I'm sorry this took so long. I fell in love, and then I got my heart broken. It was very energy consuming.

I don't know. Broken heart makes writing sometimes easier, sometimes harder. I'm trying my best. Thank you for waiting.

Jonathan Morgenstern followed his father down a dark street in Paris, his senses alert in the darkness for any noise that would call him into action to protect his father – the whisper of a blade in the darkness behind them, claws against the pavement - but the only noises he heard were shouts and laughter and boisterous conversation within the predominantly Downworld neighborhood the had entered.

They had glamoured themselves from mundanes, but glamours didn't work on Downworlders. It was an interesting way to differentiate between the two – the Downworlders who perked into caution at the very sight of them, the humans who didn't even glance in their direction. Humans parted around them with glazed eyes and slack muscles, fluid and complacent under the magic that kept them submerged in blindness. Downworlders glanced first at black runes and then into black eyes, curious and wary and suspicious, muscles tense and coiled.

His father ignored the stares. Jonathan returned them with mild interest. His demonic blood was excited by energy like this - so feral and dark and vivid - but he was rarely exposed to it. Only on occasions like this, when their father took them into cities on business, or to hunt demons for practice. Seraphina provided this enthralling energy in small doses, but any darkness she possessed was tempered by the angelic light singing through her veins. It couldn't compete with Jonathan's, and - especially without Seraphina - his darkness hungered for companionship.

A werewolf crossed the street to avoid them, one of his brothers in wolf form scampering behind him. A fleeting urge to give chase burst through Jonathan's chest, but he repressed it. They weren't hunting tonight. His father had been firm about that.

A pair of faeries huddled in a doorway as they passed, whispering in a language Jonathan didn't understand. His father didn't even glance at them.

"Let news of us pass through Downworld if it must," his father had told him. "The Clave is far too arrogant and delusional to heed warnings of us. As for the Downworlders, their fate is already decided. Their whispers are nothing but shadows."

Despite the whispers, the odds of a Downworlder actually recognizing Valentine by sight were slim, so it was with little apprehension or caution that Valentine and Jonathan made their way to their meeting. The stares they were attracting were due to the runes on their skin and nothing more. This deep into Downworld, the presence of any Shadowhunter was strange and unwelcome, and undoubtedly suspicious.

A passing vampire girl stared first at Valentine – curiously, suspiciously – and then at Jonathan. He met her eyes and saw a warm curl of interest in her gaze as she looked at him, and he smiled at her. She brushed against him like a cat as she passed, her hand ghosting across his hip, but he didn't pay much mind to it. He couldn't leave his father, and the girl – blonde and tall and blue-eyed – wasn't to his taste.

"I detest these meetings," his father muttered.

His father had spoken in French, so Jonathan switched to the same language to say, "I'm not fond of them either."

"You just get bored," his father said irritably. Jonathan rolled his eyes. His father liked to pretend he was the only one who ever did anything meaningful or significant, while everyone else bumbled about like imbeciles basking in his glory.

"You could have left me at home," Jonathan muttered sullenly.

"I need you here," his father reprimanded firmly. "Until your sister gets the Mortal Cup and I control these demons absolutely, these meetings are dangerous."

Jonathan rolled his eyes again but remained silent.

"We're almost there," his father said, still in French. "Are you ready?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Whenever you are, Father."

They rounded a corner to a nearly deserted street, a last few stragglers dissipating into alleys and around corners at the sight of them. A house in the middle of the street was their destination - a tall, brick building that might have been beautiful once but was now dilapidated and crumbling. Jonathan and his father stopped before the iron gate that barred the pathway to the front door, waiting patiently until a low hiss brought their attention to the hulking shapes in the front yard.

Arach demons looked almost exactly like spiders; hence the name. Two had been posted as guards outside the decrepit home in which Jonathan's father had planned a meeting with a Greater Demon named Sergulath. Though his father hadn't divulged the exact details of the purpose for the meeting, Jonathan knew it was related to his plan to overthrow the Clave - everything was related to that, lately.

The gate swung open, creaking, and through the front windows Jonathan could see only an impenetrable darkness within the house.

"Wait outside," his father told him, still in French. It wasn't the first time they had met this demon, and Valentine no longer brought Jonathan inside with him. His father claimed it was because he was certain the demon didn't plan on killing him – not before it received its reward, at least – where before he hadn't been. But Jonathan had a feeling it was because his father didn't want him to know everything he was planning. That would require a level of trust not even Seraphina had managed to glean from their father.

Jonathan nodded and leaned against the brick ledge next to the front porch, watching his father pound on the door, be admitted, and then disappear into the darkness of the house. Jonathan drew his dagger and flipped it in his hands, pensive, until he was interrupted by a hissing sound in his ear. He turned to see one of the Arach demons suspending itself upside-down from a black, web-like fluid that allowed it to hang from the window ledge above them. All of its eyes were fixed on Jonathan, black and shiny and lifeless.

"No Seraphina this time?" it asked Jonathan, his sister's name leaving its ghastly mouth in a hiss.

"No Seraphina," Jonathan confirmed morosely.

"Yes, where is your darling sister?" asked the other Arach, to his left.

"Not here," Jonathan answered curtly.

"Pity. I was looking forward to seeing her again."

"And I was looking forward to ripping those beady eyes out of your vile face for looking at her," Jonathan said coolly. "Disappointment abounds."

The Arach he had threatened opened and closed its fangs a few times, eliciting a wet clicking noise. Jonathan wasn't sure what the gesture represented – surprise, maybe, or anger. He wasn't sure demons could feel many emotions besides those anyway. Whatever its desires, it didn't say any more to Jonathan, who was more than content to wait for his father in silence.

A red-haired girl was walking past on the other side of the street, and Jonathan watched her like a starving wolf. Her hair was too orange to match his sister's. Her eyes, though green, were too light. But Jonathan still felt something dark and pleasured curling through his stomach. The Arach clicked its fangs again, and Jonathan believed for a moment that the fangs were his.

The girl glanced in their direction, but Jonathan could tell by the way her eyes glazed over him that she couldn't see them.

"Strange," he remarked, "a human around here."

"It happens," one Arach hissed. "Innocent flesh, so sweet and soft… lured into darkness, where we wait. Always waiting."

Jonathan grimaced. He was used to demons that were mute and stupid; monsters all the same but still mindless, predictable. It was only since he had been older that he had had contact with demons like this - demons who were more powerful, more intelligent; demons who could speak and organize themselves into hierarchies and express in words those hellish desires that sung rank in their chests. He hated it. Sometimes it reminded him of himself. Sometimes the whispers he heard in the darkness were the same whispers he heard in his heart.

He watched the red-haired girl fade out of sight, back onto a street that was more populated by humans - safe, loud, light - and wondered if the demons felt the same desires that he did; the same desire for her to wander back into the darkness, where they were waiting.

"Hungry, dark Shadowhunter?" one of the Arachs hissed.

The other made a croaking noise that sounded vaguely like a laugh. "We can tell. We can smell it. You wanted her, didn't you?"

"You could still catch her," the first hissed. "You must have caught her scent. Just follow it."

When Jonathan remained still, his jaw clenched, his muscles tense, one of the Arachs let out the same croaking, horrible laugh. "Suit yourself. She couldn't rival Seraphina's sweetness, anyway."

"How would you know?" Jonathan snarled warningly.

"Got a taste of her once. Made sure you weren't watching and stole it, took it from the skin of that lovely neck."

By the time the demon had finished muttering its garbling words Jonathan's vision had disappeared and been replaced by a red haze, and then all he felt was the handle of his dagger digging into his palm as he tightened his grip, his muscles moving with a vicious, mechanical quickness, his thoughts disappearing in the noise and motion, Seraphina's name running through his mind and her song igniting his bones as red anger, black death overtook every muscle in his body.

Some minutes later, his father emerged from the front door of the house and paused on the steps, taking in the sight before him. Though the demons' corpses had disappeared, black blood still smeared the pavement and covered Jonathan's hands, and Valentine sighed.

"Sorry," Jonathan said without much sincerity.

"Marvellous," his father said curtly, buttoning his suit coat. "Now I have to go back inside and negotiate the replacement of his guards."

Jonathan shrugged indifferently. "Tell him they were disrespectful."

"Angel's sake, they're demons, Jonathan. What do you expect?"

Jonathan shrugged again, but his father was already walking back into the house.

Jonathan sighed as he leaned back against the ledge, his thoughts returning to him as his heart slowed. He missed the physical exertion from moments before; the adrenaline that had drowned out the voices in his head, the movement that kept his dark fantasies at bay. But they were back, now, and without Seraphina there he couldn't stop them.

He was seeing the red-haired girl. He imagined himself finding her, following her scent just as the Arachs had suggested. He knew she would welcome him; mortals were helpless and stupid when they found something beautiful. She would welcome him, but she would know he was different. And it would only make it easier for him to take her. He imagined her pink lips parting in innocent wonder as she pointed at ichor on his sleeve and murmured, "What's that?" in delicate French. He saw her skin, smooth and white and untouched by the darkness and evil and filth of his world. Untouched until him, that is. Pure until he found her. Innocent until he took her and tried to make some sense of her, of that inherent goodness in the human heart that he could never understand no matter how hard he tried. He would try to understand her but would only destroy her. He wouldn't stop until she bled in his arms, bled blood that would look just like his but must be different, certainly.

He sighed when his thoughts spiralled into something so chaotic even his demon heart couldn't make sense of it. The discordant fantasy had done nothing to soothe the pulsing pain in his chest. The girl wasn't Seraphina.

But he had been away from her so long. He was aching. He was distraught.

He was hungry.

He needed her.

In his life full of turmoil and pain and the war in his heart, there had been few constants – the forest that surrounded their manor, full of secrets and monsters and wild darkness; his father, cruel and magnificent and heartbroken; and his sister. His beautiful, fickle, passionate sister. Fickle in everything, but constant to him.

Jonathan wished the Arach demons hadn't mentioned his sister, but they had, and now she would be all he could think about. Usually, missions with his father that took them away from the manor were the only moments of freedom for Jonathan. Freedom from the lingering scent of his sister's skin, stale and cold in dark hallways and cavernous rooms. Free from the sight of a dark forest and the memories embedded in the trees, whispering of nights spent in dreamy darkness full of excitement and a violent love.

In the manor, with the scent of her skin and the bitter-sweetness of their love aching in his chest, Jonathan spent most of his time attempting to piece together what was happening in his sister's heart. Something had happened in that dark, beautiful storm in her chest that had become so familiar to him.

A disturbance. A flash of lightning, tearing the storm in half with a light so blinding it pushed Jonathan away completely.

It was hard to discern the source, with Seraphina hidden from him so often by whatever she had done - whatever was hiding her from him. But Jonathan had spent enough time analyzing the change to riddle out that it wasn't something, but someone.

