelyn's eyes widened, her mouth popping open. But she said nothing. Slowly she closed her mouth. Dropping her gaze to the ground, she shook her head. And Luke's whole world came apart. But it shouldn't have, should it? It was what he had expected, wasn't it? He had known that she didn't feel the same way, after all. And yet, the actual rejection was a lot harder than he had been prepared for. "I have to get back to the Council and tell them I'll stay," Luke said heavily when Jocelyn continued to say nothing. Not that she had to say anything—she had said everything with her silence. "We don't ever have to talk about this again. I just feel better having said it after all this time."

That was a lie.

But at least he knew now, didn't he? He would never have to wonder. Turning he stalked through the kitchen, wrenching the door open hard in his attempt to get out of the house as fast as he could. He paused in the doorway, staring out at the sunlit canals. The trees were waving lazily in the breeze as the birds chirped their songs. It was beautiful. And yet he couldn't bring himself to appreciate it. Closing his eyes, Luke got his bearings before stepping out and shutting the door gently behind him.

He walked slowly. He wasn't really in any hurry to tell the Council that he was ready to change his whole life around—even if it was true. Besides, the meeting wasn't until later. He also wondered how it was that he was going to tell Clary of his choice. He had always thought of her as his daughter. And she had even come to think of him as her dad. She would understand, he hoped. And if she didn't, she would at least learn to accept it. Stopping, Luke looked around. He was standing in Angel Square without even realizing it. In front of him was the Accords Hall where they were all waiting. Sighing, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked instead up to the statue of the Angel Raziel that stood in the center of the Square. Looking up at the bronze angel, Luke couldn't help but think that he had made a huge mistake. He should never have said anything. How could he possibly come back from that? He couldn't. And now whenever Jocelyn was around there would always be that hanging between them. Not that Jocelyn would ever be around again.

He had lost her—ruined what they did have with some stupid admission of love and—

A hand spun him around. "Luke!"

"Jocelyn?" Luke stared in surprise at Jocelyn, his heart slamming in his chest. She was breathing hard, her face flushed and her windblown hair falling free of her bun in spirals. Had she been running, he wondered? But her eyes were shining as they looked at him. "What are you doing—"

"Remember when you asked me to marry you," she cut him off, "back when I first left Alicante? Why did you ask me?"

Luke frowned in confusion. Of course he remembered proposing to her. Had she really ran after him just to ask him that? "Jocelyn—"

"Why did you ask me?" She cut him off again persistently, her emerald eyes pleading as she looked up at him.

Was she serious? But he could tell that she was. Closing his eyes, Luke sighed and shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

Opening his eyes, he met the face that could always undo him. It wasn't fair. And the longer he got lost in her eyes, the more incessantly he felt the wave of frustration crashing through him. What did she want from him? What was the point? Tearing his gaze away from her, Luke looked up toward the cloudless sky. "Why?" he breathed miserably. "Why does it matter?"

But Jocelyn only shook her head. "Please just tell me, Luke."

"Why do you think I asked you?" He said roughly, meeting her eyes once more. "What do you want me to say, Jocelyn? Do you want me to tell you it was because I was in love with you? Because it was. It's always been because I was in love with you. Then and now. From the moment I met you."

Jocelyn's hand flew to her mouth. "I thought you were just being nice," she whispered from between her fingers, her eyes wide. "Charitable."

"Charitable?" Luke echoed incredulously, nearly choking on the word.

"Yes," Jocelyn said, lowering her hand. "I thought that you were just trying to . . . I don't know, make up for what Valentine had done. Like you felt guilty or responsible or—"

Luke let out a dry laugh. "Trust me, I wasn't being charitable, Joce. If anything, I was being selfish. I knew what I was. And to ask you to marry me anyway? To ask you to tie yourself to a werewolf when . . ." Luke trailed off as Jocelyn took a step back. What was she—

"You left." She said suddenly, shaking her head as her brows furrowed.

"What?"

"You left," she repeated as though she had just realized something. "You can't tell a girl you love her and then just leave!"

Oh. "Jocelyn—I . . ." Taking a breath, he pushed his hair back roughly as she stared up at him expectantly. "You didn't say anything," he began defensively. "I told you I was in love with you and you shook your head and said nothing. Not a single word. What was I supposed to do after that?"

"I wasn't shaking my head because of how you felt," she insisted fervently. "I was shaking my head because I didn't believe you! How could I when—"

"You didn't believe me?" Luke cut in astounded.

"Of course I didn't!" She shook her head. "How could I possibly believe that the man I have been in love with for the last fourteen years, had impossibly loved me longer?" She asked. "How could I not . . ."

Luke stared at her. She loved him? His whole body was alive. She was standing in front of him talking, her arms moving animatedly but he couldn't hear her. All he could hear was that she loved him. The woman he had loved for twenty years; the woman he had thought had only loved him as a friend. By the angel, she was beautiful. She loves me. Could that really be possible?

"You love me?" Luke heard himself ask.

Jocelyn stopped mid-sentence to look at him, an amused smile playing on her lips. "Didn't you hear anything I just said?"

Luke shook his head, his eyes never leaving hers, as his chest heaved. His pulse was racing; his body a live wire. He took an unsteady step forward. "You love me?"

