Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was an eerie silence in the clearing. It hung unnaturally to the wind, so that each rustle of leaves would not truly disturb it. Dew drops fell from them as they shook, and yet they made no noise against the already cold, wet dirt.

A man stood at the centre of it, dressed in fine clothes. He was tall and slender, with hair so fair it seemed almost white. His features were sharp, but as of now they rested neutrally. The only sign of his impatience was the continuous tapping of one finger against one of the many rings he wore, all wide and silver-coloured.

“So,” he finally spoke, seemingly unable to wait any longer. “Do you have what I’ve asked for?”

There was another figure there, though almost impossible to notice. It carried such a dark aura, it was blurring with the blackness of the night. Impossibly long hair fell at the sides, over a head that was slightly tilted down, in such a way that it obscured the eyes. There was a smile, given with red and plump lips. It was, unmistakably, a woman.

She reached out a hand, and from it uncoiled, like a serpent, a long and blackened chain. It fell gracefully at the man’s feet. Spikes grew out of every crevice, and from it oozed the terrible scent of blood, even as it was seemingly clean of it. 

“This will hold an angel?”

The woman spoke, soft enough she also did not disturb silence. “It will hold anything in existence, so long as the seal isn’t broken. This one is mine. It will only release upon touching my blood.”

The man leaned down, thoughtfully examining the contraption. He touched it, and withdrew it almost instantly as if it had burned him.

His eyes looked up at her. He was downright eager. “I wished to ask you for something more.”

A pause.

“Your… blood. I wish to use it. Not for the chain, I mean. For my son.”

The woman shifted her head, but otherwise made no indication she’d heard him.

“You know what I wish the angel for,” he said. “It is only natural to conduct the opposite experiment. Nephilim, we are without the gifts of the Downworld. A son of mine, gifted with your blood, would change the scales completely. I would not need him for long, not until the war is won. Not until they are all gone, or we have all evolved. Then, I can give him to you. Those are my terms.”

He waited, now more impatient than he had been before. One ring clunk against the other, louder.

“I will need collateral.”

The man scoffed in offence. “I am offering you what you have always wanted. A child.”

“You are making promises, as men do, in order to gain something from me. How am I to know you will keep your end of the bargain? A child like this,” she laughed now, giddy, as if just from the thought of it, “a child born with my blood will exceed in power the Greater Demons of the abysses between the worlds. He will be more mighty than the Asmodei, stronger than the shedim of the storms. You say your use of him is temporary, but even you,” now she tilted up her head, and where her eyes should be there was only emptiness. A void that would make any mortal shiver. “Even you, a man who hates our kind with burning passion, would become greedy when you see what he’s capable of.”

Her words carried gravity, but the man’s lips were pursed dismissively. He thought little of them. “Very well. I will deliver the boy to you before he turns eighteen.”

“Alive,” she added.

“Yes, alive. I will deliver him, and if I do not…” he faltered.

The woman chuckled. This, now, was a real sound. It echoed out through the trees and made even them cower back. “If you do not, then I shall have you, Valentine Morgenstern.”

Chapter Text

Something ugly had set deep into his guts. Pacing through empty hallways, his own steps the only sound aside from the clattering of snow against the windows, Jonathan tried in vain to outrun this twisting and malformed monster. It exhaled over his shoulders. He could feel it wherever he was not currently looking at. At times, he’d see something shift from the corner of his eye; the curtain, or the light flickering. He would stop and stare, with his hands resting over his stomach and gripping into the fabric of his shirt.

It was the third day he was alone. His father ought to be back by now, it was nearing nightfall once more, but the storm outside had been relentless through the entire day. That is why he’s gone, he would tell himself. It’s because of the storm.

The storm, and not the other boy. The boy that lived in some other house, the boy that his father took care of whenever he wasn’t here. The boy that currently had a father to watch over him, while Jonathan had nausea and cold sweat dripping down his back. It wasn’t fair. Last week, he had managed to set a new record of his training laps, and yet still, his father had left.

“Why do we have to be split apart?” he had asked him once. It was the first question he remembered asking about the other boy. “Why can’t he be here with us?”

Cold, uncaring eyes assessed him. “You know why, J.”

It was a pointed phrase. Jonathan had shrunk into himself, a familiar ache pulsing inside his chest. It seemed never to leave him now. He had asked about it before, but he had received no answer, only that distant look of disappointment, or perhaps annoyance.

He did know why.

Is mother ever coming back?

No, J.

Is she dead? ‘Dead’ means never coming back.

No, she isn’t dead.

He had been so sure. He had prepared himself to hear it; had thought that it would not make him sad anymore.

Instead he whipped his head to look at his father, bewildered. Then… why? Why did she go away?

Somewhere deep within his mind was the sole memory he still had of his mother. She’d had bright red hair that curled on its edges, and gentle green eyes. She had looked at Jonathan with something twisting down her upper lip. She did not look sad, but he had not been able to place the emotion in her face, not until later.

Because of you.

That is when the ache started.

Because there’s something wrong with you.

Now, when he remembered, he knew why she had looked at him that way. She had been speaking with someone else, and he had snuck around the house and peeked through the slit, thinking himself quiet until the door opened slightly further and creaked, and then she had turned, startled. 

She had been talking before he’d shown up. Something about eyes being too black, and something being wrong. She had said, “he never cried, not even as a baby.”

She had been talking about him, and then he had shown up, and she had looked at him with horror.

Can you fix me?

This was the one question his father never answered. He often looked away, but even though Jonathan was only eight, he knew it was not out of shame. If anyone could still learn to love him, it was his father. His father was still around, while everybody else stayed away. The house was empty. He wasn’t allowed to leave it, was not allowed to meet or speak to anyone. His brother, if that is what he was, was gone, too, hidden away so Jonathan could not hurt him.

There was a loud bang. The wind whistled, the branch of a near tree slamming into a window. Jonathan flinched and acted on impulse. He opened the kitchen cabinet and quickly found refuge inside. Something fell and shattered, but he did not look down to check, or felt, yet so, any anxiety over it. He could only curl up into himself, heart hammering against his own chest.

He only had to wait out the storm, and then his father would be back. He had not left. He had to come back. 

The nausea grew, branched out in the same snapping twigs as the tree outside. Jonathan buried his face on his knees, his face whitened, his hands turned into fists. What had he done? What had he done to cause his anger now? He had behaved, he knew. He’d thought his father would be proud of his progress.

It was all Jace’s fault. It wasn’t fair. Anything Jonathan did, it could never be as much as a child that wasn’t broken like him. A child with nothing wrong with him, who probably had a mother. A child that his father could love with no reservations.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t.

The storm raged on.

Chapter Text

Jonathan woke up to the sound of pecking on glass. Under his eyelids, there was still an image printed there, one he had carried from his dreams. He had seen a boy, and despite the vague and uncertain features, he had known the boy to be his little brother - the other son. Jace was sitting on the steps leading to the house, sobbing loudly as only a child would. Jonathan asked him why he was crying, and Jace said “dad killed my falcon.”

In real life, when Jonathan had heard the story, he had thought how pathetic, to cry over a dead bird. I would never cry over a dead bird. He had felt, for the first time in a long while, that he was better than the other kid, and that his father would do good to spend longer with him.

In his dream, though, he could not bring himself to say that. He watched the child cry, and felt something uncomfortable stirring inside of him. It was not pity, pity would have been an acceptable emotion. Pity would have allowed him to remain superior.

He woke up to the sudden noise with his jaw clenched. He did not hesitate when he sat up, and launched his pillow at the window. Hugin spread out its wings and cawed in offence, then went on pecking, unbothered.

Jonathan rubbed at his face with his knuckles, groaning. It had only taken a little bit of movement for his body to creak in soreness. Somehow, whenever Valentine wasn’t around, he felt all the more compelled to train harder. It was a miracle he hadn’t pulled a muscle.

“Shut uppp,” he yelled towards the window, and then turned to look. Hugin was a young, strong raven. He hardly needed to be fed, he could easily hunt smaller birds, or find berries in bushes. Jonathan had known him and Munin for all his life.

And yet he could not imagine crying for either of them.

He stared, as if by doing so he could be provided an answer, but the animal did not care for his musings; it simply wanted to be let in. It kept insisting, until the noise was so irritating he could only get up in a huff and launch the window open.

Hugin flew in without acknowledging him. His only reward was silence, and freezing air biting at his soreness.

Perhaps he would not be so hung up on this if not because of what his father said. Long before the stupid bird died, Valentine had simply started with; “I gave Jace a falcon, for his birthday.”

Jonathan knew his birthday always came before, and yet, when he had turned nine, his father had not given him a gift. Instead, he had taken him down to the training area, grasped his hand and pressed it against the training dummy. “Here,” he had told him, “if you strike here, you can sever the spine and pierce the heart, all at once.”