In fact, it felt like two different people. That alone was cause for wonder. Seraphina, so aloof and capricious and reticent, had somehow stumbled across two people in that damnable city forceful enough to touch her dark heart. The heart that belonged to him.

Her feelings for one were calmer; conflicted and wavering at times, but still present; simple in an innocent, certain way. It was not love – or, if it was, it was not love in a way Jonathan understood it. It was too simple, too quiet. When Seraphina loved, it was with more fervour than that – Seraphina loved in a passionate, blistering way, with all of the force that she could muster from that summer storm in her chest. He wasn't worried about that person, whoever it was; that brief flicker of lightning. Seraphina hated simplicity, hated stillness and silence – she would get bored eventually.

It was the other one that scared him. If the first was a flicker, this was a blinding flash, the kind that made time seem suspended and broke through storm clouds with pure white light. Confusion, affection, admiration, resentment, lust – all blending together in an intense, complex, passionate mixture that was very Seraphina. And very dangerous. Dangerous for her, and for him; for them. What was she doing? And more importantly, who was she with? He knew he had cause enough to worry. Her angel blood made her sympathetic, compassionate, romantic and idealistic when it came to things concerning art or beauty or sentimentality. She was weak, in that way, and beautiful.

That wasn't to say it was common for her to develop feelings like this for anyone. It took a great deal to make Seraphina interested in someone. She was restless and passionate and chaotic; relationships didn't come easily to her. She needed to be captivated, intrigued, excited, entertained. She needed to be trapped, managed and controlled. Jonathan had become a master at that, at finding ways to release and manage the restless energy in his sister's heart so that she would have the patience to stay with him. He knew exactly how to make her happy and exactly when to punish her. He knew when to keep her to himself, when to hold her hand and when to bruise her, when to kiss her forehead and when to wrap his hands around her throat. He had come to fancy that he was the only one who would manage that. Apparently, he had been wrong.

He felt betrayed by his sister, forgotten and cast aside in favor of those who were more accessible to her. And beneath his hurt, he felt the burning excitement of being challenged. Seraphina was his. He had long ago sworn to tear apart anyone who tried to take her from him. She was all he had, all he would ever have. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever known, the only person he had ever loved, the only person who had ever loved him. Her light belonged to him, belonged nestled in the heart of his darkness, in the darkness of his heart. Her body belonged to him; her skin was made to bear his bruises. Her blood whispered his name.

He knew he still had power over her. He could feel it, a golden thread tying their hearts together and drawing them towards each other. He wasn't worried about losing her completely. But he was worried about the ground he had lost. All those years of hard work poured into his control over her, and she had escaped him in just a few short weeks. Her formidability, for all the anger it had created within him, proved her worthy of his obsessions, at least. He had always known she was special. Evanescent and unattainable, even for him.

He hadn't lost his sister. But now he had to fight for her. He forced himself to think of it as an opportunity – he would prove to her that he was worthy of her. He would prove to her that she would never find anyone better than him, anyone that could make her happier than he could.

He didn't know who, exactly, had caused the disturbance in his bond with his sister. But he had his suspicions. And the forerunner was Jace. A young Jonathan had fancied Jace the bane of his existence, for reasons that had never made much sense. His father had thought it ridiculous and baseless, and his sister, upon aging and learning of his murder attempt against their adoptive brother, had thought the same. There had even been occasions where the two of them laughed about it together. Oh, Jonathan, they would say, as if a seven year old attempting to murder another child was cause for amusement. Leave it to the Morgensterns to find something like that funny.

But now, he began to fear, he had been right about that bastard all along. His current suspicions of the boy were as baseless and unjustified as his childish hatred. And yet Jonathan couldn't shake the suspicion from his bones.

His sister hated his demon heart. She told him it would destroy both of them if he let it overcome him. But now, he began to think the demon inside him had been right all along. Hadn't it been his demon heart that first told him to capture Seraphina, to make her his? Hadn't it been his demon heart that urged him to kill the other Jonathan before it was too late?

Hadn't his demon heart, just weeks before, told him to steal Seraphina away before she could be taken away from him? His demon heart had never trusted Jace. His demon heart had never trusted their father. Not where Seraphina was concerned. No one could be trusted when it came to her. And Jonathan hadn't listened. And now his sister was apart from him, missing from him, and they were both in agony. And he might be losing her in an even bigger way. He should have listened to the monster.

His father exited the house, then, his face tense with stern irritation, and Jonathan tore himself from his musings.

"Sorted?" Jonathan asked nonchalantly.

"Sorted," his father confirmed irritably, brushing past Jonathan to stalk down the street back the way they had come.

Seraphina had always had the reputation of being the moody one in their family, but, watching his father on the walk back, Jonathan wondered if perhaps that was unfair.

When they reached the bridge that lay just before the portal they had taken, Jonathan's father turned to him. "Are you coming home with me?" he asked. His face was stern and lined with worry, and Jonathan knew he was in a hurry to get home to ponder over whatever had happened in his meeting with Sergulath. Jonathan also knew his father would be an irritable wreck all night - he always was, after meetings like this, and he tended to take it out on Jonathan and Seraphina.

"No," Jonathan answered. "I'll meet you there later."

His father nodded distractedly and left him there, following the bridge back the way they had come.

Jonathan leaned against the railing of the bridge, staring at the water below. The water was bright and shimmering where it reflected the city lights, black and bottomless where it flowed beneath the bridge. He heard his sister's voice urging him to go home. He heard a demon song curling through his heart, urging him into the hunt he so desperately wanted.

He was gripping the railing so tightly that the bones of his hand pressed white against the pale skin like they might pierce through. There was a scent in his nose that he couldn't shake from his nerves no matter how hard he tried. A fantasy was unfurling behind his eyes once more. Red hair, green eyes - slightly off, but close enough. Human blood welling between his cruel fingers. An innocent flower weeping against his palm.

He felt his vision turning red again. He knew he was losing himself. He struggled for the surface but couldn't find it. He was floating, face to black sky in a non-world where he couldn't breathe but he said the same name over and over. Seraphina. Seraphina. Seraphina.

His hands were no longer gripping the railing. His legs were moving, carrying him away from the black water. He still couldn't breathe. He couldn't speak. He thought nothing but her name as darkness enveloped his being, every inch of his aching skin. Later, he heard himself speak. He charmed, he intrigued, he faked a laugh. He lured.

His demon heart burst into life, sending its song surging through his veins in a rush of black blood. His muscles hardened. He felt fingernails drag against his skin, blood on his hands. He smelled smoke. Death came when he called it, flowing through his fingers.

And through it all, everything was black. His heart withered in his chest and his skin shook and his mind spun. And he heard only her name, over and over, singing through his bones and coursing through his black veins.

Seraphina.

Seraphina.

He screamed.

Jonathan awoke with blood on his hands and an ache in his bones. He had fallen asleep in Seraphina's room again, on the floor next to her bed. That's where the scent of her was strongest. He had stopped sleeping on the bed when he noticed that his scent was beginning to overwhelm hers. The way he had left it, he could smell both of them. When he fell asleep at night he imagined Jonathan and Seraphina were sleeping together like they used to every night when they were children, and that he himself was just a ghost beside them, silent and sightless as he inhaled the air of their exhaled breaths, perpetuating his life with only the fragile existence of the memory of them.

When he moved he sensed a different scent laid across him like a shadow – the scent of the girl's skin against his clothes, the blood from torn fingernails dragged through his hair, fear and death splayed across him like paint on a canvas.

His scalp ached where she had pulled his hair, his skin bore scratches from her desperate fingers. His heart felt impossibly heavy in his chest, black and sinking with every shuddering beat, collapsing into itself. Seraphina had returned sometime during the night, when he was asleep, flooding his mind with light and banishing his nightmares for a few moments. She was gone now, and the rune that was supposed to bind them was once more a cold, dead thing on the skin of his chest, absent of the pulsing warmth that meant his sister's heart was beating with his.

His father burst into the bedroom, already speaking briskly about their plans for the day – something about a meeting, a contact that needed to be solidified. He paused when he took in Jonathan's disheveled appearance, his position on the floor, the items scattered around him.

"What's this?" his father asked quietly, taking a small denim jacket from where it had been thrown on an armchair and holding it up for Jonathan to see.

Jonathan, meeting his father's gaze with guilt and rage and fear churning in his chest, didn't answer.

Even without his answer, his father knew. He took in the blood on the jacket he was holding; the scratches on Jonathan's neck, left by fingernails; the bloody dagger beside him that he had been too tired to clean the night before; and knew what had happened.

His father showed no anger or surprise, his face remaining impassive and his tone cool. "What was she?" he asked Jonathan.

"Human."

"Mundane? You're certain?"

Jonathan nodded, and his father seemed relieved. "Good," he said. "Then it won't cause any problems for us." He threw the jacket back onto the chair. "I trust you cleaned up after yourself."

Jonathan nodded again, remembering the searing heat of the flames and the scent of burning flesh.

His father turned to leave, but Jonathan stopped him. "Father," he called, and his father turned to look at him, his face still expressionless. "I didn't mean to," Jonathan whispered, overcome with guilt and feeling very much like a child.

He didn't know what he wanted from his father – forgiveness, maybe, or reassurance. But what he got instead was a short nod, black eyes shifting away from him, the slam of the door being shut as his father left him alone in his sister's bedroom.

More than ever, Jonathan wished for his sister. If she had been there, she wouldn't have brushed off what had happened like their father had. She would have been disappointed in him, and angry, and she would make him promise not to do it again. She would be disturbed by him for a while, and she would hide from him in empty, abandoned rooms where she would draw in her sketchbook and try not to think about him. And she wouldn't speak to him or go into the forest with him until he hunted her down and forced her to, and the pain of being without her while he hunted for the scent of her skin in the manor would be enough to give him the strength to push back the darkness and be a better man. All for her.

But if Seraphina were there, it wouldn't have happened in the first place. He wouldn't have been so angry, when he found that red-headed girl in a café in Paris. It wouldn't have felt so good to think of his sister and how angry and helpless he was as he gripped red hair in his clenched fists and poured his evil and misery into pale, innocent skin. If Seraphina were there, she would have helped him find himself before things got that bad. Any time he had been able to silence his demon heart, any time he had been able to cool the burning demon blood in his veins, it had been because of her.

Hopelessness clenched his throat as he rose from the floor and left his sister's room to go to his, after realizing distantly that his father would never stand for him looking so disheveled. He needed a shower and a change of clothes, desperately. He could have showered in his sister's room, but he feared the steam and the scent of his soap would blur away the ghost of her.

The water was hot enough to burn his skin, but he didn't flinch away from it. For a moment, he immersed himself in the feeling - the heat, the agonized energy sparking through his skin - and wondered if being burned alive felt similar. If the girl had felt a similar sensation, when he had done it to her.

