The amazing thing wasn't the picture itself, or the fact that it had managed to arrive at Clary's very unlisted number. The amazing thing was the fact that somebody had thought to themselves, You know, what I think will really make Clarissa Fairchild's day? An unsolicited picture of my genitals, then approved that as a reasonable thought, and then acted on it. When they said men accrued intelligence more slowly than women, what they meant was that was an average — and some of them never had any at all.

Either that, or Clary was so pretty it shocked the thoughts out of their tiny minds. When she signed up for modelling, that wasn't quite what she'd expected, but it had become more and more of a reality. Clary never really thought of herself as pretty. Cute, maybe, like a puppy. Clary was gangly — her limbs were too long, and the rest of her body too small. It had almost been like she was in a movie, getting scouted and signed. Before Clary knew it, she was swept up in a whirlwind of flashing cameras and clothes that had to be pinned in place and photoshopped.

Not exactly the dream.

Although, this was pretty dreamlike. Any second now, Clary was going to wake up and her phone would not be displaying the horrifying picture of Jace Wayland's horrifying nether regions.

Carefully, with dignity that the message did not deserve, Clary placed her phone face down on her sketchbook. The sketch stated back up at her — equally as distasteful. Her older brother, Jonathan sat astride a horse, his face contorted in angry scrawls of pencil. It was a metaphor, if Clary wanted to be artsy-fartsy, as he'd say. Jonathan loved sitting on his high horse and laughing at all the peasants below. In another universe, he'd make an excellent tyrannical dictator.

Clary sighed, and braced her hands on her kitchen counter. It wasn't late, only around six, and the golden sunset light was streaming in through her very nice view. Honestly, it was about time to go to sleep before the day got any worse. If she got a picture of one more… thingamabob, regardless of source, she was going to throw herself out the window of her fancy New York apartment.

"So," a voice said from behind her, velvet and amused. It was the kind of voice that belonged to a movie star, one from when talkies were just invented and voice was everything. "What's your preference? Emotional? Or physical?"

Clary spun, her sketchbook and phone forgotten. The girl behind her smirked, leaning against Clary's overpriced painting supply cabinet with the grace of a tiger. She was the sort of pretty everyone claimed Clary was — effortless, devastating, and utterly bewitching. Her hair was in perfect curls, tumbling down over her shoulders like it had been arranged by Michelangelo. Her grey dress was unzipped halfway — and a silver whip dangled from her hand, crossed ever so delicately across her chest.

Clary swallowed hard. "Um, I- This is my house." And usually Clary would be more concerned about that fact, seeing as she lived in a high security New York apartment. It should have been impossible to even get into the lobby. But there was something about this girl, something unearthly. She didn't look like she belonged in this world, or maybe even in this dimension. "What are you... doing in it?"

"Avenging," the girl said simply, and offered her free hand. Her nails were painted a striking red, like a lacquered fire hydrant. "Isabelle Lightwood, at your service."

Clary stepped forwards and shook Isabelle's hand, still in a bit of a daze. She was beginning to think this might've been a dream after all — but Isabelle's hand was warm and solid, and set Clary's heart to racing. "Avenging what, sorry?"

Isabelle didn't drop Clary's hand as she stepped closer, a smile spreading that was nothing short of dangerous. "You. Or more specifically-" and the smile curled back down into a scowl, "That."

Clary looked behind her. For a second, she thought Isabelle meant she was going to avenge something about her jailbird brother — but then the downturned phone caught her eye. Oh. Oh.

Isabelle's smile was kinder, this time, when Clary turned back to face her. She was close, but it wasn't threatening, like so many of the other people who made it their life's mission to invade Clary's personal space. "So, you've got a choice."

"A choice?" Clary parroted, and abruptly realized she was still holding Isabelle's hand. She dropped it, and scrubbed her hands on her sweats. Gah. She was wearing sweats. What was the point of being a model if the one time you ran into a pretty girl that wanted to hold your hand, you were dressed in sweats? Even more belatedly, it occurred to Clary that Isabelle, while pretty, was a stranger. In her house. "Sorry, but..." And damn, it was hard to concentrate while Isabelle was staring at her with those dark, lovely eyes. "Why are you in my house?"

"I'm a demon," Isabelle said reasonably. Nothing flickered, she didn't grow fangs, but Clary was suddenly all too sure she was telling the truth. Edges of swirling black marks were poking out from under her dress, intricate and not unlike something Clary might've drawn. "An avenging one, to be precise. Now, either I can give you the tutorial on how to send it to his entire family, or I can teleport to his house and maim him."

"Maim him?"

"A little bit."

Clary considered that. "…What does maiming entail?"

Isabelle smiled.

Clary had no idea how Isabelle convinced the bouncer that her whip was actually a fancy bracelet, but she wasn't complaining. Music pounded out into the street with such vigour Clary was surprised it hadn't set off any car alarms. People crushed in all around them, pushing Clary into Isabelle, which was halfnice and half electrifying. The sign flickered above them in time with the beat — one second reading PANDEMONIUM, the next reading… something else.