So, that morning, he had answered between clenched teeth; “why didn’t I get a falcon?”

Valentine looked at him like he’d grown two heads, and then began laughing. He did not answer the question; he just laughed.

“What?” Jonathan hissed out, feeling his cheeks go warm.

“Please, J,” his father managed in between. “If I gave you a falcon, it would be dead within a day.”

Jonathan stomped out of his room, and saw Hugin dragging one of Valentine’s boots down the hall. Stupid bird. As if taking care of an animal is so difficult. He quickly dashed to wrestle the boot away from him, and Hugin cawed, again, but flew up and away before he could get a chance at retaliation.

It finally rained the next day, and the heat that had been climbing up the last few days started giving away. Jonathan wondered if Valentine would be back before summer officially started.

Hugin and Munin hadn’t gone out for hours. They didn’t fancy getting wet, and so instead they would stroll around the house and irritate him. He locked himself down in the training area, and played music loudly enough he couldn’t hear the protests outside.

It was almost sundown when he came out, with his legs like jelly and his knuckles bleeding. He opened the door and immediately there was a raven flying at his head. He swatted it to the side and stumbled away. That is when he heard the thunder.

He looked outside in surprise, and then back to the raven. Hugin was down at his feet, cawing away as he was before, but, this time, it sounded less annoying to him, and more pitiful. They probably had not eaten all day. Valentine would have fed them.

“Fine,” he gritted out, and walked over to the kitchen. Already Munin was flying around, either more insistent or excited at the prospect of food. He looked around in the fridge, and found some of the leftover chicken from yesterday. Barely had he taken it in his hand when Munin flew in for a bite.

He flinched a little when the talons scraped his wrist, but the pain was bearable, and he knew it would heal with an iratze. He watched, a little astonished, Munin eat out of his hand like it was nothing. It really wasn’t that difficult to tame a bird, was it? It was a stupid thing. It had put itself in such a vulnerable position, and it was the first time Jonathan had attempted to feed it. Why would a person cry over this? He was sure he could reach out and break the creature’s neck, and feel nothing if maybe the fear of his father’s anger.

Hugin cawed at his feet. Jonathan threw him a piece of chicken.

Taming a bird was maybe not so difficult, but training one was a different story.

Many times Valentine had told Jonathan how intelligent ravens are. “They’re about as smart as a seven-year-old child,” he had said. He was supposed to believe these two creatures were almost as smart as he himself was. Yet, when he was seven, if Valentine had told him to go and pick up a stick, he would have done so, and meanwhile neither bird could seem to figure out any commands whatsoever.

“I said ‘pick it up,’ you stupid bird!” 

Hugin shouted at him just as loudly, wings fluttering, and Jonathan picked up the stick, ready to throw it at it, before he recalled his father’s words. If I gave you a falcon, it would be dead within a day.

He stopped, gritting his teeth. Had his father not meant that he was incapable of keeping it alive, but rather, that he would kill it?

He looked down at his own hand, holding the stick. He thought of his mother’s eyes, filled in horror.

He had the impulse to do something, but it was no longer to strike the raven. Ugly, bitter spite churned inside his gut. He hated the idea that his father found his behaviour predictable. Yet, was he not meant to be this way, if only a year or so ago Valentine was teaching him the most efficient way to stab a man? How could he be the one considered broken, if he was acting according to what was expected of him?

He felt a faint stab of pain. The stick splintered in his palm. Hugin pecked at one of the pieces curiously, and before he thought any of it, he was rewarding it with a chunk of food.

It wasn’t long before he learned to pick it up and bring it to Jonathan. It was simple, and, if he really thought about it, not worthy of praise. If only he could be rewarded for something as unimportant as picking up a stick.

He wondered what Jace had felt, teaching his falcon meaningless tricks. He wondered if it was anything like what he was feeling right now.

Hugin landed on his shoulder a second time. Jonathan reached out after taking the offered piece, and brushed the feathers of its head with his fingers. He felt strangely out of his depth, even despite the fact that this was functionally a very simple endeavour. Was he doing it right? Was this how a normal person would act around a pet?

If only he could understand, then he wouldn’t have to sit with this any longer. Surely the reasons Jace had cried were shallow and childish, and if he could simply arrive at the why he could put it to rest, he would know that this wasn’t worth all the effort he had put in. He would know that it had nothing to do with what was wrong with him. That he was a better soldier than Jace. That when the time came, Valentine would pick him, because he was strong, and Jace was weak.

He stopped. The raven cocked its head and stared at him.

The anxiety persisted.

Chapter Text

From the moment Jonathan woke up that morning, he knew the entire day was shot. His eyes struggled to open, as if he had slept under a bright light and they had gotten no respite. Pressure built up from his forehead; a growing headache in only a little need of encouragement. He was sore all over, especially after he had been with the ravens outside even after it started to drizzle. Perhaps he had caught a cold.

And so, for the first time in a while, he completely neglected training. He’d had this same restless spite stuck inside of him that he could not trace back to any concrete reasoning, but it was enough to keep him out of his duties with a strange sense of rebellion. What would Valentine notice, anyway? He had been gone for almost a week now, and he might very well take longer to head back. Apparently a weaker son required so much more supervision.

By the time the sun rose, he’d had a long, lazy breakfast, and he’d propped himself on the window of the second story, back against the frame by opening it halfway and peeking outside. It was time to put Hugin to the test.

After about an hour, he glimpsed a blur of black, and couldn’t help but crack a smile. The raven flew in through the slit next to him, and proudly dropped a hat right on the floor.

Jonathan burst out laughing. “That’s a good fucking bird.”

Hugin cawed, mostly for food, but it might have also been a reprimand at the swearing. Valentine had slapped him on the mouth for less.

He passed the time in that little nook, and at some point, what he saw was not a bird, but an actual person walking by his house. He leaned forward, both in delight and confoundment. He had not seen anyone other than Valentine in a long time.

It was a young woman striding forward with haste. She was wearing a red scarf, dangling from the wind in a tantalising manner. He only had a second to wonder if Hugin was closeby, when he spotted him diving towards the tail end of the scarf. The woman screamed.

He pressed his palm over his mouth in order to muffle his mirth, and just then, he saw with horror his own father, who had apparently been walking back to the house just out of vision. Valentine ran forward to aid the strange woman, and Hugin, upon seeing his master displeased, quickly dashed upwards, scarf in his peak, in the direction of the window.

Valentine instinctively looked up, following the trail. Jonathan had but a second to hide, and he cussed loudly, flinching away from where he could be seen, but it was too hurried a motion to know if he had succeeded. Hugin landed in front of him, shaking his feathers in a rather dignified manner.

They both stared at each other, sharing the dread of two children that knew they were in trouble.

After some minutes, he heard the front door open. He waited for what felt like hours, but his father did not go upstairs to tell him off, or greet him. Eventually, he was too anxious to sit around, and he made his own way towards him, leaving the raven behind.

Valentine was sitting at the kitchen table, nonchalantly sipping a glass of what Jonathan knew to be whiskey. His eyes shifted to look at his son as he entered, but he otherwise made no acknowledgement of him.

Jonathan bit the inside of his cheek. This was, somehow, worse. “Hello, father.”

Silence.

“You were… gone for a while.”

There was another long pause. For a moment he was sure he would get no reply, but then, after a sip; “Jace was injured;” it was the only explanation given. Usually he had even less than that. “But you’ve gotten busy, I see.” Jonathan stayed quiet. It did not seem like a question he was meant to answer. “I wonder what was so important that you weren’t training.”

Again, Valentine was not asking.

Jonathan felt that flare up of anger again. It was overriding his fear. He stuck his chin upwards, only slightly. Only to show that he was not going to cower back like a toddler. “So what if I wasn’t?”

Too far, he thought immediately. He had never talked back to Valentine like this. He had never not trained when he was supposed to. But, where had that gotten him? To an empty house and the growing certainty that Valentine preferred his other son. It seemed to be working for Jace, after all, to be a burden. At least that way he was getting a father.

The world did not crumble apart like he expected. Instead, he got a lingering, piercing look. It wasn’t quite raging fury, and more of an irritated disappointment.

He stared back, his stomach twisting into a knot. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Wasn’t he meant to be getting punished, or something? Wouldn’t that be what would happen to Jace?

Maybe he doesn’t care enough to punish me. The idea left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. Still the fear clinged to him like a ghost, making him shiver as if he’d been doused in freezing water, but he refused to give into it any longer. It wasn’t fair. “What?” he barked, challenging. “Are you not going to do anything?” More silence. “Say something.”

Nothing.

His jaw was clenching.

“Why do you like him better?”

It was the first time he had asked out loud.

Valentine seemed unmoved by the question.