The blood on his skin had darkened when it dried, turning it a shade almost the color of Seraphina's hair, but it lightened under the force of the water until eventually it disappeared.

He joined his father in the dining room several minutes later, staring blankly at the seat Seraphina usually occupied as he settled into the chair next to his father. His father didn't acknowledge him, and Jonathan began to wonder why he had been called there at all.

The silence made him think too much, and he felt himself growing more and more sullen as the minutes dragged past. Finally, his miserable anger got the best of him and spilled past his lips, interrupting his father's studious silence.

"Why him?" Jonathan demanded, breaking the silence with a voice like cracking glass. "Why did you need Jace too?"

His father flinched a bit at the name, his eyes tightening at the corners when Jonathan said "Jace." Jonathan had adjusted to the new name much faster than his father had; to him, it was a relief. Sharing his name had never sat well with him. Once he had heard how beautiful it sounded in his sister's mouth, he had wanted it all to himself.

His father looked up at him for the first time, his gaze steady and probing. It was a while before he spoke. "Your mother wasn't pregnant when I began with the Herondales," he explained slowly. "When I discovered she was, I wanted to use my own child, as I had before. But I couldn't abandon the work I had already put into Jace."

But you did, Jonathan wanted to point out. Eventually, you did. But Jonathan had already asked his father why Jace had been sent away, when he was a child and it had first happened, and the result had been extremely painful. Only Seraphina could get away with questions like that. Instead, he asked, "Why did you choose him though? Surely other Circle members had children?" He wasn't sure why he was asking. He knew he would hate his competitor no matter what family he came from. But right now he hated Jace, and thinking about it in terms any more complicated gave him a headache.

His father took even longer to answer this time. "The Herondales," he finally said, carefully, "are an interesting family, to say the least."

"How so?"

"Long story. Did you finish the book I gave you last week?"

Jonathan nodded, but he wasn't in the mood for the vocal quizzing that was sure to follow, so he pressed forward. "So… you really think Seraphina can convince our mother to come back?"

His father seemed to think about it, and then he sighed. "No, most likely she won't. But it will be a start, I think."

"Until you swoop in and save the day, you mean."

His father rolled his eyes. Seraphina always rolls her eyes. His anger re-ignited in his chest, and he latched onto it with grateful, vicious glee.

"Maybe you two could have another child," he suggested. "It could be a hybrid this time – angel blood and demon blood." Jonathan affected enthusiasm, the false emotion settling easily into his tone after years of training and practice in being normal, but his father detected the mockery of his statement.

"Very amusing, Jonathan," he said without glancing up from the papers he was examining, in a tone that didn't sound at all amused. "But I don't believe it would work. I was hoping for something like that when I injected the demon blood into Seraphina before she left."

"Wait, you actually considered doing that?" Jonathan asked in surprise – real surprise. "Making a child with both bloods?"

"Yes. But, as I said, I don't believe it would work."

"What happened? When you did it to Seraphina?"

"The demon blood was poison to her, and eventually her body got rid of it."

"The demon blood just… disappeared?" he asked, bemused. "Did you give her holy water or something?"

"I didn't need to give her anything," his father said. "Her blood is her holy water."

"So… her angel blood was stronger? It extinguished the demon blood?"

"Precisely. It was so, I believe, because her angel blood is so established, so ingrained in her being after all these years. In an infant, however, I worry the two bloods would combat each other into destruction."

"The baby would die, you mean."

"Yes."

"So you won't try it?" Jonathan asked. And then he smiled, cruel and biting. "Or you just won't do it to your child this time?"

"Enough, Jonathan." His father's voice had sharpened into a biting slash, and Jonathan revelled in it. He had always enjoyed getting under his father's skin; a pleasure that had grown more and more vicious in his sister's absence. Now, it wasn't enough to irritate Valentine. Jonathan wanted him angry, distracted, uncomfortable. Valentine deserved it.

"Honestly," his father derided. "I don't understand what's gotten into you lately."

It's what's gotten out of me that's causing trouble. Seraphina. Seraphina was gone, and without her a part of him was missing. The part that thought maybe the stirrings in his chest were more than just wishful thinking. The part that thought maybe someday he could fight this darkness on his own. The human part.

"I know you miss Seraphina," his father said, "but the sooner we each do our part in this, the sooner we'll all be together again. As a family."

Jonathan scoffed. He had no concern for their "family." Only for her.

"Some family," Jonathan muttered.

His father glanced up at him with hard, black eyes.

"I know you both think me some sort of monster for separating you. But I'll remind you that I am much more accepting of your… relationship than anyone else would be."

Jonathan stilled. "What do you mean, father?" he asked slowly, lowly.

"You know exactly what I mean, Jonathan." His father's voice had lowered too, with an anger darker and older than his usual bouts of irritation and frustration.

Jonathan remained silent as two hearts raced in his chest - his demon heart, indignant and shameless; his human heart, guilty and wretched.

"You know I love her?" his father said softly, no longer looking at Jonathan but staring at his hands.

"My sister," Jonathan whispered, his human heart racing ahead and subduing the storm in his chest.

"Your sister," his father affirmed. "I love her. You know that."

"I didn't," Jonathan muttered, angry on behalf of Seraphina - Seraphina, who deserved all the love in the world but only received a twisted, dark imitation of it from Jonathan, and cruelty and turmoil from everyone else.

His father scoffed. "Of course I love her," he said, as if Jonathan were being a fool. "She's my daughter."

His father's voice had taken on the quiet, reflective quality it always did in the rare moments he delved into the dark clouds in his heart. He only ever talked about such personal things with Jonathan - his father thought Jonathan heartless, a demon in all the ways that mattered, and so he believed Jonathan didn't understand the things he said. He thought Jonathan an empty vessel, devoid of emotion and understanding, a cold shell that he could pour his own misery into. At younger ages, Jonathan wondered why his father didn't discuss his secrets, his emotions, with Seraphina instead - Seraphina, who had always been his favorite, who alone received small doses of kindness and affection from their father.

Now, Jonathan understood. His father didn't want to be understood, didn't want Seraphina to know of the storm in his chest - Seraphina, who felt everything with such immersed intensity that she would no doubt understand even the darkest clouds of their father's storms. He would rather have Jonathan - so empty he could barely understand basal human emotions, so awful that he couldn't pass judgement even if he wanted to.

"Do you know how hard it is for me to watch you two?" his father said. "To see what you've done to her?" He paused for a long while. "I don't know how I let it happen. One day you hated her, the two of you never spoke, I held her in the palm of my hand and she was mine alone. And then… One day I woke up and she was gone. You both were. I would go entire days without seeing either of you. You would spend entire nights in the forest, doing God knows what with the monsters in those trees. I watched you and realized something between you had grown so strong it shut me out completely. And suddenly I was helpless. I heard you in each other's bedrooms every night and there was nothing I could do… I saw new bruises on her skin every day and there was nothing I could do."

"You know damn well some of them were yours," Jonathan said with quiet dejection.

His father continued as if he hadn't spoken. "I was too late. I lost her to you."

"Yes," Jonathan said lowly, almost growling, "you did." And you won't take her away from me.

"You have no idea how hard it's been for me," his father repeated, and Jonathan could hear hatred in his voice. "To watch what you've done to her…"

At those words, anger and indignation swelled in Jonathan's chest like angry waves on a rushing sea. Their father didn't understand. To think that Jonathan did anything out of a desire to harm Seraphina - even to the darkest fragments of his soul, the thought was abhorrent. Everything he did was for her, for them. He only hurt her because otherwise she wouldn't stay with him, and he was what she needed - even when she herself didn't know it. They only caused each other pain because misery had become an inescapable portion of their existence - and that was Valentine's fault, not his. It was Valentine's fault that, to Jonathan and Seraphina, love and pain went hand in hand.

Jonathan was doing the best he could. Jonathan was doing everything he could to keep Seraphina safe from their father, to keep her safe from his own darkness, to keep them together.

As awful as Jonathan could be, both halves of him loved her. Both would do anything for her. Both would put her before everything else. The human in him brushed her hair, held her hand, slept beside her; admired her beauty with all the reverence it deserved, remained calm and patient in the storm of her without flinching away, without turning away from her even in her darkest demon within him retracted its claws for her, softened its blows, blurred the darkness, wanted to sink fangs venom-tipped with the misery of their violent love into her fragile skin and make her whole. And as long as he could expel the restlessness of his dark half often enough, as he always had, it would always be safe for her to be with him. As long as he exacted his terror on others instead - like the girl from the night before - Seraphina would never, ever be in danger from him. And though he and Seraphina had long ago realized their father would never understand the love bore between them, his father's current presumptuousness was sending his blood boiling.

"You don't know what I've done to her," Jonathan finally found the words to say. "Even as you've watched it, you don't understand. I won't let you berate me into guilt for how I feel about her. I won't let you ignore the blame you hold in this. It's time for you to realize that when you altered our blood, you were tampering with elements you don't understand. You have to realize that it's changed us, that it has created something between us which you have no part of.

"I see your disgust. I see your confusion. I believe, even, that it has broken your heart to lose her this way. But know this, Father - when I intervened in Seraphina's life, when I began the relationship you find so offensive and vulgar, she needed me. I did not steal her from you; you had already cast her aside. I did not make her love me; it was already in her heart. Seraphina is as miserable a creature as I am. It's not as obvious with her, I know. She has a beauty that I don't, a sense of innocence, and inherent goodness buried somewhere deep within her. But don't use that as cause to ignore the fact that you've nearly ruined her, time and time again, and taken it for granted that she somehow manages to pull herself back together and offer herself to you again.

"It's clear you don't understand us - as individuals or together. You never will. But let me bring your attention to one thing; Seraphina is not the sole victim of our relationship. I am too. I'm the one who follows her about in tortured agony over the wretched thing you've made of me, over the things I am unable to give her. Seraphina could move on from me. Seraphina could wander away in restlessness as she so often does and leave me behind, and love another, and be alright. It's me who is trapped. I can never love anyone but her. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. You took that ability away from me, when you turned me into this monster. It's Seraphina who holds me captive. I belong to her, just as much as she belongs to me."

His father didn't answer, wouldn't look at him.

"You can pretend all you like that I'm the monster here," Jonathan continued with less bite. "I know it comforts you. But I know - and Seraphina knows, and I believe you know it too - that it's you who's the real monster. You're the one who ruined us. You're the reason we're this way."

That part wasn't necessarily true; though Jonathan had known that for some time, he knew Seraphina was having a much more difficult time seeing their father's cruelty for what it was. If she weren't, she would have run away when Jonathan offered. She wouldn't be in New York, tearing herself apart and putting her relationship with Jonathan at risk for the man who had already caused them so much pain.