Lowering her hands, Jocelyn looked up at Luke through her lashes. "Yes," she breathed, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "I Love you—"

He kissed her.

He couldn't remember moving forward. He couldn't remember taking her face in his hands. But he had. And he was drowning in her—the softness of her lips, the silk of her hair, the eagerness in which she kissed him back, all of it. All of her. Not in his wildest dreams had he ever thought this could happen. That she could be in love with him . . .

"Say it again," he begged, his lips tracing down her jawline as he held her.

Jocelyn laughed softly as her fingers curled in his hair. "I love you, Lucian Graymark."

Luke pulled back, his heart racing as he looked down at her. It had been a long time since she had called him by his real name. Swallowing hard he cupped her face in his hand, caressing her skin with his thumb before he pressed his lips gently against hers.

He would never let her go.

#####

Jace sat in the shadows of the Accords Hall with a silver box perched on his knees. The box itself was relatively nondescript save for the birds that rimmed the lid. It was what was inside the box that mattered. Or at least Jace thought it was supposed to matter. After he had left Luke at the necropolis, he had gone to Amatis's house to see if Clary was there. She hadn't been, but Amatis was. And she had pulled Jace into the house and given him the box . . . which he had taken awkwardly as she explained that it had belonged to his father. His real father. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with it. He knew that Luke's sister had been married to Stephen—and it was clear that she had never gotten over him. Which made it all the more awkward, given Stephen had left her for his mother. At one point he wondered if jumping through Amatis's front window in retreat would be considered subtle. Probably not, but it would have gotten the message across.

Not that he could totally blame Amatis either. From what Jace had learned, Stephen had been forced to leave Amatis and marry Celine, his real mother, by Valentine. But what did that say about his real father, that he would allow someone to make him leave the woman he was supposed to be in love with? Biting his cheek, Jace thought of Clary. Nothing and no one could ever make him leave her. Even when he had thought she was his sister, he had been so completely hers. He had resigned himself to a life of never loving anyone but her—watching as she moved on, married someone else—she's not your sister. The thought was a welcome intrusion.

He had not dared to think too much on it the night he had learned it from Sebastian—Jonathan. His name was Jonathan. And he had refused to think on it when he confronted Valentine. He had been worried that the realization would consume him. But now? It was all he thought about. On some level, he hadn't been surprised. No matter how hard he had tried during those torturous weeks in which he had believed the lie . . . he had still not been able to think of her as his sister. Not really. Just thinking of her now, an ache spread through him. It had been two days since that night at the lake, but he missed her with an almost physical pain. He would see her tonight, he knew. But it wasn't soon enough.

After leaving Amatis's house he had started to head back to the house they were staying in. He missed his family. He wanted to hug Alec and Isabelle. He wanted to thank Maryse and Robert. Because Luke was right . . . they had loved him and raised him with love. Even now. Maryse had stayed with him in the hospital. Jace had woken up to find her asleep in the chair next to his bed and Magnus standing over her. Apparently she hadn't left his side since he'd been brought back from the lake. And yet, standing outside the house, he couldn't bring himself to go in. Taking a step back, he was brought up short but someone standing behind him. Turning he saw it was Alec. Before Jace could move or say anything, his brother grabbed him and pulled him into a tight hug. Jace had thought of about a hundred smart ass remarks he could have made but he said none of them. Instead he returned the hug.

"You scared me," Alec breathed into Jace's ear.

"I know," Jace said softly, pulling away. "I'm sorry."

But Alec only shook his head, staring at Jace as though he were a ghost. "For a moment . . . I really thought you were . . . I felt it, Jace. Here." Alec gripped his shoulder where Jace had Marked him with the parabatai rune years ago.

But Alec hadn't been able to bring himself to actually say what it was he felt or what he it was he thought had happened to Jace. And Jace couldn't say it either. He could only stand there staring at his brother. While waiting on the beach of the Lake, swimming in and out of consciousness, he and Clary had decided it was for the best not to mention that Jace had actually died, but had rather been close to death. They weren't sure how the Clave would react to finding out that Jace was undead so to speak—not well, he imagined. So no one knew but them, Valentine, and the Angel. Instead they spoke of the upcoming celebration. They spoke of Magnus and the spectacle Alec had made of himself in the Accords Hall the night of the battle. At one point, Alec asked him about the silver box, but Jace only shook his head. He wasn't ready to share that yet. And Alec didn't press.

After his brief reunion with his parabatai, Jace had wandered aimlessly around Alicante before coming to sit on the steps of the Accords Hall, his back pressed up against one the pillars. He remained there the rest of the day, going through the contents of the box Amatis had given him. There was an old dagger, a few photos, and a lot of journal pages and letters. Letters to Amatis from his father. Jace wasn't sure how he felt about that, given that these were written after Stephen had married Jace's mother. And it wasn't like these letters were the brief, 'Hey how's it going,' kind of letters. Some of them were long and personal and intimate. Had his real father ever fucking been faithful? Why would Amatis think he'd want these? Did she honestly thin that Jace would wand to read about how his father was unhappy with his real mother?