“Tell me.”

Still, no reaction.

He was so desperate for one. For anything, any indication that his father gave a shit. Blindly he grabbed one of the kitchen knives on the counter. “TELL ME,” and he threw it just as he had been taught, tip-first. It embedded itself into the wood of the wall, a few inches away from Valentine’s head.

His father got up.

He felt his knees go weak suddenly. He hardly had any time to flinch back, terror crawling up his spine and choking him. God, why had he been so stupid? He was so dead, so dead—

There was a bruising grasp over his wrist, which was still a little elevated from the throw. He was quickly aware of how fragile and small his own body was in comparison to his father’s. He felt as if the bone might snap in half any second, just from how tightly he’d grabbed him. He had thought he knew Valentine’s strength, but he now realised that he had been holding back.

His father dragged him towards the entryway. He made a choked noise of pain, and uselessly tried to pull himself free. Valentine swung the front door open, and unceremoniously pushed him outside. “Is this what you want?” he asked. He was not quite yelling, but his tone was much louder than usual. “Go be a failure, then. Don’t waste my time.”

And he slammed the door shut.

Jonathan grabbed his own wrist, which was now reddened and even felt swollen. It took him a few seconds to process what had happened. He walked forward and tried the knob, but it did not give. No.

Valentine wouldn’t kick him out, would he?

“Dad?” his voice shook. He felt his cheeks go red from embarrassment. He wished to cry, but if he did, he would not be any better than Jace anymore, would he? “Dad, open the door.”

It wasn’t such a huge leap in logic. His mother had left him already. Jace, too.

Lip wobbling, eyes stinging but refusing to shed tears, he kicked at the door once, twice. “Open it!”

He was out of breath, though he did not feel he had used nearly all of his energy. He pushed at it with his hands, made fists and hit the door again, and again, and again. Panic like he’d never felt before was seizing his chest. The ache had spread all the way through his nerves, through his lungs and up into his hands.

His throat gave out. The initial spike of adrenaline faded, and now there was only paralysing dread. “I’m sorry,” he managed to say, still, face pushed against the wood. He noticed that his fingers were shaking.

About a minute passed. In it he could hear his own pulse, rapid, ringing in his ears. Then, the door opened. Jonathan stepped back in a haze, trying to force his expression back into a neutral state. He was shaking. The relief was intense, but short-lived; undeniable proof that his father was all he had. Only he could love him, just like he said before.

“Are you done?” Valentine said, cold.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak out loud.

His father pulled him inside. Jonathan heard the door shut. His body remained still, waiting, perhaps for more violence to occur, yet unwilling to make it worse by resisting it. “Listen to me, son.” Valentine took him by both his cheeks with one hold. It was then that he realised he had cried. They were wet, and his eyes dry and puffy. “Do you remember what I told you about Downworlders?”

He gulped down the grating sensation in his mouth. It only helped slightly. “You said they were bad.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re like demons.”

“Yes, but there’s more to it than that. Do you know why they are still alive, even with our kind around to kill them?” He shook his head. “It is because they are stronger. Demons are not stingy with their gifts. They live longer. They have magic. Nephilim are in a losing battle. We have always been. That is why you exist.”

He frowned, his thoughts too muddled to follow along.

“You’re not like other Nephilim, Jonathan. You’re like them. You’re like the demons.”

Ah.

So that is why—

“You’re a monster.” His throat closed up all over again. He tried to fight it, but already he could feel, streaming down, the tears he had tried so stubbornly to keep in. “Stop that,” his father said, and he inhaled forcefully, tensing his face so he would not sob. “I do not ever want to see you cry. Ever.”

“Jace cried,” he said, unable to help himself. Even to his own ears he sounded childish, and pathetic.

“Jace is not like you. You have to be strong enough to bear this, otherwise it is all for nothing, do you understand? Otherwise your mother left me for nothing.” He pushed Valentine’s hand away, angrily rubbing at his eyelids so that the emotion would stop. “You have a purpose to fulfil. You cannot let the poison inside you consume you. You have to control it.”

And for a second, his grief won out; “I don’t understand—” his voice broke, blubbering. “I don’t want to be like them. I don’t want to.”

“It’s too late.”

“But—”

Valentine smacked him across his left cheek. His ears rang, mind going blank. “Quit crying.” He inhaled, and stopped crying. “There’s nothing to be done about it now. You are the way you are. It’s in your blood.”

His chest felt like it was on fire.

He recalled now, the way his mother had spoken of him. He never cried, not even as a baby.

“Now go make up the training you missed.”

His feet moved automatically to follow the order.

His last hopeful thought was that perhaps the scene he senselessly caused would at least make his father stay with him for longer, like he had for Jace.

Chapter Text

On the morning of his twelfth birthday, Jonathan found a dead cat laying in the gardens of a house nearby.

Rather, it was Hugin who found it. Jonathan had wandered there after he heard the raven squabbling with other birds, and when they dispersed because of his presence, he saw it. It had been pecked through on its stomach, and now its insides were spilling out. The grass was stained red, the ground soaked and wet with gore. It was a light-furred cat and it made the colours all the more revolting. It had a brown spot on its chin. It might've been cute when it was alive; Jonathan could imagine a child saying it looked like a beard. Now, it held no resemblance; it was simply a feature of a corpse.

The eyes were blue. They stared forward, unmoving. When one is young, one imagines death with eyes shut, like sleeping, but death appears with them wide open, in such a way that its presence is undeniable. It could not be confused with a mere slumber.

Jonathan stared at the cat for a good minute before he went back to retrieve his sketchbook.

He had always liked to draw, since he was young, though his father despised the habit, and would tear up anything he would find. It wasn’t long since he started doing it in secret. He had to draw over the lines of a normal notebook, and to keep it under the floorboards of the attic, but, at least, Valentine had not noticed. He only had one simple pencil, but he had gotten surprisingly good at shading with just that.

There was something in the image that called to him. The animal’s eyes were empty, devoid of whatever it had felt in life. Perhaps it had been a housecat, but it was only cared for, now, as a source of food.

“You shouldn’t wander too far from home, you know.”

Though he was startled, he did not allow it to make him flinch. The pencil stayed steady on the page. He looked up.

The one who’d spoken was a young girl his age, with long, scarlet hair and blue eyes. Jonathan quickly spotted the pointed ears; fey. His father had warned him about them before. 

She was also beautiful. It was the first time he’d found himself thinking such a thing about another person. Or, at least, what appeared to be a person. Valentine did not tire to remind him; Downworlders —fey, vampires, werewolves, warlocks— were not people. They lost their humanity when they came into contact with demonkind.

Her eyelashes fluttered when their gazes met. She then stepped closer, tilting her head in order to look at what he was drawing. Jonathan felt the urge to hold the sketchbook closer to his own chest, but he resisted. He knew better than to show he cared about it. “Why?” he barked at her. He was a little rattled, but despite his father’s warnings, he could not bring himself to be too scared of her. She looked too small and thin to pose a physical threat to him.

“There’s others around; they might kill you if they find you,” she said, with the same casual tone as if she was making small talk. “Why have you drawn everything so grey and gloomy?”

He looked down, only for a split second, to his sketch. He felt, ridiculously, self-conscious of it now. “Other what, faeries?”

And at this, she laughed. It was a bright sound. Jonathan hunched into himself. The few trees that were around them seemed to have grown closer, attracted by the sound she had made. It unnerved him. “Goodness, no. We wouldn’t kill you.”

“My father says faeries steal babies, and kill Nephilim.”

He’d said it with a challenging tone, but the girl seemed mostly amused by the notion. She balanced on the tip of her toes. She was barefoot despite the rough terrain they were in, littered with rocks and twigs. “Yes, I suppose Valentine would say that.” Alarms blared in his head. How did she know his father’s name? He recalled something about names and faeries, and he thought if she knew Valentine’s, she probably knew his, too. “You didn’t answer my question.”

He struggled to remember. His mouth was dry. Was he afraid? He could hardly tell, he mostly felt as if he was taking a very important exam, and failing at it. “I don’t have any colours. If not faeries, then what?”

Her lips curled up. There was something appreciative in her gaze. She was staring at him like an adult praising a young student, yet with the same mirth a child would have. For the first time he considered the possibility they weren’t both the same age after all. “Nephilim,” she finally said. “They’re heading this way now.”

But I’m Nephilim, he wanted to protest. Still, he understood. 

You’re not like other Nephilim, Jonathan. 

You’re like the demons.

“Hide.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And don’t cower. If they think you are weak, they’ll kill you. You must scare them.”

He jumped to his feet without thinking. His father would never approve of him following the advice of fey. It was a fundamental rule. Faeries use the truth to tell lies, he had told him. Every rational impulse pointed to her laying a trap for him, and yet still, he listened. He put his sketchbook under his arm and climbed up the nearest tree he found, high into the branches where he wouldn’t be seen. When he looked down, the girl was gone.