His father stared at him with burning eyes, enraged and frantic but silent. Jonathan expected pain, a punishment of some kind; they had become even more frequent in Seraphina's absence. It seemed everything he did infuriated their father, and this, certainly, would be the death of him. But still his father only stared at him, a bewildered anger in his eyes that Jonathan wished he could decipher. His father tore his gaze away, directing it towards his hands instead, and remained that why for several minutes.

And then, with a brisk sigh, he brought his gaze back to Jonathan's. "This isn't what I wanted to talk to you about," he muttered.

"You wanted to talk to me?" Jonathan repeated acerbically.

"There's a rune," his father said with severe, quiet urgency, "on your chest."

Jonathan knew what his father was talking about – the rune that bound he and Seraphina, that had tied their hearts together. He nodded once, slowly.

"Seraphina put it there," his father said.

Jonathan nodded again.

"She created this rune?"

"Yes," Jonathan answered.

"What does it do?"

"It bonds us."

"How deeply?"

"As deep as the soul."

Jonathan waited with coiled muscles for a comment from his father about his probable lack of said soul, but it never came.

"And this rune allows you to… feel each other?"

"I guess you could see it that way," Jonathan said, knowing he could never explain just how deeply it affected them - how their hearts beat to the same rhythm; how there were two storms in their chests, interconnected; how Jonathan held his sister within his heart like a bird in a cage.

"Would this rune alert you to any sort of… disturbance?"

"Disturbance," Jonathan repeated flatly.

"I think you know what I mean."

"You don't trust her?" Jonathan said, raising an eyebrow but otherwise remaining impassive.

"Of course I do," his father protested. "I just… there are certain… variables in New York that I didn't anticipate."

"Variables," Jonathan mused, unresponsive.

"Jonathan," his father snapped, his patience clearly faltering. "This is important."

"I'm fully aware of the importance of Seraphina's mission in New York," Jonathan said. "It's importance to you, at least," he added with a smirk.

His father no longer responded to Jonathan's instigations. "You would tell me, wouldn't you? If someone… something…. disturbed her in any way, interfered with her ability to complete the mission. You would feel it? And you would tell me."

"I would feel it," Jonathan confirmed.

"And you would tell me," his father repeated urgently.

Jonathan said yes, but it wasn't true. Seraphina's heart had already been touched, her focus and commitment already disturbed. And Jonathan didn't plan on saying a word. He didn't care if it meant the downfall of their father's plans. He only cared about what it meant for them – for Jonathan and Seraphina. Their father could succeed and rule the world and every creature in it, and Jonathan wouldn't care if it meant he lost Seraphina. Their father could fail and fall into ruin and ashes, and Jonathan would be happy if it left him and Seraphina alone.

"I'll make you a deal," Jonathan decided, perhaps still giddy on having escaped punishment for his earlier brazenness towards his father and motivated by his desperation for his sister.

"A deal?" his father repeated warily. Just a few years ago, Jonathan's audacity would have earned him punishment. But he was an adult now, fully formidable, and his father seemed to realize it.

"Yes."

"And what is your proposition?" his father asked cautiously.

"I will keep an eye on Seraphina, with our bond," said Jonathan. "And if I think intervention is necessary to keep our plans in place, I will inform you."

"On what conditions?"

"Only one condition, Father," Jonathan said. "That condition being that, if I deem intervention a necessary course of action, I will be the one to go to her. I will deal with the disturbance alone, and I will have your permission to do so."

His father narrowed his eyes, and Jonathan knew he was searching for a way to gain more power in the situation.

"You yourself admitted that you've lost her to me," Jonathan continued. "That you lost her to me a long time ago. You must know that if we lose her, I'll be the one to bring her back. You know you couldn't do it."

His father still wasn't convinced. Jonathan pressed forward. "If something happened to her there, and we lost her, you would have two options. You could bring her back to us, or you could kill her. Unless you want to pursue the second course of action, you need me. And you know it."

"I wouldn't kill her," Valentine said lowly. "And you wouldn't let me, anyway," he added with bitter, resigned amusement.

Jonathan grinned. "True."

"To clarify - you agree to alert me should Seraphina encounter an… obstacle that would render her unable to complete her portion of the plan. And your condition is that you will go to her alone, should this occur."

"Precisely."

"Deal."

A part of Jonathan was surprised, but his father's decision wasn't altogether unexpected. Under normal circumstances, Valentine would never allow for such a variable in his plan. But Seraphina had always been his weakness, just as she had always been Jonathan's. They couldn't hurt her. They couldn't find it in their hearts not to trust her, not to place their dreams in her delicate hands, not to see in her everything that was beautiful and bright in their horrible world. She was everything to them.

His father changed the subject once more. "Why do you sleep in Seraphina's room? Is something wrong with yours?"

Jonathan shook his head. "I just like to remember her. I like the scent of her."

"Your sense of smell is that keen?" his father said with some surprise.

Jonathan nodded, and watched his father open his black book to scrawl something on a blank page in the section marked 'Jonathan.' He fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"What are we doing tonight?" he asked.

"Meeting," his father said shortly.

"Where?"

"New York."

"Can I visit Seraphina?"

"No. She won't even know we're there."

Jonathan sighed. It was the third time they had had a meeting in New York City, and the third time his father said he couldn't see Seraphina while they were there. "We don't want to distract her," he always said. But if Seraphina was anything like Jonathan – and she was, he reiterated to himself – then being without him was more distracting than any encounter could ever be – no matter how brief or unsuspected.

"Our plans have yet to intersect," his father explained. "I need her to focus on her part of the plan. She doesn't need to worry about what we're doing yet. You know she hasn't even met with your mother yet?"

"She probably mentioned it in one of those letters you didn't let me read."

"Well, she hasn't met with her mother yet."

"Should have let me do it."

His father sighed as though he agreed but said, "She'll be alright. And if for some reason she isn't… you'll handle it. Everything will be fine."

Jonathan hummed noncommittally, tracing a pattern on the wooden table with his finger and staring at Seraphina's empty chair. It was obvious that the rare show of sentimentality between he and his father was definitively over, as was his father's even rarer show of vulnerability. They were back to normal now - Valentine was cold and calculated and efficient, unhurried and confident, powerful and stern. Jonathan was silent and cool, brooding, dreaming of his sister, using the majority of his willpower to cool the darker half of his blood that always seemed to flow just a bit hotter than the human in him.

Some minutes later, his father rose from his chair and beckoned for Jonathan to follow him. They went to the basement where a portal had been drawn, and Jonathan only half-listened to the instructions his father was giving him. It didn't matter; his job was always the same. Be alert, protect his father's back. Wait outside, guard the perimeter. Don't eavesdrop, don't associate with any guards that might be in position; don't worry about the details of the plans yet.

Jonathan followed his father through the portal – off to New York, where he would be so close to his sister and not nearly close enough. But he would be keeping an eye on her, in the moments their bond was intact. And now that he had permission to intervene and put and end to the distractions she had found there, he would have her again soon enough.

Clary had fallen asleep on the floor of her bedroom, still in her outfit from the night before. She was awoken by the sun shining through her window, warming the skin of her face as it pierced through her closed eyelids. She rose slowly, her muscles stiff and her mind groggy, and groaned when she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Isabelle's makeup had turned into a disaster during Clary's fitful sleep – the glitter from the eye shadow finding its way to other parts of her face, the dark eyeliner bleeding into shadows beneath her eyes, which were wide and bloodshot in her pale face.

She went to the bathroom to wash the smudges off her face, avoiding the gaze of her reflection whenever possible. She felt weak and shaky, and there was a faint feeling of sickness behind every sensation. She wasn't sure what was wrong with her, what was bothering her. But something was wrong with her. Something was bothering her. And she couldn't think clearly, and her muscles wouldn't move quite right, and her hands wouldn't stop shaking.

After changing her clothes and removing the last vestiges of glamour from her face, Clary left her room, her fingers brushing against the silver ribbon tied around her doorknob as she swung the door shut behind her. The sound echoed loudly in the empty hallway. Craning her ears, she couldn't hear even the faintest stirring of life in the Institute. No voices, no footsteps, no breathing or movement.

She wondered if the Lightwoods were gone as she wandered down the hallway. She had no particular direction in mind, only a vague sense of restlessness.

She was considering her options for the day - go home, go to Simon's, stay at the Institute - when she was rudely interrupted. One moment she was thinking of all that had happened the night before, and the next she was falling to the ground and Jace was above her. He kept her from hitting the wooden floor too hard, but he still settled himself above her once they had both fallen.

"Hi," he said, grinning.

"Hi," she replied with a small laugh.

"Fancy running into you here," he said with a raised eyebrow. At her wince, he admitted, "That was an awful joke."

"If you could even call it a joke," she said, laughing again.

He brushed her hair back from her face and rested his fingers against her cheek, his eyes searching hers. "What is it?" she asked him at the thoughtful expression on his face.

His eyes searched her face once more before he sighed, his breath brushing softly against her skin. When he met her gaze again, it was with a firmness he hadn't had before. "I was thinking," he said. "About last night."

"So was I." She didn't know what else to say.

She expected him to bring up their kiss, but he didn't. "Last night was very…" he began, and her heart jumped. He paused. "It was very hectic." It was an understatement, and they both knew it.

"Yes," she said lamely. "It was." Absently, in her nervousness, she began toying with the fabric of his shirt, her fingers fluttering against his shoulders. "Why do you bring it up?"

"I only wondered… I mean, I…" He didn't sound nervous – she couldn't imagine that – but he did sound uncertain as he tried to explain himself. "It would be comforting for me to know where we stand."

"I don't know what you mean," she whispered, refusing to meet his gaze.

"I think you know exactly what I mean, Clary." He sounded tired.

"I don't," she said, and she dropped her hands from his shoulders and tried to slide out from under him.

He stopped her, grabbing her waist. "Wait," he said, his voice less soft than it had been before, sharpened with urgency and something else. "I'm sorry," he said, sighing as he closed his eyes. "I didn't want to make you talk about it, but then I… I did it anyway, and I'm…" He opened his eyes again, finding hers with golden fire. "Sorry. I knew it was a bad idea. Just… stay. We don't have to talk about it. Just stay."

She knew she should say something, but she didn't know what. She was torn between wanting to comfort him and wanting to push him further away, wanting to trust him and knowing she should be more cautious. "I…" she began, but the words didn't come.

He nodded, as if he understood her exactly. As he always did. "We won't talk about it," he said decisively. "Not yet."

"Do you want me to leave?" she asked him quietly.

"No," he answered simply, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes.

Once more, their relationship had been reduced to a reflection of their simplest desires, tethered only by their primal, inexplicable understanding of each other. For a brief moment, it had been more than that. It had encompassed their emotions, their minds, their souls, everything, their entire beings crashing together with aching passion and blinding light.

But that had only been for a moment. And they were back to the beginning, now. Touch, feeling, instinct. No exaltation, no agony, no bittersweetness or golden light flooding through her heart.

And it was her fault.