Slamming the box closed, Jace blinked. The sun had set, and around the Square Shadowhunters and Downworlders worked together to place tables and hang streamers as the first of the party goers started trickling in. They were celebrating their victory. They were celebrating the death of Valentine. Jace didn't know if he could do that. But could he refuse? Luke would have had some words of wisdom if he were here, but he wasn't.

"Moping, I see."

Jace looked up. Those hadn't quite been the words of wisdom he'd been hoping for. Magnus was standing there, his cat eyes reflecting strangely in the witchlight that was lighting the Square. He was wearing what looked like a victorian tuxedo—which oddly looked right on him. Probably because Magnus was alive during that era. Now the warlock was staring at him curiously.

"Don't worry," Magnus continued when Jace didn't say anything. "I have it on good authority that the ancestors of your family line were very good at moping."

Jace raised a brow. "And whose good authority is that?"

"Mine." Magnus smirked, his eyes falling on the silver container in Jace's lap. "That's an interesting box you have there. I particularly like the herons that have been etched into the lid. Might I inquire where you got it?"

Jace stared down at Stephen's box. "You could," he said slowly. "But the chances of me telling you are probably none."

"I see." Magnus said. And Jace got the feeling that he really did. "I knew many Herondales throughout my life," the warlock continued then. "Some I would even go on to call friends."

Whoopty fucking doo. But Jace didn't say that. He said nothing. Instead he watched as the Square filled up. Shop owners were throwing open their doors as people flitted around laughing and toasting one another. "Did you know my father?" Jace asked, not looking up at the warlock. "My real father, I mean."

"I did not." Magnus said, turning to look out over the crowd as well. "I knew of him, of course. But he was not one to . . . consort with Downworlders."

"Given he was my father's stooge, I suppose not." Jace mumbled. And then he flinched realizing his mistake. "I meant Valentine's stooge."

But, "I know what you meant," was all Magnus said. After another long stretch of silence, Magnus finally turned to look at Jace. "If you want to talk, Jace—if you want to learn more about the Herondales—I can help. I have . . . resources." He added mysteriously, and Jace raised a brow. "In fact, if you'd like, I can introduce—"

"Thanks, but no thanks," Jace cut him off roughly. "No offense. I just want to be alone."

Nodding, Magnus took a step back. "Of course. I'll leave you to your moping."

"I'm not moping!" Jace yelled at the retreating warlock. But if Magnus heard him, he didn't show it.

He wasn't moping. Stupid warlock. Didn't Magnus understand that Jace was just . . . hiding in the shadows of the Accords Hall while a party went on around him, going through the belongings of his dead father who he never met and . . . moping. Your fucking moping. Dropping his head back against the pillar, he stared out over the crowd. Was Clary out there? Probably. Along with Isabelle and Alec. He should get up. He should join them. He wanted to join them. And yet, he couldn't make himself get up and actually do it. Lowering his gaze, he closed the box, his thumb tracing the birds engraved into the lid.

He felt nothing for the man it belonged to. He felt like he should. Others would probably even expect him to. But he didn't. What did that say about him, he wondered? That he could not so much as draw up a single bit of emotion for the man who had been his real father, but could easily mourn the most hated man in the world. A man who had ripped his life apart. A man who couldn't even bother with giving him his own name after cutting him out of his lifeless mother.

Closing his eyes he took a breath—and heard her. Like a soft whisper. His pulse spiked before he even looked up, his heart hammering. Clary was standing there looking down at him. But . . . what was she wearing? "Clary?" He asked uncertainly, his eyes wide.

Clary smiled. "Who else would it be?"

Jace's eyes traveled down the flowing silver dress she wore as he chewed silently on the inside of his cheek. It hugged her curves in a way that sent his heart slamming and heat flooding through his limbs. Her ruby curls spilled over her shoulders in the way Jace would always love, and on her neck hung the Morgenstern ring he had left her. The last time he'd seen her in a dress, it was for Magnus's party. He had been speechless then, too, but this was different somehow. Like she wasn't real. A ghost sent to torment him. He swallowed hard. "You don't look like you."

"It's the dress," she said with a frown. She ran her hands down the material as though second guessing her decision to wear it. "I don't usually wear things this . . . pretty."

"You always look beautiful," Jace said softly, because it was true. And his heart ached at how far away she stood. "But you look—distant. Like I couldn't touch you."

At his words, Clary gathered up the skirt of her dress and came to sit next to him. Jace's chest tightened at her closeness. Even through his jacket he could feel the warmth coming off her. Silently, she held out her hand, her fingers trembling as if she were cold. Or nervous. "Touch me," she said, her Idris eyes shining in the witchlight. And then she blushed, the warmth rushing through her cheeks sending his heart skittering. "If you want to," she amended.

If he wanted to? Was she serious? All he had ever wanted to do was touch her. To hold her. To be allowed to love her in all the ways he possibly could. Lacing his fingers through hers, he reveled in the electric currant that shot up his arm at her touch before lifting her hand to his cheek. He was allowed to do this now. He could touch her and love her and—his eyes met hers. She was watching him silently. But did she still want him? After everything he had put her through . . . everything Valentine had put her through. Slowly he lowered her hand, placing it gently in her lap before retracting his arm.