There were footsteps. Before even a minute had passed, he saw that she had told him the truth. Two men and one woman appeared and stopped just a few feet from the tree he was on top of. They seemed to be arguing, and as they grew closer, he caught more of the conversation; “...happen to the boy after, anyway?”

“The Lightwoods will take him.”

“The Lightwoods? I thought they were out.”

“Starkweather’s there. He got the worst deal from the Clave. Valentine thinks he’ll turn if he hears he’s alive, just to get out from under them.”

“What about the boy? Isn’t he too young to be a plant, too?”

“Why do you think we’re doing this whole ruse, idiot? The kid has to be kept in the dark, so he won’t snitch, or get interrogated. He has to believe he’s Wayland’s son.”

“Robert will know.”

“They haven’t spoken in years. If he knew, he would’ve said something already.”

“How do we know he’ll help us when he’s older, though?”

Thunk. The sketchbook slipped from under his arm, and fell heavily on the grass.

Jonathan cursed under his breath.

There was a slicing sound through the air. He had enough sense to duck his head, shielding it with his forearms, and the dagger hit him inches under his wrist, instead of his throat. It was a hit powerful enough to mess with his balance. His leg gave in, and he fell.

One, two, three seconds. His left foot was the first to touch the ground. Agony rippled through it. Had he not bent his knees? His reflexes had not been fast enough to roll like he had been taught. Instead he was knocked down to his back, clutching his ankle and clenching his jaw so as to not scream.

“Is that a kid?” he heard one of the men say. “Did you just kill Valentine’s kid?”

There were steps. His vision was blurring, but he had not forgotten what he’d been told. If they think you are weak, they’ll kill you. He managed to prop himself up by his elbows, and with a grunt of pain he crawled a few feet, trying to get away, fear gripping his heart so tightly he could not breathe.

It was the woman who spoke next, much closer to him. “No,” she exhaled, as if relieved. “This is the other one.”

The man, when he answered, did not sound any less terrified. “You mean the demon one?”

She’s going to kill me.

It was a certain thought. He looked back at her, and at the way she was looming over him. Her hand was on the hilt of her seraph blade. The intent was clear as day, he could almost follow her own train of logic; Valentine was not here. She could say it was an accident. Better to get rid of him before he’s older, stronger. He was a mistake, and she could correct it.

He wanted to plead. His whole body was shivering with hurt, his stomach twisted into a knot. For all his training, all he could think was that he wanted his father here, to protect him, that he should have listened to him and not strayed so far off, that he should have quit the drawing and went through more drills, instead.

You must scare them.

He gulped down the feeling of helplessness. If he was like the demons, he should be able to do that, shouldn’t he? Demons are awful, terrible things. Demons are frightening.

He stared at the woman with all the venom he could muster. If you go near me, I’ll kill you, he thought, and tried desperately to believe it. Even if I die, you’ll die with me.

She stopped. Her eyes were watching him closely, analysing.

“What the fuck do we do?” the man, behind her, yelled.

She hesitated. 

Jonathan made a fistfull of dirt. His shoulders squared up as if for a fight.

She took a step back.

“Let’s just go get Valentine,” she said.

It was a few more tense seconds before they were finally gone. He struggled to retain the tension in his body. It had kept him from trembling, and now, he could not help it. His eyes filled with tears, either from the scare, or from the excruciating pain in his foot. He’d broken a bone or two, he was certain.

If he was any other child, they would have helped him. They would have drawn an iratze on him, and held and comforted him. He knew he could not in any way be confused with an adult.

He let the weight of his body fall. Suddenly it was too heavy to bear.

Chapter Text

He was informed Valentine had reached him by the sound of his boots crunching on leaves. He did not look up. He still had his forehead pressed against the dirt, breathing heavily and biting his own tongue so as to not scream.

“I was hoping they were exaggerating your injuries,” he said, calm as ever. 

He sounded so conversational, and since Jonathan could not grasp the words as to know he was already aware, he shifted to look at him in order to convey the urgency, his hand moving to clutch at the fabric of his pants. “Dad,” he breathed out, pleading. His throat was hurting from the effort of keeping down any crying. “It hurts really bad, it really hurts, please, please— I don’t—” forceful inhale, “…have a stele, please—” It came quick and prescient, mumbled through without a lot of clarity.

Valentine was unfazed. What he got instead of concern was; “really, J. You should know by now you can’t manipulate me.”

“What?” His voice broke. The confusion was brief, interrupted by that familiar ache over his chest. His vision refocused for a moment. He saw in Valentine that same look he’d seen in the woman before, albeit without the intent of murder.

He doesn’t believe me, he realised. That is why that fey told him not to cower; because they would not believe it genuine.

“I shall remain three more days,” Valentine kept talking, “given your little stunt. I expect you to make a good recovery in that time. You will, however, wish that I’d left. I’m disappointed that you’ve even attempted to keep me here with something like this. There’ll be consequences, J.”

Ah. He thinks I’ve done it on purpose.

The irony was he had not even noticed him packing. He’d tried to do things before, unsuccessfully, to delay him from leaving. In a way, Valentine could not be blamed for assuming.

Jonathan did not reply. He’d ceased begging. Now he continued lying on the ground, strangely numb even to the agony rippling through his body. There was no point in it; it would change nothing about his situation. He could only wait for his father to get to the healing eventually.

“And this,” a noise caught his attention once again. He glanced to see his father waving around his sketchbook. “I thought I told you not to waste time on meaningless things.”

A sense of alarm reawakened in him. He reached out, weakly, and could only let out a; “wait—”

But it was too late. There was a loud rip, and then drawings scattered all around him.

His hand went to grasp paper, so desperate to keep anything that he did not care if it wrinkled. He sensed Valentine moving, and he flinched by instinct, though was surprised to find no reprisal. Instead the relieving wave of an iratze finally hit him. He gasped and shuddered, clutching the sketch close to his chest.

Valentine grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him up.

The day that Valentine left was the day he was disciplined. 

He'd almost come to forget retribution would come eventually. Despite his constant frustration with his weakened state, his father had treated him more kindly than he'd ever had before. He had brought him food to bed, made sure he was drinking water, and allowed him to take time off training. It was only now, that he was better and it was time to leave, than he made good on his earlier promise.

“Take your shirt off.”

Jonathan felt sick in his stomach. He stared over at his father, unmoving, considering arguing, though he had the sense to know it was pointless. Valentine was holding something he hadn't ever seen before, though it was hard to make out at the moment. It was long, coiled over his wrist. Something in it caught the light like metal would.

Valentine arched an eyebrow. So, Jonathan obeyed.

“Face the wall.”

This wasn't how it normally went. His father had only ever beat him with a belt.

“I said face the wall, J.”

With his nerves fraying up, he couldn't help himself; “I didn't do it on purpose.”

“Do as I say.”

“It was an accident—”

There was a loud crack. It was louder than he'd ever expected. He flinched violently, his back hitting the wall behind him.

His cheeks burned with shame at his own reaction.

“I am going to give you five lashes,” said Valentine. “If you continue stalling, it will be five more. Do you understand?”

His heart was hammering wildly in his chest. He wanted to puke it out. 

Yet blind rage made him still speak; “but it's not fair.”

“That's ten. Do you want it to be fifteen?”

Now he really tasted bile. His anger was greater than any fear, pointless as it was. Even if he wanted to fight this situation, there wasn't anything to do. It remained stuck inside of him; stewing. Rotting.

Valentine opened his mouth, no doubt to say the next number up. Jonathan moved against his will, out of whatever sense of self preservation he still had. He faced the wall, palms opened wide, supporting his weight.

The first lash hit. Even with how he was clenching his jaw, he could not contain the scream. He had thought it would just sting, but it had so much force that he felt he was being struck with a baseball bat, and then cut open with a knife all at once. 

He was so angry. It wasn't fair.

By the time Valentine got to the fifth, it was already so much worse. The lashes were going through the previous lines. It ignited his flesh like oil poured over fire. The edges of his vision were going black, his knees buckling.

Yet still, the anger kept him standing. He had managed not to scream anymore.

On the sixth lash, he accomplished something even better; he laughed, instead.

There was a moment of hesitation behind him; his father, stopping, only a moment.

Jonathan held his breath. The seventh came more violently than the others. He could tell, now, that as much as it had hurt, Valentine had been holding back. He was skilled enough not to allow the whip to hit along with the crack. Now, he didn't seem so keen in doing so.

Through clenched teeth and a pounding headache, he gasped, and then forced the moan of pain to morph once again. It sounded hysterical even to his ears, but it was exhilarating. An outlet, as pathetic as it was, for his anger. He would not give his father the satisfaction. 