"You look so tired," Jace murmured, tracing the dark crescent moons below her eyes.

"I haven't slept much since I got here."

"Why not?"

She wasn't looking into his eyes anymore, instead fidgeting with his clothes again. This time her focus was the zipper at the collar of his sweatshirt, resting against the sharp line of his collarbone. That was the part of him she really wanted to touch. Not the lean muscles tense with forceful strength or the pale white scars of a killer, but the delicate, defenseless collarbones spreading from his throat to his shoulders like wings, straining against his tanned skin as if to break free and fly off into other, better worlds.

"Too many things to do," she answered distractedly. "Too many dreams."

He had relaxed by then, no longer stiff and anxious, no longer as careful holding himself above her, and now she could feel him resting against her; warm skin, powerful muscles softened by his gentleness towards her. She had once thought Simon was the first person who had ever shown her true, constant kindness. But Jace, despite his passion and power and unpredictability, was very gentle with her too.

"You should get some sleep," he said, not commanding but faintly worried.

"I'm not sure I can."

"I guess I shouldn't lecture you," he said thoughtfully. "I haven't been sleeping well either, lately."

After a pause, she said, "Thank you for coming with me last night."

Jace smiled, as if to say Of course I came, and she smiled back at him. "It was pretty foolish of us," said Jace, with only a small semblance of remorse.

She sighed. "I know."

"Have you run into Alec yet?"

"No. You?"

He nodded. "I went to his room last night, when we got back. Figured I should."

"Was he very angry?" she asked worriedly.

Jace chuckled. "You could say that. I received a lecture, of course."

"Oh, of course," she agreed with a smile. "And did you learn your lesson?"

"About vampires, maybe," he said. "But not where you're concerned."

Still smiling, still above her, he began to lower his face towards her and she felt the phantom shadow of his lips against hers, and in the sparking space between them she felt a war break out. It was Clary against Seraphina. It was Seraphina against Jonathan. It was all of them against her father. It was shivering, wretched fear against restless recklessness. With so many opponents, it was hard to determine which one had won. All Clary knew was that she turned her face away so that he couldn't touch her, and that it made his eyes harden and shatter when he looked at her.

She felt his gentleness harden into strength once more, and then she only felt the carpet underneath her and the cool air above her when he pulled away from her and rose to his feet, looking at everything but her. And between them the war was still raging, and she still couldn't speak and so he didn't understand.

She rose to her feet as well, leaning against the wall behind her as she looked at Jace and felt affection and anger and confusion and guilt in her chest. She tried to choose one to focus on, but they were moving too quickly, flickering and ghostly when she tried to grab hold of one.

"I'm sorry," Jace was saying stiffly.

"It's not your fault," was all she could think to say.

He nodded once, eyes fixed on the wall behind her.

A shrill ringing broke the silence, causing both of them to jump. Clary, realizing it was her phone, pulled it from her pocket with trembling fingers.

"Hello?" she said, shivering under the burning of Jace's gaze.

"Do you have my book, love?" Casper's voice came tinny through the phone, static permeating his rough voice.

"Yes," she answered, afraid to say more with Jace still so near.

"Can I get it from you today?"

"Alright," she said. "I'm at the Institute."

"Perfect, I'm already close. Meet me outside?"

"Alright," she agreed, but he had already hung up. She was almost certain that was the least Casper had ever said to her in a conversation.

She met Jace's eyes once, sheepish and silent, before she turned and walked towards the double doors that led out of the Institute. "Running off?" his voice echoed bitterly from behind her. Her shoulders tensed and she stiffened, but she didn't answer him.

The air outside was cooler than the day before but still warmer than she was used to, and she resolved to get back inside as quickly as possible. She noted with relief that ignoring her pangs of homesickness was becoming steadily easier. Instead of longing for the cool forests of home, for the shade beneath the tall trees and the cold fire that sparked off of her brother's skin, she longed only for the cool sanctuary of the Institute's ancient walls, dark and frigid. It was a simpler desire than she was used to - just to be inside - and she welcomed the change, the stillness.

Casper was before her, wearing a black hoodie that made his skin look very pale and his eyes very strange. Combined with the usual messiness of his dark hair, it also made him look very young.

He smiled only faintly as he approached her, his usual loudness and rakishness stripped away from him like a mask had been pulled away.

"Hello, Clary," he said softly, seeming almost shy as he stopped before her with his hands in his pockets.

"Hi, Casper," she answered, perplexed by his unusual behavior. She had never seen him this way before, so subdued and vulnerable. She couldn't imagine what had caused the shift. All she knew was that he reminded her of her brother more than ever, with his brooding eyes and strained smile and cool quietness.

She held the book out to him and he took it from her with a relieved sigh, his smile coming a bit more naturally. "Thanks," he breathed, meeting her gaze through lowered lashes.

"You're welcome," she answered quietly, still intrigued by his new demeanor.

"Did you have any trouble getting it?" he asked with some concern.

"Not at all. I don't think he noticed anything."

Casper nodded, looking at the ground. "Good. That's good."

"You look…" she began, unable to keep her curiosity to herself any longer. "Tired," she ended, noticing the dark shadows beneath his eyes.

He met her eyes and grinned. "So do you."

They fell into silence after that – Clary was used to Casper making all of the effort when it came to conversation, and only now with his strange quietness realized she didn't know how to talk to him.

She made a small motion to walk away from him, figuring their business was finished, but he stopped her with an outstretched hand.

"Listen, Clary," he began, his eyes shadowed as he looked at her. "I heard about the trouble you got into last night."

"Oh… That."

"Eva told me," he explained, and she remembered his vampire friend. He shook his head as if to clear it, his hair made even messier by the action, and she couldn't help but be reminded of a wolf. "You should have told Raphael that… that we're… that you know me. It would have saved you the trouble."

"I wouldn't want to drag you into it," she protested quietly. "I have a feeling you can make your enemies without my help."

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You're right about that," he said, and his tone was ominous enough to send a chill down her spine.

"Are you alright?" she finally asked.

He stared at her but didn't answer.

"I'm not surprised you defeated Raphael," he quietly said after a few moments. "But there are others. There are worse creatures in this city than you could even dream of. And worse are coming. And I want… I want you to take care of yourself."

"I can take care of myself," she affirmed, a bit indignantly.

He smiled, but the weariness didn't leave his face. "I know," he murmured. "But you are very reckless, Clary."

If Casper were his normal self, she would have argued. But this Casper was different, and she found herself subdued by his solemnity. "Reckless," she repeated quietly, not quite agreeing or disagreeing.

"You're one of the most…" He shook his head, staring at the ground again. He met her eyes when he seemed to decide on a word. "… Passionate people I've ever met. It's certainly exciting at first."

"At first?" she repeated.

"After a while you start to realize how dangerous it is," he said, almost wistfully. "It's just as fascinating. But it's… unnerving. Not to mention tiring."

"You find me unnerving?"

"In the best way possible, Pixie." He smiled, and the expression brought him a shade closer to his usual self.

She didn't know what to say to him. She realized no one had ever told her their impression of her, that she had no idea how other people saw her and had never thought about it. Even as the thought crossed her mind, Casper distracted her again - he was staring at the horizon behind her, his eyes narrowed, his mouth a grim line in his tense, handsome face.

"Casper…" she implored, dread growing in her chest, "what's going on?"

He didn't answer, but his eyes darkened, and she felt a dark cloud migrating from his chest into hers. She shivered.

And then he was kissing her. One of his sharper teeth nicked her lip, dug in for a moment, and she flinched, but his hand behind her head kept her close. He tasted like smoke and magic, smelled like blood. There was a desperate, sparking energy in every inch of his skin, and his breath in her mouth carried with it an essence of frantic, shivering fear.

When he pulled away from her, his expression was as solemn as before. He began backing away from her and she could only watch him, attempting to decipher a meaning behind his strangeness, but she couldn't.

He spoke somber last words before he turned away from her. "This city is collapsing into hell as we speak. Take care of yourself…. You're a nice girl." He said the last part as though the thought had just struck him, and he found it odd, and was trying to make sense of her even as he turned away from her in defeat.

Casper's words, his strange behavior, had scared her more than she was willing to admit. She could feel the same evil he had spoken of, the ominous sense of foreboding that pervaded every layer of the Shadow World. As she had stared at his pale skin, she had felt warmth leeching away from hers. She had watched the pulse jump at his throat and felt her own heart trembling in her chest. Darkness was in the city; a darkness so encroaching and horrible that even the darkest creatures were afraid of it. A darkness so black and horrible that a more natural breed of darkness was being consumed by it.

Back in the Institute, Clary was grateful for the cool air that calmed her flushed skin and allowed her heart to slow. Her occasional shivers had increased in frequency until now she found herself almost trembling. She hovered in a dark hallway for a moment, staring at an old painting on the wall as she tried to decide whether to go find Jace again or to be alone. She had just decided to go find him when she heard footsteps to her right, making her pause in curiosity,

"Hey," a voice called sharply from down the hall. She turned to see Alec storming towards her, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes.

"Hello, Alexander," she said coolly.

"I need to talk to you," he said once he reached her.

"I'm busy," she said, trying to step around him.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her back to stand in front of him. "No, you're not," he said lowly.

"I know you're upset –"

"Upset?" he repeated incredulously. "I'm furious. What the hell were you thinking?"

"It's none of your concern," she said sharply, pulling her arm out of his grip.

"It became my concern when your rash impetuousness almost got my parabatai killed."

"He's fine," she snapped.

"This time, maybe. But don't think for one second I'll let you pull something like this again."

She scoffed and tried to move past him again. "I don't need you to let me do anything."

He grabbed her arm again, this time pushing her into the wall behind her. "Listen to me, Clarissa Nightshade," he growled.

She didn't hear the rest of his words, because suddenly there were two voices in her head, both urging her muscles into the same action.

One was Jonathan's. Don't let him touch you.

One was Seraphina's. Don't let him hurt you.

She shoved Alec in the chest hard enough that he stumbled backwards, away from her, his eyes widening in surprise before they darkened in anger.

He took a step forward and she struck again, shoving him with more force this time. "Don't touch me, Alexander Lightwood," she hissed lowly. Her patience had run out with him. He was nothing but a hindrance to her. His parents were traitors, and he was a sullen, insolent thorn of a boy.

"Why did you have to come here?" he spat at her, eyes still blazing cobalt with rage. "You're ruining him."

"I'm not doing anything to him," she argued furiously. "You really think I could force him into anything he didn't want? I didn't drag him to the Hotel Dumont. He followed me there. Because he wanted to."

"He would never leave me behind that way," Alec argued, a vulnerable pain glowing through the anger in his voice.

"He did," she said quietly. "And it wasn't my fault."

Alec hissed a breath between his teeth. "Of course it's your fault. Everything was fine before you got here. I don't know what you're doing to him, but you need to stop."