Isabelle seemed to like the fact that the club's name included the word demon. Clary liked her dress — silver and glittering and nothing like the frumpy thing Clary had on. Black. Plain. Boring. Something that wouldn't make anyone think of Clarissa Fairchild, model. Spending the afternoon with someone who didn't give a flying flip about Clary's job had been far too pleasant to spoil for a vengeance mission.

"All right, all right," the bouncer said, his jowl trembling in the heavy bass. "Go in. But I don't want to see any trouble from you!"

The likelihood of Isabelle not causing trouble was about the same likelihood of Clary not drawing on anything you placed in her hands. So really, no chance at all. Clary pretended she didn't know that, and smiled and reassured the man. Isabelle had already disappeared into the club and Clary was itching to follow, so she doubted the man felt very reassured, but that was his problem, not hers.

Isabelle glittered through the heated press of the crowd like the air above a fire — or maybe a moon, reflected in the rippling air. She was laughing, her head thrown back, her bracelet gleaming on the arm thrown so carelessly around the hulking shoulders of a blonde boy.

Clary recognized that face. She'd gone for the tutorial, too. Modelling had taught her a lot about falsity. What a face looked like under the makeup. Where the clothing was pinched in by clothespins and tape. When a smile was completely, utterly, and totally fake.

Isabelle's smile was completely, utterly, and totally fake. Which made her feel better about the situation than she thought it should.

Clary hopped up on a stool a couple feet from the pair, waved away the bartender. She wanted to see — and remember — every minute of this. It wasn't every day that you got to head out to a local bar with a demon on a vengeance mission. This time, Clary was lucky that she got to attend the beatdown. Jace lived close enough to her apartment that it was reasonable to track him down to a club. With future incident, Clary probably wouldn't be so lucky.

Trust me, Isabelle had said, running languid eyes up and down Clary's body. There'll be more. Every colour is your colour, Clary.

Jace looked about the same in person as he did in his photographs, but not nearly as much of him was visible. Which was a good thing, because there was a spare fork on the bar and now that Clary was seeing him in person, she didn't think she'd be able to resist. In another universe, Clary was sure Jace was a perfectly nice person. In this one, he was a douchecanoe. Things changed when you started getting into demons and other details of the worlds.

The song changed into something about parties, and then again into something about wild parties. Clary tapped her heels against the rungs of her stool and waited impatiently for Jace to get dragged outside. Her fingers itched for a pencil, or maybe a silver sharpie. Clary wanted to capture Isabelle on paper more than she'd ever wanted to draw anything else in her life.

Finally, halfway through a song about parties gone wrong, Jace stood. They slunk out the side door, Isabelle turning back just enough to wink at Clary. The door clicked shut behind them, but not before Clary saw the whip slithering down and lengthening back into itself.

Clary hopped off her seat, doing her best not to trample anyone or ruin anyone else's night. She burst out into the alley, panting from the heat of the club, the night air like a slap against her skin. Isabelle had Jace slammed to the brick wall a couple feet away, but it was less sensuous and more lethal. It was like the acoustic version of death — softer, less aggressive, but no less effective if you knew what you were doing.

Isabelle turned when Clary arrived, appearing not even slightly bothered by the chill in the air, or the struggling man. "Oh! Clary! You're just in time." Her teeth gleamed in the streetlights, and Clary revised her opinion of them not being sharp. They weren't sharklike, or vampiric, or anything that obvious, but they didn't look quite right, either.

Jace whimpered. Isabelle and Clary ignored him.

"May I?" Clary asked, and Isabelle stepped away. Jace slumped down against the brick, his fancy leather jacket rucked up and scored with what looked like claw marks. "Thanks."

Recognition flickered across Jace's ruggedly despicable face. And then apprehension. And then straight out fear. "Wait- Clarissa Fairchild?"

"I prefer Clary Fray," Clary said, and smiled daintily before kneeing him in the crotch. He collapsed, whining, and Clary stepped away, dusting off her hands. "Thanks for the picture. Don't do it again."

Isabelle clapped, and the sound rang like they were in a tunnel. Her nails were that same striking shade of red Clary had noticed earlier, but the edges were tinged in something darker. In the night, she looked darkly extraordinary. "Bravo! Looks like you didn't need my help at all."

Clary flushed bright red. "No, not at all! I didn't know how to find him. And you're the one that got him out of there."

Isabelle considered that, drawing one of her long nails along her chin. Her lashes fluttered, as silver as her dress. "I don't suppose you'd like to go back in?" Isabelle took a step closer, the same predatory look flashing in her eyes that she'd used on Jace. "Make it a proper date night?"

"That's… possible?"

Isabelle shrugged, a gloriously graceful movement. She was close enough now that Clary could feel the heat rolling off her skin. "My brother did it." Which was a story all in itself, not that Isabelle seemed inclined to share. "Are you ready?"

Clary gave Isabelle a smile of her own, and closed the gap. Isabelle kissed like a demon, all teeth and burning heat, pressed up against Clary like she was her salvation.

The amazing thing about being a model was the endless supply of unwanted selfies. They never stopped — which was great, when your girlfriend's job was avenging you. Maybe when modelling fell through, she'd give avenging a try.