“You think this is funny?” Valentine snapped. It only served to motivate him further. His father wasn't easy to rattle, and he sounded deeply irritated. “I can be here all night, Jonathan.”

Go ahead, he thought. Whip me to death, then.

Instead of answering, he laughed. He cackled away until he was out of breath, until Valentine had more than tripled the amount he'd promised.

Chapter Text

He came to think of time in terms of exhales. Each time he drew in breath, it made the scars on his back wrap around him like wires, squeezing it out painfully. They had not healed, no matter how many iratzes he'd drawn. After he had gasped out in frustration, his father had walked up to him, and pressed the metal tip of the wip onto his hand.

Jonathan had cried out. It sizzled his skin. He tried to pull away, but Valentine wrapped his larger palm around his own and clutched it tightly. “You see that?” They were both holding it. The metal pressed against both their flesh, yet Valentine was unharmed. “Electrum. This is used to hunt demons, J.”

The implication was clear.

And so, they would not heal.

He'd been looking in the mirror for the last few days, almost obsessively. The swelling and welting had gone down, but the marks were still red, as if they had been freshly made. They stung whenever he tried to wear clothing over it. He wondered if it would never heal. If this punishment was to be endured forever. And for what? For something he hadn't done?

No, he thought bitterly. The punishment was for merely existing.

He learned to sleep on his stomach. Many days, he would pass them like that, scratching at the wooden floor with the tip of a blade to entertain himself. When he was younger, he might have feared reprisal for something like that — strange, because nothing had changed. He should still be scared, more so after what Valentine had done.

And yet.

There was a noise behind him. He shifted by instinct. His back protested, but his training had him upright and ready for a fight in seconds.

He grabbed a seraph blade from his nightstand. Paused.

There it was again. It was like feet, darting on wood. It was coming from above him.

He dashed for the hallway, to pull the staircase down. It was in no time that he was in the attic itself, aided by the glow of the blade and his keen sight. At first, though, he was sure there was nothing to be found.

Then he spotted one of the floorboards wasn't properly in place. He knew that spot well; it was where he had kept his sketchbook before, when he still had it.

He walked towards it, and kicked it open.

There, where it should be empty… there was his book.

He stood there, confusion overriding any relief. It was stupid to reach to touch it, but he did it anyway, unable to stifle his curiosity. He flipped it open.

It was not empty. The pages were filled in with his own pencil traces, yet his drawings were not quite what they were before. Some of them were almost the same, and some were a patchwork that combined different pages, sewn together in a thin, white string. He saw the cat's entrails he had sketched, and that dead bird from a month before. The poisoned rat, and the squished bug. Blood, death, gore. It was all there.

The fey girl, he thought. She had been here.

He looked down at the small nook again. It hadn't just been the book. She had left behind a handful of coloured pencils, and a couple of crayons.

His hands closed around the book involuntarily, clutching it. He tried to school himself. He could not accept something from a fey; he knew the rules. Fey gifts are never free. If he were to take it, he would owe something, and who could guess what they would demand of him?

“I can't take this,” he said, loudly so that she could hear it. He was turning in his spot, as if she could still be found in the shadows. No doubt, she was already gone. “I know you're trying to trick me!”

No response.

He walked downstairs. In an impulse, he gathered the matches his father kept in the kitchen. Over a trash can, he lit one. A fire roared over pieces of paper his father had thrown away.

He held the sketchbook over it.

His hand shook. Let go, he told himself. Burn it.

It was the rational decision. 

Faeries always lie. They use the truth to tell lies.

He felt the warmth of the fire begin to irritate his skin. He could not help himself; he pulled back his hand. He gritted his teeth.

He did not burn it.

Chapter Text

About five months after his incident with Valentine's followers, they left their home. It was sudden and without explanation. “Get your things,” his father had said. “We're leaving in thirty minutes.” And so Jonathan had packed his clothes, his stele and his seraph blade and snuck into the attic to retrieve his sketchbook. 

“Where are we going?”

He got no answer. Currently he was walking through unfamiliar woods. It was the beginning of autumn, and already the landscape was covered with an orange hue. 

It made it difficult to be silent. Leaves crunched under his feet, and his father turned to him with irritation in his gaze.

He felt the need to argue. “What?” But he, again, gained no response.

They kept on walking. His father kept stopping at random intervals, looking ahead like he tended to do when they went out hunting. Jonathan hardly understood why they would go all this way for that. Dragging a deer back home was by now impossible. Did he plan to camp overnight?

He tried to follow his eyeline whenever he stopped, leaning forward. He wasn't so bad at spotting prey himself, but clearly his father did not appreciate the help; he was pushed aside harshly about three times before he stopped trying altogether.

Sunset crept in on them. Jonathan began to worry. He did not fancy the idea of sleeping here. He'd been looking forward to a bed with how badly his legs hurt. “Dad,” he finally cracked, unable not to ask again. “Where are we going? We've been walking for hours.”

He'd noticed a heightened tension around them — the sense that his father was in a bad mood. He did not anticipate by how much until he was struck on his left cheek. “Quiet,” Valentine barked, venom and annoyance dripping from his voice. “Don't make me regret taking you with me.”

His jaw shut tight. His head pounded, either from exhaustion or mere anger.

Then, finally, he spotted a house a little ways away, over an old, dirt road. The lights downstairs were on, and there was enough noise coming from it to recognise it as an inn, or tavern.

He exhaled with relief. Valentine's shoulders tensed up, as if even the sound of his son breathing irked him. Jonathan wanted to snap at him again (what?) , but he was too tired for it. He didn't understand what he'd done to grant this level of hostility.

They headed inside. After an excruciating wait, he was able to step in their room, and sit on one of the beds. He was quick to take off his shoes. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Valentine placing his stele and blade on top of a table. 

He shifted, and Jonathan felt himself almost flinching, recoiling back by instinct, but his father was merely taking off his coat.

It was yet another long pause before he was addressed at all; “I've sent Jace away.”

Jonathan blinked. He was too shocked to bite back the “what?”

Valentine eyed him quickly with distaste. He hunched into himself, though there was no reprisal; merely disapproval. “Plans have changed, for now.”

He didn't know what that meant. He didn't know what the plans were beforehand.

I should be happy, he thought. Unfortunately the air in the room was anything but. No more competition. No more absences. Shouldn't this mean that he was the son Valentine had ultimately chosen? The better one?

It didn't seem like he would be getting an explanation in that vein. He was unsatisfied.

His mouth was dry. Every ounce of his body protested the idea of asking, but he had to know. “...why?”

Valentine didn't look at him this time. He'd taken his rifle, and was methodically taking out the ammunition. 

His nerves were spiking up from waiting. At last, his father muttered; “he wasn't taking well to his training. He needed time away.”

It was a good answer — or it should have been. Surely, it implied weakness.

Yet Jonathan recalled what Valentine had said, when he'd slapped him earlier. Don't make me regret taking you with me.

“Were you going to send me away, too?”

He was dreading a positive response. Instead, his father scoffed like the idea was humorous. “Don't be ridiculous, J. Any Shadowhunter capable enough to train you would kill you.”

Don't make me regret taking you with me.

Don't make me regret—

The alternative, then, had been death.

No. Father wouldn't kill me, but staring at Valentine now, as he dusted off his rifle, he wasn't so certain. Perhaps Jace truly had disappointed him, but, as bitter as it was to accept, that did not mean Jonathan had made him proud. On the contrary, his father seemed rather annoyed now that he was saddled with him.

That familiar aching void was back, eating away at his heart. He had done everything Valentine wanted. He had always tried to do everything Valentine wanted. Why, then, was he still disfavoured?

For how much he had longed for a bed, he didn't get a lot of good sleep.

The hunt resumed the next morning.

The air felt heavy with something. A putrid smell clung to it and stuck to his nose. It had rained during the night, and it persisted throughout the morning. They had restarted the journey before the sunrise, and now his clothes were wet and his shoes stained in mud. Every so often, droplets would fall on them again. 

Jonathan still wished to ask what they were doing. They had eaten breakfast, and so looking for food yesterday had been pointless. He did not wish to displease his father, however, so he kept his mouth shut.

Eventually he heard the sound of voices. He looked up, shielding his eyes from the drizzle. Figures were some ways off, a few of them walking their way, or holding up a hand as greeting.

“Here,” Valentine said, passing him the rifle. Jonathan took it numbly, bewildered by the presence of other people.

“Who are they?” he whispered, unable to keep the distrust off his voice.

His father, at the very least, didn't seem bothered. He glanced at him with the vaguest surprise, unaware, most likely, that one of his followers almost killed him before. “They're here to help.”

Jonathan didn't relax. 