"What's in the box?" She asked after a moment, her voice strangely causal. Or maybe it wasn't so strange. He couldn't tell. Stop reading into it so much! Jace looked down at the silver box that he still held in his lap. It seemed so personal. And yet . . . this was Clary. There was nothing he would ever keep from her. Not her. He took a breath.

"I went to Amatis's earlier today, looking for you," he said quietly. "But you weren't there. So I talked to Amatis. She gave me this." He gestured at the box. "It belonged to my father."

Meeting her eyes, he saw the confusion in them—in the furrow of her brows. And he realized that she thought he was talking about Valentine. Even she still thought of him as Jace's father. Somehow, in a way he couldn't understand, it made him feel better. It was like knowing he wasn't alone. But the confusion was short lived as her mouth popped open. "Of course," she said softly with realization. "Amatis was married to Stephen Herondale."

Jace nodded. "I've been going through it. Reading the letters, the journal pages. I thought if I did that, I might feel some sort of connection to him. Something that would leap off the pages at me, saying, Yes, this is your father." Jace sighed with frustration. "But I don't feel anything. Just bits of paper. Anyone could have written these things."

"Jace," Clary said gently, her Idris eyes shining.

And Jace bit down hard on his cheek at hearing his name on her lips. So soft and tender. He would never grow tired of it. But then . . . that wasn't his name, was it? Not really. Those initials had never belonged to him. "And that's another thing," he said, staring out at the Square. "I don't have a name anymore, do I? I'm not Jonathan Christopher—that was someone else. But it's the name I'm used to."

"Who came up with Jace as a nickname?" Clary asked curiously, her emerald eyes searching his face. Jace thought about reaching up and touching her cheek. "Did you come up with it yourself?"

"No," he shook his head. "Valentine always called me Jonathan. And that's what they called me when I first got to the Institute. I was never supposed to think my name was Jonathan Christopher, you know—that was an accident. I got the name out of my father's journal—" and I had been beaten severely for it, "—but it wasn't me he was talking about. It wasn't my progress he was recording. It was Seb—It was Jonathan's." Jace wondered if he would ever get used to calling the boy that. Probably not. Reaching up, his arm grazed Clary's as he raked his fingers through his hair. "So the first time I ever told Maryse that my middle name was Christopher, she told herself that she'd just remembered it wrong, and Christopher had been Michael's son's middle name. It had been ten years, after all. But that was when she started calling me Jace." Despite himself, Jace smiled at the memory, letting out a breath of laughter. "It was like she wanted to give me a new name, something that belonged to her, to my life in New York. And I liked it. I'd never liked Jonathan." Looking down, he turned the box over in his hands. Stephen may have been his real father and Celine is real mother, but . . . "I wonder if maybe Maryse knew, or guessed, but just didn't want to know. She loved me . . . and she didn't want to believe it."

"Which was why she was so upset when she found out you were Valentine's son." Clary said softly. "Because she thought she ought to have known." And then she shrugged. "She kind of did know. But we never do want to believe things like that about people we love. And Jace," she turned toward him, her Idris eyes capturing his golden ones. He couldn't have looked away if he wanted to. And he didn't want to. "She was right about you. She was right about who you really are. And you do have a name. Your name is Jace. Valentine didn't give that name to you. Maryse did. The only thing that makes a name important, and yours, is that it's given to you by someone who loves you."

Jace took a steadying breath. Clary was right, of course. Valentine had hated the name Jace. But then, Valentine hadn't chosen it. Maryse did—his mother. He hadn't thought of it like that before. God, I love you. Only Clary could calm him and make him see sense like this. He didn't deserve her, but he would try. Jace. My name is Jace . . . Wayland? He frowned. Morgenstern? Fuck that. But then . . .

"Jace what?" He asked, looking down at the herons engraved on the box. "Jace Herondale?"

"Oh please," Clary said as though the answer was obvious. "You're Jace Lightwood. You know that." At that, Jace raised his eyes, looking up at her through his lashes. It was such a simple answer. And she was so beautiful. Clary smiled. "Maybe you're a different person than you thought you were," she continued when he didn't say anything. "But no one becomes a totally different person overnight. Just finding out that Stephen was your biological father isn't going to automatically make you love him. And you don't have to. Valentine wasn't your real father, but not because you don't have his blood in your veins. He wasn't your real father because he didn't act like a father. He didn't take care of you. It's always been the Lightwoods who have taken care of you. They're you're family. Just like Mom and Luke are mine."

And Jace took a breath. She was right that he didn't have Valentine's blood as he had thought. But she was also wrong. Valentine had taken care of him—had done it for ten years. Not that he had been very good at it, Jace thought flatly. There had been so much . . . abuse. The word was a hard one to admit. He had always told himself that what his father had done to him growing up was okay because both the emotional and physical beatings had been necessary to teach him discipline. But it wasn't necessary. He knew that now. And it wasn't okay. That's what the Lightwoods had taught him. That it was okay to cry. It was okay to love.

"I'm sorry," Clary said after awhile. "Here I am lecturing you, and you probably came up here to be alone."

Chewing thoughtfully on his cheek, Jace thought of Maryse—how she had looked when Jace woke up in the hospital bed. Even asleep, she had looked exhausted. She had looked like a mother who had been worried sick about her son. He was her son. "You're right," he said.

