Morgenstern and Herondale

"Hello?" Jace's voice was flecked with exhaustion, his voice seeming rough and dry like sandpaper.

Just his hello sent my heart throbbing. I lick my lips instinctively, saying, "It's Clary."

"What's Clary?" I could hear him grinning through the phone.

I shake my head. "When are you coming home, moron?"

"Soon, gorgeous, just got a few more demons to vanquish with my amazingly talented vanquishing skills."

My eyebrows pull together, my rune-inked left hand entwined with my scarlet curls. "You used vanquish twice in that sentence. That's grammatically incorrect."

Jace snorted a laugh. "I actually said vanquish and vanquishing."

"By the angel," I sigh. "Enough about vanquishing and vanquish, how are you?"

Jace chuckles throatily. "I'm good, tired but good. I miss you…"

"Wow, that must have slightly deflated your ego."

"Shut up and just say you miss me too."

I giggle and roll my eyes. "I miss you too."

"I'll be home soon, I swear. How's you and the baby?"

I look down at my stretched tummy. "I'm fine and so is the baby. Just both missing you."

Jace groans into the phone. "Clary, you're making it harder for me to stay here."

I think about telling Jace that Jonathan is here…but that would seriously stress him out. It would certainly make him weaker and distracted whilst hunting down the demon hoard in the city. Guilt gnaws at my tummy, a sick cold feeling spreading. "Its fine," I sigh. "You should stay there. The city and young shadowhunters need protection."

"Maybe," Jace says, uncertain. "But I need to protect you."

I shake my head, wanting to cry. "I'm fine, silly. Just get home safely please."

"I will, you be safe."

"I'm always safe," I lie, peering behind me for Jonathan, but not finding him there. "You should go, I don't want to distract you."

"Okay," Jace reluctantly says, sighing dramatically in the process. "I love you."

"I love you too." I say, before hesitantly ending the call.

It's quiet now, the air is thick and suffocating and frozen. My heart feels heavy and unsteady. Carefully, I walk into the cold hallway, the floorboards creaking at me mockingly—something was very wrong.

My baby nudges against my ribs, sending shivers ricocheting up my spine. "Jonathan?" I croak, throat constricting and scraping. My tummy is nudged again, pale skin feeling tight and sore. Thinking suddenly, I hurry to the kitchen and pull open the polished cupboard under the sink, rifling through the dusty bottles of bleach, washing up liquids and house supplies. My fingers spark against something cold; I grip the now gleaming seraph blade in my palm, the blue-ish white light shimmering and casting bright rays in the kitchen.

"Jonathan?" I say again, more firmly. I stand straight, blade equipped and pulse pumping. There's no answer, and my now more-focused hearing can't even detect breathing.

Nose flaring, I storm into the living room, heart thundering in my ears.

Nobody's here.

I reach into my pocket for my phone, then something hard and cold tightens around my small wrist, immediately stopping my movements. The seraph blade is snatched from my hand, leaving my palm scorched and empty. I look up at him; he's stood there, eyes like dark hollow pits, but at the same time, alive with fire and a dangerous, excited thirst. His skin seems more translucent and white as ever. He looks like a dark angel, a demon-angel.

"Jonathan, let go." I say calmly, gulping and staring him in the eyes, gleaming black meeting green. His grip tightens, bruising my delicate skin. I can almost feel my wrist bone creaking under the pressure.

"Let go!" I gasp, feeling a sudden burst of pain flare in my hand. Something cracks, sending nausea flooding into my stomach. "I said let go!" I shout, my knee connecting against his stomach hard.

Finally he lets go, my wrist throbbing and already painted a purple-black colour, like some grotesque bracelet. I feel sick, watching him stand there stiffly, like a dangerous predator ready to pounce.

"I trusted you. I really did," I spit at him, cradling my wrist and inching away from him. "Where's my old brother? Where is he?"

"I am still the same person," he hisses angrily. "You just refuse to understand me. And I will make you understand, Clary." He takes a few strides towards me.

"You stay away," I snap, stepping backwards, mirroring his steps.

Jonathan snarls a curse, hands clenched, full of bulging veins and pumping blood. His eyes shimmer frighteningly, excitement and frustration obvious behind them. "You know better than that, you ungrateful bitch."

My hand grabs aimlessly behind me for something, feeling along the shelf and wall for any sort of make-shift, crude weapon. My fingers find the small, pretty painting of Idris on the wall, one my mother painted, and I snatch it, snapping the strings.

Without thinking, I throw it at Jonathan, dread filling through me. He swiftly attempts to dodge it—the wooden frame corner strikes him on the side of his head, smashing and crashing onto the floor. Bright scarlet blood blooms and stains his white hair; he stares incredulously, touching the wound with his fingers.

The distraction gives me enough time to sprint into the dining room, then the kitchen. I fumble with the old back door, feeling his presence getting close. His adrenaline and spiked demon blood fills my nose.

The fresh air surges through the kitchen as I yank open the door.