Valentine, still looking at him, acquiesced with “just stick close to me.”

Conversation began flowing in the moment they met up with the group. The first question out of Valentine's lips was “any luck?” and it was answered with “not yet.” Jonathan did not know what they were referring to, and what followed did little to clue him in.

They continued walking. He remained in the periphery, always behind his father. He couldn't shake the feeling he was being closely watched, though anytime he tried to meet their stares, they looked away, as if they hadn't been looking at all. 

An hour later, he heard a familiar sound. A trap had been sprung. He flicked his eyes to the side, but he seemed to have been the only one to notice.

He looked over to his father, engrossed in conversation. The idea of interrupting him and getting told off in front of all these strangers made him nauseous, and so instead he simply and quietly stepped aside, thinking he'd just snag whatever poor rabbit they'd caught.

He walked through a thick patch of trees, and once over it, he saw that it was no rabbit, and what he'd assumed would be a small spring was instead a big bear trap that had caught on a girl's leg. For a moment he was scared it was that same fey, but this girl was decidedly different. She was younger, her hair was stark white and her eyes were a bright purple. Warlock, he reasoned once the shock of finding her had passed. Warlocks always had a mark of some sort, something that gave away the true source of their magic; an unholy union between a human and a demon. 

The girl had a palm over her mouth to stifle her cry of pain, tears rolling down her cheeks. She looked at him in terror, shivering from the drizzle that'd occurred before. She wasn't wearing the proper clothing for the cold.

Jonathan stared back, frozen.

“There you are,” a gruff voice called behind him. He stiffened. One of the Nephilim had followed him, and was now placing a rough hand over his shoulder. “Your father is—” the phrase died as the man noticed the girl, who was now desperately trying to pry her limb free, hands over the two ends of the claw. “Look at that,” he said, humour lacing his voice. “You've found it. Boss! The kid's found it!”

Commotion grew. It was like wolves circling in on him. He felt as though he was the one caught in the bear trap.

The girl wasn't silent anymore. She was sobbing under her breath, and through it all, for whatever reason, she kept looking over at him.

He recognised Valentine's presence when it appeared beside him. “Well, I'll be damned,” he scoffed. There was a hint in his voice that Jonathan had never heard before. “What are you waiting for, J? Finish it, then.”

Ah.

He blinked. Of course. He'd killed demons before, and if Downworlders were like demons, it only followed what he had to do.

He felt queasy. She did not look like a demon. He'd never hesitated when facing one. He could only see himself reflected in her eyes.

His uncertainty was palpable. There was a wave of whispers surrounding him, and he tensed. They could tell he was like her, he thought. He looked over at Valentine, perhaps in some attempt to seek reassurance, but there was none.

He remembered what he'd said that day. You have a purpose to fulfil. You cannot let the poison inside you consume you. You have to control it. There existed a land in the sand, and a correct side he should be at, lest he wanted to end up like the girl.

He levelled his rifle at her.

He wanted to puke.

“Don't,” she mouthed, too out of air to make a real sound, but he could read her lips just fine. “Please.”

“It's alright,” his father said, his voice calm, and for the first time gentle. “It isn't really a person, J. They have no souls. It's only wearing a person's skin.”

Is that what I am?

But there was no point in wondering. He took an inhale, preparing himself, and that is when she screamed. She lashed out, in her panic, and a wave of magic hit him. He felt a stabbing, throbbing pain over his left leg, and he pulled the trigger out of self preservation.

Heavy silence fell over them all. Only faint droplets of rain were heard.

He lowered the rifle. The girl laid dead now, at this unnatural angle. With her leg caught, she did not fall gracefully. There was a ringing in his ears, an awful sense of coldness all around him. The edges of his sight were blackened, less like he would pass out, and more like the spots in one's vision if they were black spiders crawling over his eyeballs.

His breath came out uneven. He took a step back, and sharp pain shot through his nerves once more. He stumbled.

A strong pair of arms caught him. “Easy there,” said Valentine. “She got you good, didn't she? You have to be faster next time.”

He looked down at his leg. There was blood sipping into his clothing. It mirrored the wound she'd had. He wondered if that was what her magic did, or if she'd simply hit him in the right place. Either way, the dramatic irony was obvious.

Valentine took out his stele. “Stay still,” and he drew an iratze on him. He was clutching Jonathan's shoulder firmly, patting him once, twice. “Good job, kid.”

The praise had him unsteady. It felt surreal, to finally hear it. He felt high on it.

It was immediately echoed throughout. A few Nephilim patted him in a similar manner, like he was one of them. Like it had never been in question.

Jonathan clutched the sides of the toilet as he emptied out his stomach. He'd barely had anything to eat; it was mostly saliva and useless retching. He couldn't wash the taste of iron off his tongue, like blood. Like the blood that he'd spilled over the wet soil.

He repeated his father's words inwardly, over and over and over again. She was not a person, she had no soul. He wondered if he had such a horrid time believing it because he was like her. The thought made his heart ache.

He wobbled up to his feet, wiping his mouth and flushing the toilet.

No wonder his father hated him.

The ringing in his ears had not subsided. It made every normal sound morph like it was traveling through water. The hairs on his nape were standing up. Shadows whispered to him, laughing. Murderer, murderer. Monster. They said. Soulless. No wonder he hates you.

He made his way to the rooftop.

He climbed out through the window. They were in a safehouse that those other Nephilim had. Valentine was downstairs, drinking with the rest of them. Jonathan had tried to stay with him, until his stomach had been unable to keep itself together. He didn't want his father to know about this weakness.

He had been happy. He had told him he did a good job. Valentine had never said that to him. He couldn't tarnish it.

But you will, the shadows said. You know you can't keep him happy.

Failure.

Monster.

Weak.

He pressed his palms over his ears, though it didn't help muffle them. His eyes stared forward. If he closed them, he would see her. The spray of red when the bullet hit. At least it would wash off soon with this weather.

But his father was proud. He clung to the memory until his nails bled. He had placed his arm around Jonathan and helped him walk now that he was limping. He had drawn iratzes on him and disinfected the wound. He hadn't done that for him since he was six.

He looked down at his leg. The roof slanted downwards from the small ledge he sat on top of, his back to the window. It was layers of brick, creating a pattern similar to scales. Jonathan placed his bad foot over the edge of one, just to test it. It slipped almost immediately.

The slant ended on a wider frame, a border that he could easily catch himself on.

The idea was there, festering on the back of his mind like a splinter. It wasn't a conscious thought; it was a series of intrusive desires, slowly transforming into impulsive action. He shifted, until his weight wasn't rooted on a solid surface, and slipping was natural. If he was hurt again, the noise would stop. Valentine would take care of it again.

The motion was short and violent. It felt like a knot inside his stomach, pulling him back, as the drop of inertia went through him. His bad leg scraped, blood pouring from it once more. It was relieving.

He laughed under his breath. He had been so angry before, that Valentine would think he'd hurt himself on purpose, that he'd try to manipulate him like that, but now he understood he was right; Jonathan was exactly what his father thought he was. 

Monster, the shadows repeated, before they dissipated.

He couldn't help but agree.

Chapter Text

Despite how much he had prepared for this moment, he was still nervous. Over the last four years he had managed to fit in with most Nephilim, contrary to when he was younger, but there were always those slip ups, those moments when their eyes would narrow when looking at him, as if they could tell it was all pretend. 

Valentine never told him his exact purpose when he would teach him, but it wasn't so difficult to guess. He was the ace up his father's sleeve; the only Shadowhunter loyal to him without the Mark of the Circle, the only they wouldn't recognise, and the only demonic being that could access Alicante and break its wards simply with his blood. 

Valentine needed a spy, and his son was his only option. The only problem was, of course, that his son was a monster barely able to pass as human, though every inch he'd gained in that regard he had bled and fought for. He'd spend entire days perfecting glamours, looking at his own face in the mirror until he couldn't recognise it anymore. His eyes were the worst culprits; they were too black, too still, like staring into the ocean far away from land and in pitch darkness. And so he had managed a way to conceal them, until they almost looked brown and warm and normal. He had practiced smiling and laughing and standing in a casual manner, rather than the perpetual stance of a soldier. He had even forsaken his own name. Names were for people, and he knew he was not a person — he was, like Valentine had said, only wearing the skin of one. His new name was Sebastian Verlac, and his new hair was dyed black to resemble its previous owner, one that he had killed.

The night after he'd done it was much the same as that warlock girl. He had spent it puking out his insides over a public bathroom's toilet. They called Paris the city of love, but he knew it just for having a putrid smell and for the boy he had murdered there.

Sebastian Verlac —the original Sebastian Verlac— was Nephilim. At first he had not understood what possible reason there was for killing one of their own. “Some Shadowhunters are traitors to their own kind,” Valentine had said then. “They abide by these wretched Accords. They let corrupt politicians run us into the ground. They dally with Downworlders, employ them, befriend them. Some even have children with them.”