Next to him, Clary exhaled. "All right then," she said getting to her feet, nearly tripping on her dress in the process. And Jace's brow furrowed. What was she doing? "I'll go."

She was going? Why was she—? Son of a bitch. "Clary!" Setting the box down, Jace scrambled hastily to his feet. "Clary, wait. That wasn't what I meant! I didn't mean I wanted to be alone. I meant you were right about Valentine—about the Lightwoods—"

Turning, she looked up at him—studying him, and he felt his pulse quicken. The lights from the celebration were dancing deliciously across her dress and skin while the witchlight from the nearby lamppost created a halo around her. She was his own personal angel. Her Idris eyes were difficult to read, but he hoped desperately that she could read his. That she could see how much he wanted her to stay. How much he needed her . . .

"You know," she said after a moment, her head listing to the side. "Aline said maybe you wouldn't be interested anymore. Now that it isn't forbidden. Now that you could be with me if you wanted to." And Jace felt his body convulse, his eyes going wide. That was the most absurd thing he had ever heard! Was she actually suggesting that . . . did she actually believe that?! As if hearing his thoughts, Clary wrapped her arms around herself. "Is that true?" She asked, her voice cracking slightly. It was enough to rip his heart apart. "Are you not . . . interested?"

"Interested?" Jace choked out, the word leaving a bad taste in his mouth. Interested? The very word was an insult when it came to how he felt about Clary. "As if you were a—a book, or a piece of news?" Jace shook his head hard. "No, I'm not interested. I'm—" so completely and forever in love with you. But it was more than that. It was that he only felt whole when she was with him. He only felt calm when she was near him and . . . and oh god, she's staring at you. Say something! Biting his cheek, Jace took a breath. "Do you remember what I said to you before? About feeling like the fact that you were my sister was some sort of cosmic joke on me? On both of us?"

"I remember."

"I never believed it," he said. And then he shook his head. No, that wasn't right. "I mean, I believed it in a way—I let it drive me to despair, but I never felt it. Never felt you were my sister. Because I didn't feel about you the way you're supposed to feel about your sister. But that didn't mean I didn't feel like you were apart of me. I've always felt that . . ."

He trailed off at seeing the look of bewilderment Clary was giving him. What did you expect, dumbass. You're talking about her being your sister! "I'm not saying this right," he growled with frustration, pushing his hair roughly out of his face. Capturing her eyes, he took a step forward. And yet, there was still too much space between them. Always too much space. "Clary, I hated every second that I thought you were my sister," he said, the words falling from his mouth quickly. "I hated every moment that I thought what I felt for you meant there was something wrong with me. But—"

"But what?" Clary breathed, her voice pleading.

He wanted so badly to touch her. To hold her. It took everything he had not to. "I could see the delight Valentine took in the way I felt about you. The way you felt about me. He used it as a weapon against us. And that made me hate him. More than anything else he'd ever done to me, that made me hate him, and it turned me against him, and maybe that's what I needed to do. Because there were times I didn't know if I wanted to follow him or not. It was a hard choice—harder than I like to remember."

Reaching up, Clary tugged absently at one of her curls as she looked at Jace. From where he stood, he could see the goosebumps that ran across her shoulders and down her arms. "I asked you if I had a choice once," she said, her emerald eyes shining. "And you said, 'We all have choices.'" Jace swallowed. He remembered that conversation. "You chose against Valentine," Clary continued. "In the end that was the choice you made, and it doesn't matter how hard it was to make it. It matters that you did."

"I know," Jace said quietly, dropping his hands to his side. "I'm just saying that I think I chose the way I did in part because of you." And the ghost of a smile swept across his lips. "Since I've met you, everything I've done has been in part because of you. I can't untie myself from you Clary—not my heart or my blood or my mind or any other part of me. And I don't want to."

"You don't?" She breathed, her lips quivering.

Jace took another step forward, his eyes never leaving her face. His heart was pounding rapidly and yet he felt calm. He felt . . . right. "I always thought love made you stupid. Made you weak—" Another step. "—a bad Shadowhunter. To love is to destroy. I believed that." Looking up at him, she bit her lip and Jace felt warmth flood his body. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted so badly to take her in his arms. It was torture not to. But he had to make sure she understood. "I used to think being a good warrior meant not caring," he went on. "About anything, myself especially. I took every risk I could. I flung myself in the path of demons. I think I gave Alec a complex about what kind of fighter he was, just because he wanted to live." He leaned forward, his eyes devouring her. And Clary sucked in a breath, her breast hitching. Dazed, Jace smiled unevenly. Keep it together. "And then I met you," he said. "You were a mundane. Weak. Not a fighter. Never trained. And then I saw how much you loved your mother, loved Simon, and how you'd walk into hell to save them. You did walk into that vampire hotel. Shadowhunters with a decade of experience wouldn't have tried that. Love didn't make you weak, it made you stronger than anyone I'd ever met. And I realized I was the one who was weak."

Clary's eyes widened, her lips popping open into a perfect 'o' as she shook her head. "No," she said adamantly. "You're not."