"I haven't done anything wrong," she said warningly, praying that Alec would end his tirade before she lost her temper completely.

Alec's angular eyebrows rose in disbelief. "You haven't done anything wrong?" he repeated. "Jace could have died. And it would have been your fault."

"He may be your parabatai, but you don't own him. Jace can make his own decisions," she said. "He can choose his battles, his friends. Who he spends his time with." She moved closer to Alec, close enough that she was almost whispering in his ear. "Who to be in love with."

It was cruel, but only the quietest part of her shied away from it. Alec froze, his jaw tensing as a furious blush flared across his cheekbones.

She wasn't surprised when she felt her head hit the wall behind her, Alec's hands wrapping around her upper arms with a bruising grip.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he said very quietly, though fury was a storm behind every line of his handsome face.

"Would you be this upset if I didn't?"

He pushed her again, and this time when her head hit the wall, her temper broke with the pain swarming through her skull.

She jerked her arms out of his hold and aimed a sharp jab at his sternum, sending him gasping and jerking away from her. He came at her and she ducked, darting under his outstretched arm to spin behind him and shove his back, pushing him into the wall before him. He spun around to face her, enraged, and this time his height allowed him to corner her. She noticed that, even though he had the advantage for a more painful blow, he only hit her with an open palm to push her backwards - it was a harmless maneuver, used in sparring between Shadowhunters who weren't trying to cause any real damage. Even this angry, neither of them could fight their instinct and harm each other. Her anger had just started to abate when suddenly Jace was there, grabbing Clary's arm and pulling her behind him, away from Alec.

"What the hell is going on?" Jace shouted, his eyes wide as they darted between Alec and Clary, still holding her in place behind him.

"Ask him," she spat, at the same time Alec muttered, "Ask her."

"Alec," Jace said cautiously, more quietly, but still with the same bewildered anger. "What's happening? What are you doing?"

Alec was as infuriated as Clary was surprised that Jace had chosen to treat him as the offender and Clary, still held behind the protection of Jace's tense frame, as the victim. She flashed a smirk at Alec from behind Jace's broad shoulders and watched the way it made his fists clench tightly at his sides.

"I can't believe you," Alec fumed with still rage. "I can't believe you let her just… walk in here and ruin everything."

"Clary didn't do anything -"

"Don't tell me that girl didn't do anything wrong, Jace. You could have died. And then where would we be?"

"If I had died, it would have been my fault, not hers. And besides, I decided to go. She didn't make me do anything." It was almost the same thing Clary had said to Alec, and Clary saw the way it infuriated him.

"She's disaster, Jace," Alec said lowly, as if Clary weren't there. "I don't trust her. Ever since she came here, she's brought nothing but trouble for us."

"Alec, be fair," Jace attempted to sooth his parabatai, quietly, as though there was a chance Clary wouldn't hear. "You know things were worsening before she got here. You know, logically, it couldn't possibly be her fault."

Alec's jaw had clenched once more, but Clary saw in his eyes the cruel words that weren't spilling from his mouth. He knew he had lost - that, at least, was a merit of his character; one Clary herself didn't possess.

"She's one of us," said Jace, sensing the ground he had gained and trying to push it further. But his words had the opposite effect - Alec; so devoted to his family, so emotionally invested in their wellbeing and his importance to them; found a cruel tip in his anger the moment he heard Clary associated with "us."

He backed away from Jace. He shook his head. His skin paled. "She's nothing like us. She's a curse."

Jace sighed. "Alec -"

"No wonder your mother ran away from you, Clary," Alec spat scathingly. "But if it means you'll be out of our hair, I hope you find her soon."

"Alec," Jace shouted in horrified anger, but Alec was already storming away from them.

Clary whipped around to face Jace before Alec had finished whipping around the corner down the hall. "You told him?" she scathed with incredulous anger. "You swore to me you wouldn't tell anyone why I was here!"

"I'm sorry, but he had a right to know after… after last night."

"No, he didn't," she spat. "You didn't have the right to tell him."

"I said I'm sorry. I know I said I wouldn't tell anyone -"

"You promised you wouldn't tell anyone. There's a difference."

"I know it was wrong. Hence the apology. Are we done?" he fumed. Though he claimed to be apologizing, his voice was short and sharp, his eyes blazing in a tight coil of anger.

"You don't think I have a right to be mad at you?" she said incredulously, enraged and perplexed at his brazenness in being angry with her.

He shrugged, his demeanor cooling into an indifference that she found far less satisfying than anger. "I'm just surprised, I guess. I didn't know your moral standards were quite so steep."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Consider it a reference to the company you keep."

"What?" she said, her confusion surmounting her anger at an alarming rate.

"You'll kiss Casper Shade but I'm not allowed to touch you?" he spat.

"That's why you're mad at me?" she said incredulously. "Why were you watching me in the first place?"

"Hard not to when you're doing it on my front lawn, isn't it? You could have at least gone around the corner. Found an alley, maybe. Or a motel."

She shoved his chest. "It isn't like that." The pitch of her voice was climbing higher as she grew more and more flustered, and she stuttered, "We had a deal, we - I was just - stop it, Jace!"

"A deal?" he said, concern piercing his anger in a flash of lightning. "What kind of deal? Why would you make any sort of deal with that… that creep of a warlock?"

"Maybe I'd tell you if I didn't think the entire Institute would know about it within the hour," she muttered bitterly.

"You don't have a parabatai, do you?" he said frustratedly.

She shook her head. She and Jonathan had asked to be parabatai when they were younger, but their father had said no. Perhaps out of bitterness because of his experience with his own parabatai, perhaps because they had already become too close for his liking - she had never given it much thought.

"Then you don't get it," said Jace. "I had to tell him."

"No, I don't. I don't get how you can give someone your word and then break it so carelessly, and then somehow find the gall to criticize my decisions."

Jace's eyes were wide, his shoulders tense and his fists clenched at his shoulders. "God, you… you…" he sputtered. "You're so infuriating," he finally exclaimed.

"Me?" she challenged. "I'm infuriating?"

"Yes," he shouted.

"Then why don't you do both of us a favour and leave me alone?" she shouted back.

"Fine," he screamed.

She stared at him in infuriated silence, growing even angrier when her vision blurred. She couldn't cry. She never cried, and she wouldn't now; especially not in front of him.

"Fine," he repeated, more softly this time. "I'm done, Clary. I'm done."

"There's nothing to be done with," she said, just as softly. "We don't know each other. There's nothing between us."

"Right," he said, nodding, his gaze on the floor and his jaw clenched. "We're nothing."

"Glad we agree on something," she said, brushing past him to storm down the hallway. "I'll pack my things," she said over her shoulder, but she didn't turn to see his burning eyes behind her.

It wasn't until she had already knocked on the door of Simon's house that she realised the logistic fallacies of her showing up without calling first. What if he wasn't home and his mom answered the door? What if his strange behaviour last night was because he was upset with her, and he turned her away?

She had just started to turn away from the door and run away when it opened, revealing a slightly disheveled Simon staring at her with wide, curious eyes. "Clary," he greeted her with surprise.

"Hey," she answered slowly. "Sorry for showing up unannounced."

Simon ran a hand through his rumpled hair. "No, no," he protested. "It's fine. It's good to see you."

"You too," she said with a hesitant smile. "You look… better."

"I've been sleeping since I last saw you," he said with a grin. "It helps."

"I'm sure," she said with a grin of her own.

"So what brings you to Brooklyn, Red?"

"I was just wandering around and I… thought I'd stop by. I still feel bad about last night."

"It wasn't your fault," Simon said gently. "I meant it the first hundred times I said it, and I mean it now. Everything's okay now, Clary."

"Promise?"

"I promise," he said with a crooked smile, and the feeling in her chest loosened a bit, allowing her to breathe.

"Good," she said. "That's… good." But the sting of Jace's rejection still tinged like a vicious snake bite to her chest, and despite Simon's kindness, she remained sensitive to the possibility of his rejection.

She took an awkward step back, away from the door of Simon's house, and his keen eyes moved to watch the motion. "You could stay," he said, the words escaping his lips a bit too quickly. "I'm home alone. We could… I don't know, catch up."

"Alright," she said softly.

Simon smiled and opened the door wider, stepping aside to allow her to enter before him.

The calmness that Clary usually felt in Simon's presence had returned with his forgiveness, and she could have sighed in relief when she heard him lock his front door and turn to her, still smiling. There was a sensitive, nervous part of her that was always tense in anticipation of the cruelty of others, and she was discovering that Simon's tender responsiveness soothed it better than anything she had ever encountered.

The inside of Simon's house was dark, but with her enhanced vision she could still make out the houseplants along windowsills and on end tables, the paintings and framed pictures on the walls, the slightly worn furniture. She wondered briefly why the lights were off before she reminded herself that Simon wouldn't need them to see either. That happened at home too - they rarely used the lights in the manor, with the exception of having guests over. They merely allowed the cavernous, cold rooms to fade into darkness with the rest of the world. Jonathan and Clary loved the darkness; their love had been born within it, and returning to that world of night where everything was dreamlike and gentle and tinged with magic had always been a comfort to them. Clary loved the way the darkness blurred the cruelty of everything and made everything softer, loved the shade of blue it turned the air. The two of them loved to lay beside each other, submerged in that dreamy shade of blue and connecting their skin with touches so light they felt like the flutter of insect wings against pale, fragile skin.

"So what do you want to do?" Simon asked, interrupting her thoughts. "We could watch a movie," he suggested, "listen to music. Or, I don't know, lay in the backyard or something."

At his teasing smirk she couldn't help but smile through the choking feeling in her throat. "The grass excited me," she defended herself lightly.

"I know. I could tell."

"Well what do you want to do?" she challenged.

"I would do anything you wanted," he said, and something told her he really meant it.

"Anything?" she challenged mischievously.

"Within reason," he amended with an affectionate smile, and she was reminded that she needed to be gentler with him; he was more innocent and trusting than the people she was used to. With effort, she restrained the side of her that was drawn to his vulnerability. She softened her edges. She slowed her heart. She tried to cool the heat in her skin. She retracted her claws.

"Maybe you could teach me a thing or two about mundane things," she suggested. "My ignorance is becoming more blatant by the day, and I'm not fond of the constant embarrassment."

Simon laughed. "No, I'm sure you aren't." He seemed to think for a moment. "Alright," he decided. "Do you want to start with music or movies?"

"Music," she answered quickly.

Simon grinned. "I was hoping you'd say that. Eric has most of my CD's, the bastard, but I'll go get my laptop and we can -"

A loud rapping on the door interrupted whatever Simon had been about to say, and Clary watched his brow furrow in confusion before he turned and approached his front door. Clary pranced after his tense, nervous shoulders in curious anticipation. Simon glanced out the front window next the door and then sighed irritatedly. "I think it's for you," he said flatly.