His father had harsh opinions of these people. For his part, he was not sure it was out of treachery as much as ignorance, or naïveity. He himself had suffered through the murder of a warlock and a Shadowhunter just the same, despite knowing one was no different than ridding the world of a demon. Though, perhaps that was because he more resembled the warlock than the Nephilim. Perhaps the fact he became equally as sick was only a mark of his inhumanity. It would not surprise him. Just as he had gotten better at fooling others, over time he had also gotten emptier. That ache in his heart, he knew now, was a void, and it consumed all of his feelings until all that remained was a frigid coldness. He barely questioned what Valentine wanted anymore; he knew he could not know better.

It was about three hours in that he spotted the girl. He was meant to find one of the Lightwood kids outside of Valentine's safehouse. Really there was hardly the need; he'd come to New York with the Penhallows, and Aline had no clue he wasn't really her cousin. They hadn't seen each other in too many years.

But Valentine wanted him to make an impression, wanted them to trust him. Perhaps he doubted his ability to accomplish that on his own, and so he'd set up this whole charade.

Waiting for her had been a drag. He'd spend his time mindlessly scratching at the pavement with the tip of a rock, until it took the vaguest shape. Now he was watching her creep close to the backdoor. It was a big warehouse, and under the emergency staircase was a small metal door meant for night-shift workers. In about three seconds she was going to get surrounded by Circle members. A tip gone wrong. An opportunity for him to step in and be the hero.

Him, playing the hero. Hah.

He saw movement, but he did not spring into action; he waited. He watched with detached interest as his father’s goons beat up a girl. She had been dumb not to wait for backup. A mistake like that would get a Shadowhunter killed — a mistake like that would not fly with Valentine.

It was when she was close to passing out that he stepped in. All Isabelle Lightwood saw was the blur of her saviour, fending off those Circle members, and then turning around to aid her. Her eyes were flickering, barely awake, and after a few blinks he knew she had fainted.

He relaxed his expression, which before was a mask of worry. Now he simply examined his prize. So this was Jace’s adoptive sister.

She was quite tall for a girl, he thought, though not as tall as he was. She had inked black hair, waving down to her waist, fair skin, and stained red lipstick over her mouth. She looked less like she was heading to battle, and more like she had been going clubbing. She was wearing a black dress with a corset on top, and heels.

He wasn’t sure if he was charmed by this or judgemental of it. It was a poor choice for fighting demons, but he could appreciate it had other uses. She was attractive, after all, though this fact he noted with disinterest. She clearly knew she was, and was using it to her advantage. It was not the kind of effortless beauty you could find in flowers, or butterflies.

He leaned down and drew an iratze over her neck, carefully flicking hair off her skin to do so. He’d never touched somebody in such an intimate way, aside from the man whose identity he’d stolen. He was startled to realise it felt inconsequential.

He picked her up. When he shifted, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and looked. It was Munin, perched over a lamppost. 

He didn’t acknowledge it. He simply walked.

The path to the New York Institute was short, at least for the vast distances he was accustomed to. The difference was that he normally walked in the country or in the wild. The air here was heavier with smog, and everywhere there were lights blaring in his vision. The buzzling in the streets never died, it was a never-ending stream of chatter. It screwed with his sense of danger; in every corner, there could be a demon hiding. He almost thought he could hear the shadows again.

He reached the double-doors and opened them. It only took a blink of his eyes for the glamour to fade away. A few more steps, and he was past the courtyard and in front of the main entrance.

He raised a hand, touching the doorknob. I am Sebastian Verlac, he thought, one of the Nephilim. I ask to enter. There was a sense of hesitation in him from having lied to the building — not his name, for that didn’t matter, but the phrase one of the Nephilim. He felt as though it would not believe him. It wasn’t true, after all.

But the door did open. He stepped into the elevator. It was the old kind, with intricate metal that made it look like a bird cage. It whirled to life and brought him up swiftly.

“Izzy?” somebody called from beyond the hallway once he was in. “Is that you?”

And through the door appeared a boy. Sebastian was already bracing himself. He knew Jace could be around the corner. It was not Jace, however; he knew just by looking. The man was about his own height, with black hair and stark blue eyes. Alec Lightwood.

Immediately his expression shifted to horror. “Izzy?!” he dashed forward, “what’s happened? What’s wrong with her?”

Now this was the nerve wracking part.

He forced the muscles of his face to shift. It was such a conscious act, he knew exactly what his face looked like. He had practiced every emotion in the book for this purpose. “I ran into her fighting some other Shadowhunters — they must’ve been Circle members. I’m sorry, we were outnumbered. I gave her an iratze, but she still needs to tend to the wounds.”

Alec took her off his arms, clutching her close to his chest. “Izzy?” His hands frantically searched her for injuries. He seemed relieved. He would be, of course. Valentine’s men weren’t meant to hurt her too badly. “Oh, thank the Angel.”

“Alec?” Isabelle breathed weakly.

“I’m here. Come on, let’s get you to lie down,” but before he left, Alec turned towards him. “You must be with the Penhallows. We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

“I got here early. It was a good thing I did.”

“It was.” said Alec, and then hesitated.

“It’s alright,” he waved him off. “Go help her. I should call Aline. She might be worried. I told her I was going to be right back.”

“I can’t thank you enough.”

They were sitting in the infirmary. Isabelle had gone back to sleep, and Alec was next to her, holding her hand. He couldn’t help but fixate on the gesture. He’d never seen something like it before. 

“It’s no problem. I’m only sorry I couldn’t be there sooner.”

“You’ve got skill, though, if you were able to fend them off.”

He almost wanted to laugh at the notion. He probably could kill Alec Lightwood right then and then, before he even blinked. He could stab his jugular with just his stele.  Instead he waved a hand dismissively. “I do try.”

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t even ask your name. I’m Alec, this is Isabelle, my sister.”

“It’s alright, I know who you are.” He smiled. “I’m Sebastian.” I'm Sebastian. This is my new name. My new human mask. “Aline has told me about you. She remembers you from when you were children.”

“We met in Idris,” he nodded, looking wistful. “I haven’t seen her in very long. And neither had you, she told me. I thought you lived near Alicante, as well.”

“Not since my parents died, no.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Again, Sebastian dismissed him, shaking his head. “It was a long time ago. A demon nest near Calais. I don’t remember them very well. My aunt brought me up in Paris. But I do remember Idris, more than I remember my parents.” He chuckled. This, of course, was just a fabrication meant to make it easier to lie. He did indeed remember Idris very well. “That must sound awful, but I suppose we can’t control the things our minds hang onto.”

“I suppose not.”

Silence fell on them. Sebastian leaned back on his chair, and looked towards the door. “Are you alone here? I thought you had another brother.”

“Please,” Alec scoffed. “I know you’ve heard of Jace and Clary. Everyone has.”

He put up his hands, as a sign of peacemaking. “I did not wish to be rude. I was just surprised to find you by yourself.”

“They’re out right now. Clary wanted to go to an art show, and Jace refuses her to go anywhere by herself. He’s convinced Valentine is going to spring up from the ground and kill her.”

An art show.

His fingers twitched. For a moment he felt his mask slipping, but he was quick to pick it back up. “Can you blame him? If my sister was being hunted by Valentine, I’d also be scared.”

“I didn’t say I faulted him. Though Valentine always seemed to show more interest in Jace than Clary.”

Again, the words stabbed through his facade and made him feel sick. Valentine hardly ever spoke of Jace. He had thought any interest was long dead, and so he couldn’t help his own response before it was uttered; “really? What makes you say that?”

Alec shrugged. “It’s the way everyone sees it. Clary is Jocelyn’s daughter, but Jace is Valentine’s son. Plus,” there was more carefulness now, speaking the next part; “Jace turned him down. The last person to do that was Jocelyn Fairchild, and look where that got her.”

Jace turned him down.

Sebastian made a humming noise, attempting to conceal his surprise. His father never even mentioned he had tried to recruit Jace. He had always imagined when he'd sent Jace away years ago, it was his way to discard him. Now he understood it wasn't. He was supposed to be a plant, but he had refused.

Was he Valentine's second choice?

And, he hated to admit, he couldn't help but wonder why Jace had turned him down, just as when he had spitefully wondered why he'd cry over a dead falcon.

“Have you been briefed, anyway?”

He blinked, and realised his ears had been ringing. Shadows. He forced himself to slip back into human skin, rather than the wretched feelings that proved he was anything but. “I know he stole the Mortal Cup. Everyone knows that. I assume his intention is to raise an army with it and then… take on the Clave, presumably?”