"Maybe not anymore," he conceded, taking one more step forward. He still couldn't bring himself to look away. He was so completely lost in her eyes. But he didn't care. They were home to him. They would always be home. She was only inches from him, now. He could so easily touch her. "Valentine couldn't believe I'd killed Jonathan," he whispered. "Couldn't believe it because I was the weak one, and Jonathan was the one with more training. By all rights, he should have killed me. He nearly did. But I thought of you—I saw you there, watching me, and I knew I wanted to live. Wanted it more than I'd ever wanted anything, if only so that I could see your face one more time." Jace let out a breath, his whole body a live wire. He could see his face reflected in Clary's eyes—could see that his pupils were blown wide, his lips parted. But more than anything he just saw Clary. The woman he would burn down the world for if she asked him to. He swallowed.

"And now I'm looking at you," he breathed, his voice low. "And you're asking me if I still want you, as if I could stop loving you. As if I would want to give up the thing that makes me stronger than anything else ever has. I never dared give much of myself to anyone before—bits of myself to the Lightwoods, to Isabelle and Alec, but it took years to do it—but, Clary, since the first time I saw you, I have belonged to you completely. I still do. If you want me."

Clary blinked, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Don't cry, Clary. Please. Reaching forward, he traced a finger along her cheek. He loved her. He loved her more than he could ever say. Though he had tried. He really had. And then she was grabbing him, pulling him to her as her mouth brushed along his jaw. A move that elicited a groan from him as it nearly undid him. She still wanted him. After everything . . . she still wanted him. Wrapping his arms around her, Jace practically crushed Clary against him in his desire to be closer to her, lifting her to her toes as their mouths crashed together. They were breathing each other in. His heart was hammering as they both gasped, but neither letting the other go. Parting her lips with his, he explored the inside of her mouth as her hands pushed his jacket open, her fingers sweeping across his chest. I love you, he wanted to say. But he couldn't. This time, however, it wasn't because he wasn't allowed to. This time it was because his mouth was a little busy.

Slowly, he let go of her and took an uneven step backward just as Clary gasped in a breath. He nearly laughed. His body was buzzing. Taking her face in his hands, he traced his thumb across her cheekbone. "There," he said with a grin. "That wasn't so bad, was it, even though it wasn't forbidden?"

Clary gave a shaky laugh, her pupils blown wide as she looked up at him. "I've had worse."

Jace bit the inside of his cheek. "You know," he said slowly as he leaned in to brush his lips across her mouth. "If it's the lack of the forbidden you're worried about, you could still forbid me to do things."

"What kind of things?" Clary asked breathlessly against his lips.

And Jace smiled. "Things like this."

.

It was some time before they came down the steps of the Accords Hall, and Jace was on cloud nine. Clary's hand was held tightly in his, and every once in awhile he would catch her peeking up at him from beneath her lashes. He grinned stupidly every time. As they approached their friends and family, Jace saw that they were all there. Magnus and Alec, Isabelle and Simon and Maia—Simon looking between the two girls like he had no clue what he was doing. He probably didn't. Spinning, around Isabelle's eyes fell on Clary and Jace and her face lit up.

"You're here!" She cried out, dancing up to them and thrusting a flute of bubbling liquid she had been holding into Clary's free hand. "Have some of this!" Jace noticed that Izzy didn't give the fact that he and Clary were holding hands a second glance. And he smiled as Clary eyed the fuchsia liquid suspiciously.

"Is it it going to turn me into a rodent?" She asked, lifting her eyes to Isabelle.

"Where is the trust?" Isabelle asked as though offended, though her grin said otherwise. And then she shrugged. "I think it's strawberry juice. Anyway, it's yummy. Jace?" She said, turning to her brother and offering him the glass when Clary declined.

Taking on a look of mock indignation, Jace puffed out his chest. "I am a man," he announced loudly. "And men do not consume pink beverages. Get thee gone, woman, and bring me something brown." Next to him, Clary squeezed his hand, laugh silently.

Izzy made a face. "Brown?"

"Brown is a manly color," Jace said simply. Reaching forward with his free hand, he tugged on a lock of his sisters raven hair affectionately. "In fact, look—" he said, his eyes slipping past her. "Alec is wearing it."

Alec, who had been watching them, turned his gaze dejectedly down to his sweater. "It was black," he sighed. "But then it faded."

Oh. That's even worse than Jace had originally thought. He wondered if Alec would consider burning it. Magnus on the other hand, grinned up at Alec like he lit up the world. Peeking at Clary, Jace knew exactly how the warlock felt. "You could dress it up with a sequined headband," Magnus offered, pulling something blue and sparkly out of seemingly no where. "Just a thought."

"Resist the urge, Alec," Simon called from the wall he sat on with Maia and Aline. "You'll look like Olivia Newton-John in Xanadu."

Jace laughed. He didn't know what the hell the vampire was talking about, but whatever it was, sounded about as good as Alec would probably look in a sparkly head band. Magnus only shrugged, however. "There are worse things." And then he turned back to his boyfriend, capturing his attention and Jace smiled. Alec looked happy. And not just happy, but . . . like the weight of the world had left his shoulders. Squeezing Clary's hand, Jace grinned down at her. He was glad he was here—that he had agreed to come down. Granted . . .

He thought of the way he had pressed Clary against the pillar, his body pushing against hers as hers eyes danced wickedly up at him, and asking if she wanted to forbid him from doing that.

