Prologue

The Hunter's Moon was fairly empty, the long wooden bar occupied by a lone man, his hands white from where he gripped the glass of dark amber liquid. Without opening his eyes, he raised it to his mouth. It disappeared into his mouth, which was raw and chapped. As if he'd been biting it thoughtlessly.

The bar tender, a large hairy man with a scar marring his left arm, eyed the man with worry. "How you holding up?" He asked in a gruff voice, setting the glass he'd been shining down with a clink. The grimy dish rag he gripped in his right hand settled onto the inside of the bar.

A weak laugh escaped the man's lips, his golden eyes opening. They were watery, but with tears or the effect of the alcohol he'd been drinking religiously all night Pete wasn't sure. "Do I look like I'm holding up, dog?"

Pete's mouth turned down in disapproval. "Watch your mouth, Nephilim. You don't belong in here to begin with. I only let you stay because I pity you-"

The man with the golden hair moved fast, almost faster than Pete could analyze with his heightened senses. Where his hands had once rested on the bar there was now a knife, thin and silver. A prickle of fear rippled through him.

"Do not pity me. It would not be in your best interests."

Freaky Pete shook his head. "Put that away, Jace. Do you need a cab called to take you home? You're a bit far from home..."

Jace shook his head, his blond curls briefly hiding his eyes. Ever since she had left him, he hadn't taken as much time to keep us his rugged appearance. His looks were not arranged now but rather natural. A dusting of scruff hugged his jaw line, suggesting that he hadn't shaved in some time, and the purple rings under his eyes showed that he wasn't doing any better at all.

He was in just as much pain as he was five years ago.

"Alright. See you tomorrow?" Pete looked towards the door, where the last stragglers had finally shrugged through moments before. It was closing time, but it wasn't unusual for Jace to stay longer then he was welcome.

Jace made a noise under his breath, shoving the knife back into the pocket of his frayed jacket. Pete saw a flash of color before he zipped it up, and his heart ached for the Shadowhunter standing before him. It wasn't hard to tell who the flying red hair belonged to in the photograph.

Letting his eyes drop, he continued to tidy the bar. The door swished, and then it was silent. He was gone.

As Pete did the final rounds of closing up, he shook his head. He could only hope that someday Clary came home and put an end to the man's suffering. But seeing as how long she'd been gone already it was unlikely.

He didn't know how long Jace would survive this way, in his zombie like trance so unlike his usual arrogant self.

Not very long, that was for certain.