"What?" she asked confusedly, just as Simon unlocked his front door and pulled it open.

She darted forward and peeked under his arm, both startled and unsurprised to see Jace standing on the front porch with his characteristic smirk.

"Evening, kids," Jace said with his biting charm fixated firmly in his tone.

"Evening, slightly older guy," Simon mocked him resentfully.

"What are you doing here?" Clary demanded with narrowed eyes, walking forward until she had forced Jace several steps backwards on the porch. Simon trailed after her somewhat timidly.

"What are you doing here?" Jace challenged, matching her tone perfectly. His expression shifted suddenly, like lightning, to affect guilty surprise. "I'm not interrupting a date, am I?"

Clary rolled her eyes as Simon's nervous cough displaced the hair on the back of her head. "Very funny," she spat.

"So I'm told."

"Bitterness and humor aren't the same thing, you know."

"Bitter? Me? About you? Don't flatter yourself, Pixie. I - "

"Oh, enough," Simon snapped, drawing Jace's attention.

"I don't believe we've properly met," said Jace. He extended a hand. "Jace Wayland. Shadowhunter. You might remember me as the strapping young gentleman who saved your life last night."

"I remember you complaining the entire time and suggesting you both leave me behind," Simon said, shaking Jace's hand. "So if you don't mind, I'm going to go ahead and give Clary most of the credit for my current alive-ness."

"Relativelyspeaking, that is," Jace said with a smirk.

"Shut up, Jace" Clary interjected, knowing how sensitive Simon could be about his vampirism. "If you're not here for anything worthwhile then go bother someone else."

"As a matter of fact, I am here for a reason."

Clary raised an eyebrow impatiently, to which Jace shot a pointed glance in Simon's direction.

Simon sighed. "I'll leave you two to it, then," he said resignedly. "Come in when you're ready, Clary."

Clary's heart began to race in her chest when she heard the front door shut behind her and felt Simon's presence disappear into the house. Jace turned and wandered off of Simon's porch and onto the grass of his front lawn. Clary trailed behind him, steeling her nerves when he finally turned to face her.

"Thought I'd never see you again," she said with a taunting smirk, forcing her words past the choked apprehension in her throat.

"Alec found something you left behind in your room, so I came to give it to you."

"Alec could have brought it."

"Because him having to deal with you would be a swell idea."

"Deal with me?" she repeated with mock affront. "The pleasure of my company is a world-renowned luxury, Wayland."

"Seems a bit too… I don't know, accessible to be a luxury, don't you think?"

"Are you calling me a hussy?" she asked, with real affront this time.

Jace laughed shortly at the term "hussy" but shook his head. "I'd never."

"You just did," she grumbled disgruntledly.

"It was a joke, Red."

"Don't call me that."

"It could be worse. We call Isabelle - "

"Legs, I know," she said. "What did you bring me?"

"Your dagger," Jace said, drawing the faery dagger from a pocket of his jacket.

"What?" she said with surprise, taking it from his grasp. "But… I lost it at the hotel last night."

Jace's brow furrowed. "You did, didn't you? But it was under your bed when we were cleaning your room."

Clary's throat tightened at the thought of them emptying her room so soon after she had left, ready to erase all trace of her, but she did her best to choke down the feeling. The Lightwoods had been distracting her - Jace especially. It was better this way.

"It is faery-made, though," Jace mused. "It probably does all sorts of weird stuff."

"Maybe I should start testing it," she murmured, turning the blade in her hands wonderingly.

Jace stepped around her until he was looking over her shoulder at the dagger with the same curiosity. "Have you tried - " he paused, stopping himself before he took it from her hands. "May I?"

She handed it to him with a small noise of assent and he grabbed it.

"Have you tried throwing it?" he asked.

"Throwing it?" she repeated skeptically.

"To see if it comes back."

"No," she admitted. "But that could be a start."

And then Jace pulled back his arm and threw the dagger into the night air, the blade glinting as it spun and caught the moonlight in fragile glimmers.

"Hey," she pouted quietly.

"What? You agreed it was a good idea."

"I didn't mean right now."

"Oh, right," he agreed. "Your boyfriend's waiting. Or, should I say, one of your boyfriends is waiting."

"That is what this is about, then, isn't it?" she said.

Jace laughed shortly. "If you're implying that I'm jealous, you're delusional. We're friends at best, and even that's a stretch, Pixie."

"Then why would it bother you who I call my boyfriend?"

"What?"

"Since we just met, and we don't know each other, and we're 'friends at best'… why do you care?"

Jace paused at that, his jaw working silently as his eyes tightened.

"You're awfully bitter for a friend, don't you think?" she pressed.

Jace was furious then, his eyes blazing hotter than the sun.

"Speaking of friends," she quipped, "there's a better one than you waiting for me, so I'd better go."

Jace halted her retreat with a biting challenge. "So you just… forgot about last night?"

"Forgot what?" she demanded, knowing she was being unfair but not knowing how to stop being so angry with him.

"That you kissed me," he snarled, as if she had done something terrible.

"You kissed me," she corrected, her voice flat and so cruel that it startled even her. Once more, she saw his eyes harden and shatter, and her heart withered. She stifled the feeling.

"I'm never going to be your…" The force of her own confusion and disbelief and anger made her pause. "Your girlfriend," she finally finished.

Jace made a noise of disgust in his throat. "Oh, please," he muttered disgustedly.

She rolled her eyes. "Right, I'm being ridiculous."

"You're the one who said girlfriend."

"And you're the one who came all the way to a vampire's house in Brooklyn just to give me a dagger."

"I told you, you left it -"

"You could have just called," she pointed out.

"Noted," Jace said shortly, his mouth tightening the way it did when he was angry. "Next time I feel inclined to do you a favour, I won't bother."

"Perfect. And next time I -"

A noise behind them startled them out of their argument. They spun around at the same time, each of them drawing a weapon, to face the source.

They both assumed a fighting stance. They didn't speak. They waited.

Clary swore she could feel her heart dragging behind to match Jace's pulse, swore that she could feel a different rhythm slipping into her veins. But before she could understand the feeling, a dark shape flew at them from the darkness to their left.

Jace dove in front of Clary with his seraph blade held before him like a beacon of heaven - she hadn't heard him call it's name, but it was alight as he brandished it at their attacker, forcing it to shy to the side and avoid them. As it did, it was illuminated by Jace's seraph blade in brief sections - first the glint of teeth, then the dark fur, and then the claws that swiped out of the darkness at Jace's blade in vicious defiance.

Clary cursed under her breath as she prepared herself for the fight. Her dagger had been her only weapon, and Jace had just thrown it 50 yards away. A second wolf sprang from the darkness on her right side, and she aimed a brutal kick at its snout that sent it scampering to the side with a keening whimper.

A third wolf emerged from the darkness on before her and, realising they were surrounded, Clary reached - desperately, hopefully - for the sheath on her hip. Her surprise was rivalled only by her relief when she felt cool metal against her fingertips - just as Jace had predicted, the faery dagger had somehow returned to her. She removed it from its sheath with a deft, practiced maneuver just in time to slash a shallow laceration on the approaching wolf before it could attack her.

The second wolf renewed its efforts by springing between Clary and Jace, and although Clary landed a dagger swipe on its shoulder, its efforts had paid off - she and Jace were separated, no longer a united front against their attackers. When a fourth wolf sprang to assist the first in its attack against Jace, Clary's heart sank into her stomach.

The wolves were relatively small - young, she could tell - but the two engaging her had enough combined strength to push her further and further away from Jace. Her skill with a dagger kept them at bay and she received almost no injuries herself, but it wasn't long before she found herself unable to even catch sight of Jace where he was battling his own two opponents.

Luckily for Clary, her killer's instinct was patient. Even outnumbered, even ambushed, she was focused, measured, and cool. Until -

"If you want your friend to live, you'll stop right there," a voice rang out behind her, and she whirled around to see Jace pinned to the ground - two werewolves in human form restraining his arms, and a wolf with its long, sharp teeth poised above his throat. And before them, the girl who had spoken - a girl about her age, with light brown eyes the exact color of her skin.

The girl began walking towards her. "I do hate to interrupt a lovers' quarrel, but we have business with you, Shadowhunter."

"We aren't - " Clary began to protest, but then she only sighed tiredly. "What do you want?"

Instead of answering, the werewolf girl drawled, "You're pretty hard to find, Pixie."

"Please don't call me that," Clary asked resignedly.

The girl shrugged with a satisfied smirk. "It suits you."

Clary clenched her jaw and poised to throw her dagger. "Talk fast, werewolf. I'm running out of patience."

The girl laughed cruelly. "Oh, I think you'll wait as long as it takes, Shadowhunter, now that we have all the leverage. Of course, you could kill me if you wanted to. As long as you don't care about him."

The girl's sneer brought Clary's gaze to Jace where he struggled beneath the werewolves. She hadn't even noticed that many wolves arrive to the fight, but she could see that there were too many of them for him to fight off alone.

"It's a full moon," the girl said, grinning up at the night sky. "You wouldn't want us to bite your friend, would you? If he managed to survive, he'd be in for a nasty night next month." With a cruel smirk, she added, "And he wouldn't be your friend anymore, would he? You wouldn't be allowed to talk to him."

"What do you want?" Clary demanded, her voice cool and impassive.

"I've been sent by Luke Garroway to deliver a message," she said.

Clary's heart skipped a beat. Lucian. "And what message would that be?"

"Your mother would like to speak with you."

"My mother," she repeated slowly.

"Yeah."

"And did she decide this before or after she had her boyfriend order his werewolves to kill me and Simon at that cabin?"

She heard Jace yell a muffled "What?" from beneath the werewolf that had him pinned to the ground, and she realized that she had never told him about that.

"All I know" the girl said defensively, "is that she wants to see you."

"When?"

"Tomorrow," the girl said. "At her apartment. She assumes you know where that is."

"I do," Clary affirmed, her mind reeling.

"Then we're done here. Nine o'clock, tomorrow night."

A gesture from the girl sent the werewolf leaping away from Jace, the boys who had held him releasing their holds.

"I hope you show up, Shadowhunter," the girl called over her shoulder as she retreated with her companions, "Because I really don't want to have to deal with you again."

Clary rolled her eyes as she went to help Jace, who had been catching his breath on the ground, to his feet. But he jerked away from her hand like it was a scalding burn against his skin, and he huffed as he rose to his feet and straightened his jacket.

Though she was irritated with his behavior, she felt obligated to ask, "Are you all right?" It was her fault they had been ambushed, after all.

"That was emasculating," he grumbled.

"At least it took three of them," she pointed out.

He ignored her attempt to lighten the mood, refusing to meet her eyes as he walked away from her. "Where are you going?" she said to his back as he stormed down the sidewalk.

"Home," he said shortly over his shoulder.

"I'm assuming you don't want me to come with you?"