For the record, she said no . . .

Heat coursed through his body at the memory. Okay, maybe he was mostly glad they had come down. Biting his cheek, Jace watched as Simon hopped off the wall and walked over to them. His hands were stuffed in his pockets as he came to a stop, regarding Clary carefully.

"You look happy," he told her softly, before turning his eyes up to Jace. "And a good thing for you that she does."

Jace raised a brow. "Is this the part where you tell me that if I hurt her, you'll kill me?" Because I would kill myself before I ever hurt her.

But Simon only shook his head. "No," he said. "If you hurt Clary, she's quite capable of killing you herself. Possibly with a variety of weapons."

And Jace smiled. Oh, he knew she was very capable. And he found himself thinking about how she had thrown herself at him in her anger at Amatis's house. It had been hot. Not that he had supposed to be thinking that at the time . . . but what could ya do?

"Look," Simon continued, pulling Jace away from his sexy memories of flying plates and fists. "I just wanted to say that it's okay if you dislike me. If you make Clary happy, I'm fine with you." And he stuck out his hand. Jace blinked, an amused smile playing on his lips before taking out his own hand and shaking Simon's. Huh. Things really were changing. Well, might as well be honest . . .

"I don't dislike you," he said, lowering his hand and watching the skepticism that crossed the vampire's face. "In fact, because I actually do like you, I'm going to offer you some advice."

Simon looked at Clary unsure before turning his cautious gaze back up to Jace. "Advice?"

"I see that you are working this vampire angle with some success," Jace said nodding toward where Maia and Isabelle stood with his chin. "And kudos," he added. He really meant that. He was surprised the vampire had it in him. But then . . . Simon had changed right along with the rest of them. He was no longer the insecure, jealous, and scared rat boy he had first me. Simon had been forced to grow into his own, and had accepted the challenge head on. "Lot's of girls love that sensitive-undead thing," Jace continued. "But I'd drop the whole musician angle if I were you. Vampire rock stars are played out, and besides," Jace grinned innocently, "You can't possibly be very good."

Simon shook his head. "I don't suppose there's any chance you could reconsider the part where you didn't like me?" He sighed and Jace flashed an angelic smile. Nope! I'm going to be your new best friend.

Next to him, Clary rolled her eyes. "Enough, both of you," she snapped. "You can't be complete jerks to each other forever, you know."

"Technically," Simon began logically, "I can."

And Jace had to fight hard to keep from laughing and failed. But it wasn't just that he failed . . . he failed miserably. And his suppressed laughter came out sounding like a pig being butchered. Clary was looking up at him surprised, if not a little terrified—which admittedly only made him laugh harder. Shaking his head, he stopped trying to fight it.

Simon grinned. "Got you."

"Well," Clary beamed. "This is a beautiful moment."

It was a moment, Jace agreed. Though he wasn't sure about it being beautiful. It was a start, however. Turning, he looked over at Alec and Magnus again. Alec had his arm wrapped around the warlock's shoulder and was whispering in his ear. Nearby, Isabelle had captured Simon's attention, twisting her hair around her finger. And Maia and Aline sat on the wall, deep in conversation. It was definitely a start.

He had just been about to lead Clary over to the wall to sit when she pressed purposefully against his side. "I'll be right back," she whispered, and Jace looked down at her confused.

"Is everything okay?" He asked as he let go of her hand. He felt like he was letting go of a piece of himself.

Clary smiled. "Yeah. I just have to go talk to someone."

Jace watched her, his eyes searching her's. "Want me to come?"

"No," she smiled. "Thank you though. I really will be right back."

And he watched her go until she disappeared between two large werewolves. Sighing, Jace ran his fingers through his hair. Slowly, he made his way over to the wall and sat on it.

"Hey, Jace." It was Aline, looking across Maia at him.

And Jace smiled as he looked over at the Penhallow girl. She was wearing a red dress that made her hair look even more shockingly black than it already was. They had been through quite a lot these past few days, hadn't they? Not to mention their failed attempt at being in a relationship. Not that Jace thought it would have ever worked out. And yet . . . she didn't look all that put out by it. Either way, he was just glad they were all talking again. "Hey, Aline. How are you?"

Looking out at the people around her, she smiled. "Much better now," she said. "And you?"

Jace nodded. "Much better."

Aline cocked her head, studying him, but all she said was, "You look it." Turning back to Maia, they began talking again, leaving Jace to his thoughts. Not that he was left with them long. Alec came over a moment later, leaning against the wall.

"How are you doing?" Alec asked, crossing his arms.

"Well, I'm not awesome enough to be dating a warlock . . . but I can't complain," Jace grinned.

Alec smiled, refusing to be baited. "So you and Clary?" He said instead. "She was holding your hand when you guys walked up, so I'm guessing she's not completely repulsed by you then?"

"Repulsed? Why would she be repulsed?" Jace asked in an injured tone. "I've been known to be a lot of things, but repulsive has never been one. I'm beautiful!"

"Shut up," Alec said flatly, thought he was smiling. "Look, all I'm saying is, I'm happy for you guys. You are one of the best people I know, Jace . . . you deserve to be happy." And Jace smiled. He couldn't help it. This—all of this—it still felt like a dream. Like it was too good to be true.

"Thanks, Alec." Jace said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Um. Is Magnus wearing that headband?"

Alec followed Jace's gaze and scrunched his face up. "Yeah," he nodded. "Yeah he is."

After that, Jace watched as the people he loved laughed and joked with one another, even joining in at times. He watched as Izzy snuck some champagne, her cheeks growing redder and redder; and he laughed as Magnus conjured up a matching headband and put it on his boyfriend. Alec had quickly pulled it off. And when Robert and Maryse showed up, Jace hugged his adopted mother just a little bit longer and a little bit tighter than he ever had before. She was beaming when he let her go, a tear slipping down her face that she immediately wiped away. And then she was laughing, throwing her arm around Alec as Robert shook Magnus's hand. Jace noticed that Magnus had quickly removed his headband. And yet, even with as much fun as he was having, he still felt as though he was missing something. And he knew exactly what it was. Or rather, who. Clary hadn't even been gone that long, and yet it felt like it had been hours. Looking across the crowd he caught sight of her talking to her her mom and Luke. Luke had his arm around Jocelyn, and he was absolutely beaming. A moment later, Luke leaned over and planted a kiss on Jocelyn's head before she walked away, leaving the wolf leader and Clary alone. So Luke had finally gotten the girl he had been in love with forever. Good for him, Jace thought sincerely. He was a good man and deserved a good woman. And Jace knew that Jocelyn had to be a good woman, because she had raised the most amazing woman Jace had ever met. As if hearing his thoughts, Luke looked up and met Jace's eyes across the Square. Knowing Luke, he may very well have heard Jace's thoughts. The wolf leader always seemed to know what he was thinking. With an amused grin, Jace nodded at him. Luke nodded back.

"Clary!" Isabelle shouted suddenly and several people turned to look at her. If Izzy noticed she didn't care. She was pointing at the sky. "Fireworks."

Turning back to Luke, Jace watched as Clary hit him playfully on the shoulder before making her way back towards them. And the closer she got, the more whole he felt. Stopping in front of Jace, she looked up at the night sky.

"I don't see any fireworks," she said with a playful scowl. Which was weird, cause when Jace looked at her, all he saw was fireworks.

"Patience grasshopper," Maia said smiling. "Good thing's come to those who wait."

Simon, who had taken a seat next to the wolf girl, slapped his forehead. "I thought that was, 'Good things come to those who do the wave,'" he said. "No wonder I've been so confused all my life."

"'Confused' is a nice word for it," Jace said absently. He still couldn't take his eyes off Clary. She was his, he was hers, and everyone knew it now. Reaching forward, he took Clary's wrist gently in his fingers and pulled her to him. She came willingly. Leaning back against him, his legs on either side of her, Clary laid her head against his shoulder as Jace wrapped his arms around her stomach, his lips brushing her ear. "Where did you go?" He asked quietly.

"The Seelie Queen wanted me to do her a favor," she said with a shrug. "And she wanted to do me a favor in return." Was she kidding? Jace's arms tightened around her. Leaning back slightly, Jace looked at Clary. A favor from the Seelie Queen was a double edged blade. She had to know that— "Relax," Clary said, seeing his alarm. "I told her no."

Jace swallowed. "Not many people would turn down a favor from the Seelie Queen." But then again, most people weren't Clary. And Jace was thankful for this.

"I told her I didn't need a favor," Clary said, laying her head back against Jace's shoulder again. "I told her I had everything I wanted."

And Jace laughed softly. He could only imagine that the Queen wasn't pleased with Clary's refusal. Good. She had played with them like her own personal toys. Had tricked Clary—tricked them all. It would be all too soon if Jace ever had to see her again. Sighing, Jace traced his fingers up Clary's arm and across her collarbone where the Morgenstern ring hung on a chain.

He hadn't been surprised to see her wearing it. It was her birthright, after all. It had never been Jace's. No matter how he spun it, it had always been a lie. And truth be told, he was glad Clary had it. That she had kept it. It was a reminder of all they had been through. All they had fought against to be where they were now.

Turning his eyes to the sky, Jace's arms tightened around Clary, his chin resting on her shoulder as a rocket was sent shooting into the night. "Clary," he breathed. "Look."

The rocket exploded, lighting up the sky. And Clary watched, dazzled by the show. But Jace had missed it. He was watching Clary. He watched as the fireworks lit up her eyes. His heart pounded as she smiled with delight and cheered with the crowd. Turning he looked at his family and friends. Magnus was snuggled against Alec, Simon sitting awkwardly between Maia and Isabelle, Maryse and Robert sitting at a table. Across the square, Jocelyn was standing against Luke in an almost mirror image of Jace and Clary. Smiling, he pressed his lips against Clary's neck, which caused her to giggle and turn away. Jace's heart exploded.

And he knew then that he would never let her go. That this moment right here, with her in his arms—surrounded by his family and friends—was exactly where he would always want to be.

AN: So here it is. The end of book three! And holy shit. I cannot believe I made it! I want to give you all a HUGE thank you. Thank you for reading it. Thank you for being patient. Thank you for supporting me. Seriously, just . . . thank you! I cannot express my gratitude enough. You all rock.

And as always . . . Please Review