This time he turned around, walking backwards so he could look her in the eyes when he said, "You can do whatever you want, Clary." His eyes narrowed then, and she saw the bitterness behind the cruelty of his smirk. "But you already know that."

She didn't have a response, and he didn't expect one. Before the hurt had finished swelling in her chest he had already turned his back again.

She thought he paused before rounding the corner, but before she could be certain he was gone, and she was alone on an empty, dark street. It was a few minutes before she could muster the power to will her tired legs to move and bring her back to Simon's door, where she entered without knocking.

She was surprised that he hadn't heard any of the commotion outside, but her questions were answered when she entered his bedroom and saw him wearing headphones, listening to a song that she could hear only faintly. He smiled slightly when he saw her, unplugging his headphones so that the music came loudly out of his laptop instead. Clary settled down beside him, trying to let Simon's music calm her nerves, but it wasn't working.

She stayed with Simon for only an hour before her tiredness and the acidic nervousness that had taken root in her chest since the werewolves' message made her too restless to stay. She would have rather stayed in the cool comfort of his quiet gentleness than return to her empty apartment, but she couldn't ignore her responsibility to her father. Now that things were falling into place, she had to prepare.

Simon grew distant when she announced that she was leaving, and she wondered if he was hiding disappointment or if her flightiness was making him lose interest in her. She reminded herself that she didn't have time to worry about things like that as she gathered her things and made her way to his front door, Simon slowly following behind her.

"I'll see you soon?" he said uncertainly.

"Yes, I hope so," she answered, stepping onto the porch. "I might be a little busy though. I'm seeing my mother tomorrow."

Simon's eyes widened. "Really?"

"Yeah."

His brow furrowed. "Are you sure that's a good idea? She did try to kill you. Kill us, that is."

"I know, but…" she couldn't think of a lie fast enough - a rarity, for her. "She must have changed her mind," she finished lamely.

Simon quirked an eyebrow. "Do you trust her?"

"No," she said truthfully. "But I have to try."

"Well, then…" He offered her a slight smile. "Good luck."

"Thank you," she said, returning his smile. She turned away and began walking towards the sidewalk.

"Clary," his call made her pause and turn back.

"Yeah?" she asked.

"Let me come with you," he said.

She hesitated.

"Please," he implored. "It would make me feel better."

Uncertain, she still didn't answer.

"I'll wait outside?" he offered.

"Okay," she said slowly. "If you really want to come."

"I do," he affirmed.

"Thank you, Simon," she said softly. He smiled again, more brightly this time, and as she turned away from him she hoped she wasn't making a mistake. She hoped he wouldn't get hurt.

Upon returning to her apartment, she rushed to the bathroom and used her stele to trace the scar of the rune marring the wooden frame of her mirror. She waited impatiently as her reflection faded to a swirling black nothingness, fidgeting as she anticipated the sight of her father. As she was waiting, she remembered with a jolt who she was, and she withdrew her faery dagger to slice a hasty mark through the identity rune. She settled into her old skin with practiced ease, taking a moment to collect her thoughts into the patterns she was used to.

Finally, it happened - the black disappeared and she was looking at her father, his face expectant and faintly surprised as he appraised her.

"It's happened," she said.

"What has?" he asked confusedly.

"I'm meeting Jocelyn tomorrow."

Her father's dark eyes filled with light, and she was reminded of her dream of him shining brighter than a thousand suns, and happiness and pride warmed her blood. All her life she had dreamed of making him this happy, and finally she had done it. Though she hadn't succeeded her true purpose yet, she knew she could do it. For him.

"Really?" he asked, too surprised to veil the excitement in his voice.

"Yes."

"Where are you meeting her?"

"Her apartment."

His enthusiasm dimmed somewhat. "Interesting. I didn't expect she'd be willing to speak with you in private, given her eternal mistrust in my intentions."

"You're not the one meeting her," Seraphina pointed out.

"I know you have a plan for getting her to trust you - and I have faith in you - but don't expect her to see you as anything more than an extension of me, Seraphina. Not for quite some time, at least," her father warned. "You aren't her daughter. You're mine."

"Yes, Father," she acquiesced. She hadn't thought of it that way, but she saw now that he was right. It certainly explained Jocelyn's behavior thus far. It explained why Jocelyn had always been 'Jocelyn' and never her mother.

"You believe you can handle this meeting with your mother alone?"

"Of course."

"Maybe you should bring someone with you," her father mused worriedly, as though she hadn't spoken. "Just in case she's planned something… Perhaps Jace could - "

"No," Seraphina interrupted sharply. "No, not him. I'm not bringing him with me."

"Why not?"

"Because this is my mission. I'm doing this for you. I don't need him, and I don't want him there. It's not his place."

Her father looked taken aback at her fervor. "Alright…" he said warily.

"He knows I'll be there tomorrow," she conceded. "That's enough."

"I suppose it is. But… you're certain you can handle it alone?" her father asked once more.

Seraphina was surprised at his worry for her; she hadn't even told him about Jocelyn's attacks on her thus far, out of fear that he would bring her home before she could help him. Maybe he had always been this concerned for her safety, and she hadn't noticed because they had never been apart.

"I'll be fine, Father," she promised. "I know I can handle her."

"…Maybe I should join you after all, speak to her myself."

"No," she interrupted, nervous. "I'm not sure that's a good idea. Getting this meeting with her was… difficult, to say the least," she explained, thinking of werewolves in a dark forest and a warlock with devilish purple eyes and a stolen spell book. And him. Jace. He was a result of this too.

"I don't think you should come," she said with finality. "I don't want you to get hurt."

Her words seemed to surprise him. "I…" he began, staring at her, his eyes wide and full of a confusion and a wonderment that she couldn't quite decipher. He coughed once, gruffly, seeming to compose himself. "Yes, well, perhaps I did get a bit ahead of myself."

"I know this is important to you. But you can trust me."

"I know," he affirmed. "I do. It's just… your mother can be quite…" he broke off with a sigh and put a hand over his eyes, and Seraphina felt overwhelmed with compassion at the sight of her father - always so stoic and powerful - overcome by worry and stress and fatigue.

"Well if you're really that worried," she offered gently, "you could send Jonathan to help me?"

Her attempt worked; her father smiled and lowered his hand from his face to look at her once more. "Nice try, Seraphina."

She smiled. "It was worth a shot."

"Have you been spending much time with… Jace?" her father asked, and she noticed the way he stumbled over the new name.

"Yes," she said with bristling wariness.

"And?"

"…Yes?" she hedged, reluctant to say anything about Jace with her heart still so blistered in her chest.

"Your impression of him?" At her long pause, he grew frustrated. "The quality of his training?" he prompted. "His attitude, his demeanor, his fighting ability?"

"He's quite adept, Father, I assure you."

"And you hold him in such contempt because…?"

"We don't get along," she said tightly.

"Is that so?" her father mused. "I was almost certain you would."

"Well, I don't know how much of it is the Lightwoods and how much is just his… natural state, but he's dreadfully arrogant. And rude, and bitter, and entitled."

Her father only hummed thoughtfully.

"Well," he finally sighed. "It's his abilities that are most important, in the end. And I'll wait to form my own opinion on his personality."

"My opinion isn't enough for you?" she demanded playfully.

"You don't like many people, Seraphina," her father said wryly.

"You and Jonathan are the only people I like," she said, more serious than he had been.

"Don't think I don't know what you're doing," he chided.

"What?" she asked innocently.

"You can't come home, not even for a visit. Jonathan can't visit you. And you can't flatter me into changing my mind."

She pouted. "But, Dad -"

"No."

"Fine."

"Don't be cross, Seraphina. It's for the best."

"According to you."

His voice lost its gentleness, sharpening into the edge she had come to accustom with punishment. "And that's all that matters."

"Of course," she mumbled scornfully.

He sighed irritably. "You and your brother become the most… infuriating creatures when you're apart. How you can afford to devote so much energy to sullenness when there are real matters at hand, I'll never understand."

"Sullen is my natural state," she reminded him. "No effort needed."

Her father laughed a short, dry laugh, but his eyes remained tight and tense.

"Not worried about me, are you?" she finally asked, more gently.

"What makes you think I'm worried?" he answered.

She raised her eyebrows but knew better than to press him.

"I hate when you do that," he muttered, and she saw where she and Jonathan got their sullenness from - as well as their constant desire to remain misunderstood by everyone who knew them.

"I'll keep my observations to myself from now on," she promised.

"No, no," he murmured. "I shouldn't discourage you. It's a useful talent… Now more than ever."

She waited in silence for him to ponder whatever thought had entered his mind. He was always more thoughtful when he was preoccupied, and he hated it when someone interrupted him if he was thinking about something important.

She could feel their conversation nearing a close, and she tried to stifle the homesick sadness it spawned in her chest, feeling her breath tighten in response.

"Things are moving quickly now, Seraphina," her father said after a few moments. "I want you to remember that every decision you make holds the utmost importance in our plan. I know calculability and detachment have never been your strong suits, but I need you to remember how important all of this is. More important than anyone you meet there, more important than us. Even more important than our family."

"You don't have to remind me," she whispered, even though images of brown eyes and silver ribbons and gold hair were twirling through her mind.

"Depending on how things go for you in New York," her father said lowly, quietly, "you might see your brother sooner than you think."

The words startled her into alertness. "What?" she asked, surprised.

But the image of her father was already fading, and soon she saw only her reflection - pale, tired, bewildered and miserable.

Despite her exhaustion, she spent a long while that night lying awake in her bed. She had grown used to the encompassing silence of the Institute during her brief stay there, and her apartment - smaller and in a poorer neighbourhood - was filled with muffled sounds from outside that made it harder than ever to still her restless mind.

The noise and motion weren't the only things bothering her. There was a cold, empty space beside her, where her brother would normally be, and the cold was seeping into her skin. And thinking of her brother, she spent a long while wondering why her father's last words had sounded more like a threat than a reassurance.

And as she finally fell asleep, she was thinking about Jocelyn, about the images and stories and nightmares that she had grown to associate with the mother she had never met. She thought of pictures abandoned in an attic, frozen imprints of happiness and love that seemed more distant than dreams. She thought of her memories of her father, crying and raging and destroying, all in the name of the woman he had loved and lost.

Nightmares tinged with love… Such is the strangeness of the human heart.

This chapter wasn't... very good. I know. I'm sorry and embarrassed. I think I need some time to get back into the rhythm of this story. It's just hard, right now. I'll fix this. I promise.

Even without my personal issues, this chapter would have been difficult, I think. I see it as an awkward lump in the story, but we're past it now so hopefully the next one will be better. The plot is pretty well worked out from here on, at least for a while, so I think chapters will be easier to write.

Also, I'm going to get back to answering reviews. I'm sorry I fell behind on that. I really, really do appreciate when you take the time to give me feedback. Thanks for reading.