“I wish I could tell you. Last news we have is gossip Izzy picked up from the Downworld. Apparently he's been tracking down Sighted mundanes.”

So they're onto that already, he thought. Tsk. Downworlders. “Does he mean to turn them? I would've thought he would just do it at random.”

Alec shrugged. “He probably would with children, since they're generally more resilient, but if he wants an army now he's going to have to look for the best candidates. Most adults would die attempting to ascend.”

He heard the faint noise of a heartbeat, right before he heard the elevator.

“They must be back,” said Alec.

“Don’t tell Jace,” a voice suddenly piped up from the bed; Isabelle. “He’s going to give me a lecture.”

“I should be giving you one.”

“Alec,” she dropped her tone, lacing it in sweetness. Sebastian stared at them both, and at the way she was clearly manipulating his actions. Could he not see it? “Please.”

He must’ve not been able to, because Alec sighed and muttered; “fine. Get up, then, before he gets here.” And he was off, out of the room entirely.

“Thank you for saving me.”

Sebastian turned to Isabelle, realising she was addressing him. She was smiling, but not in the flirtatious way he would have assumed. It was a kind smile. It put him off a little. Flirty, he would’ve understood her angle, but not like this.

Still, he answered back in the same friendly manner. “Not a problem.”

Chapter Text

“When you cause the distraction, you must make sure Jace is occupied,” was what Valentine said when he explained the plan. At the time, he couldn’t contain his irritation. His father being worried about Jace being there implied Jace was a good warrior, and how would he know that, anyway? He was fairly certain Jace hadn’t trained under Valentine for years. “If anyone would realise we’re after the Soul Sword, it would be Jace.”

And now, there he was.

Jace Herondale was an inch or two shorter than him. He, too, had blond hair, though his was not nearly as fair as to look almost white, the way Sebastian’s natural colour was. He had broad shoulders and an overall strong build. What caught Sebastian’s attention, though, were his eyes.

He couldn’t help it. He had always hated his own. They were a constant reminder of what he was, and Jace’s were exactly the opposite; an unusually bright amber, so much so it almost looked like gold. He felt sick with envy.

It had been a while since he had felt such a strong emotion. Normally there was nothing, nothing except numbness and the vaguest sense of danger that always thrummed underneath. Now the void in him became so cold with hatred it burnt him up from inside like blue fire. He despised Jace, he despised him—

The shadows grew around him. He saw them out of the corner of his eye, wraithing and becoming louder, causing him goosebumps. Do not lose control. The last time he had, he’d caused his mission to fail, and Valentine had whipped him so much he’d sworn it had cut all the way down to the bone.

He couldn’t smile, no matter how much he tried to force his face to do it. He at least seemed to manage to maintain a somewhat neutral expression.

Clary wasn’t there, he noted immediately. He had come upstairs with Isabelle a little after Alec, and found both parabatai in the kitchen, conversing casually. Alec had just asked what he himself wanted to know.

“I left her with Simon,” was what Jace said, rather curtly. He looked annoyed for a moment, before he smiled. It wasn’t a real smile —it was clearly forced and sardonic— but it made him angry nonetheless. He did not want to see anything resembling happiness in his face. 

“Did you have another argument?” Isabelle asked by the door, crossing her arms.

Jace threw up his hands. “Why does everyone assume that? We’re fine.” And then those wretched eyes turned to Sebastian.

Making eye contact with them was so much worse. He was afraid he had lost control of the glamour; that just by virtue of having those angel-eyes, Jace would be able to see his, too; that he would recognise his natural enemy.

But no such thing occurred. Jace continued to look unbothered, no matter how much spite was brewing inside of him. “Who’s this?” he asked.

“That’s Sebastian,” Alec answered for him when he realised he wouldn’t. “He got here today.”

Smile, he told himself. Be normal. Don’t lose control.

There was a knot in his throat. He smiled. “I came with the Penhallows, though I should be heading back. I left all my luggage with them.”

“They should be here soon though, no?” Isabelle walked inside, opening the cupboard and rummaging through it. “Jace, did you eat my last chocolate square?”

“Guilty.”

She hit him on the shoulder, and he just laughed.

He couldn’t understand, watching them. Valentine had told him that he had lied to Jace, that Jace believed he was the one with demon blood, and yet still, Isabelle Lightwood was treating him just the same, without any apparent fear that he would break her neck any second and drain her of blood.

“What are you staring at me for?” He blinked in surprise, and realised Jace had asked him. “Is it for my dashing good looks?”

He forced himself to keep the jovial expression. “I’m sorry, I’ve just heard a lot about you. I didn’t notice I was doing it.”

Immediately he watched Jace’s face fall. He couldn’t help but take pleasure in it. “Yeah, well. Get in the fucking line.”

“Jace,” Isabelle’s tone was clearly meant as a warning. “Be nice.”

Jace did not reply. He simply walked forward, past Sebastian, and out of the kitchen altogether.

He unlocked his jaw. Having him so close had made him tighten it. 

“Don’t take it personally,” she walked a little closer, placing a hand over Sebastian’s shoulder. He had the impulse to flinch away from touch, but he suppressed it. “People haven’t exactly been kind ever since we found out about… you know.”

“Valentine,” he filled in.

“Yeah.”

Yeah, they haven’t been kind to me about it either. “I understand. I truly did not mean to stare. I was surprised, really. He looks nothing like him.” 

That was pushing it. He knew as soon as her brow furrowed a little in surprise. “You’ve seen Valentine?”

“I’ve seen pictures.”

“It’s true,” Alec finally spoke up. He was mixing sugar in his cup of coffee. “I thought that, too. They don’t really look alike, do they? And neither does he with Clary.”

“Clary doesn’t look like Valentine either. She looks like her mom.”

There was an awkward pause, possibly at having mentioned Clary’s mother.

Sebastian knew why. He knew where she was; under surveillance, in Idris. It was a strange version of house arrest; a way for the Clave to keep her safe from his father, while also punishing her for the Uprising.

He had wanted to see her when he found out, a while ago. That was until his father made him repeat my mother doesn’t care about me until the phrase was rooted in his brain. He had known that before, really. He couldn’t explain his desire to see her. Perhaps he merely wanted to put a new face to the name, one different from what he remembered, from that day when he was so young. You have to believe me, Amatis. Something is wrong with Jonathan. His eyes. Can’t you tell?

His mouth was dry. Still, he spoke. “Well, I look forward to meeting her, too. I hope that’ll go better.”

“It’ll be fine,” Isabelle assured him. “Clary isn’t as prone to try to bite people’s faces off.”

Chapter Text

Ever since she was a child, every so often, Clary had a dream about a dark prince trapped in a castle.

It started with a sprawling landscape of ruined vegetation. The ground was a mix of ash and dry dirt, but it had once been fertile, as evidenced by the husks of trees littered throughout. Some of them, impossibly, were still burning, despite the fact that this place looked long dead. In the middle there was a chasm that was once a lake, and in it there seemed to be the body of a giant. Her eyes never seemed to catch enough details; all she could focus on was the tree at the foot of the chasm, from which a spire grew out into the sky.

It could not possibly be supported by the single point upon the branch, and yet it stood, forming the towers of a grand palace and great halls that grew out of bark and became metal. It was all sleek and black; not stone, something that could have only been forged over a great anvil.

Her vision passed through a wall, and there she would see him. He was tall and slender, though he had square and strong shoulders. His features were delicately carved, set into a grim expression. He had hair so fair it was almost white, and his eyes were bright green. In the dream, he was holding a hand over one of his cheeks, covering his eyelid. His flesh seemed to have burned. He was curled over himself, and though his expression remained unflinching, she could read deep sadness in him.

She reached out for him, in some attempt to help him, but whenever her fingers brushed him, a shadow sprung up and flung her out of the palace altogether. It was such a violent motion she would wake up in a cold sweat, with the image of the shadow still printed on her mind. She could swear she saw a face; a female one, with eyes so black you could fall into them.

The day she met Sebastian Verlac, she could not help but think he looked just like that prince. There were differences, of course; his hair was inked black and his eyes were a deep brown, but his face was just the right angles, and his build was entirely the same. He seemed to have stepped out of a fairy tale, with all the painful familiarity that entailed.

She met him once she returned to the Institute. She had just made her way to her room, leaving her painting on top of her bed, and when she turned, he was already looking at her.

There was something intense in his gaze, equal to the feeling she had when she saw him. She smiled, awkwardly, though, fearing it was simply her and her tendency to remember everything in hazes of dreams. Perhaps she had seen him once, before Magnus Bane stole her memories at the behest of her mother.

“Hi,” he finally said. His voice was low and deep, even more than Jace's. He kept an even tone, stable like the ground beneath one's feet. He was leaning on the doorframe, with one of his arms stretching to grab at the other side. It seemed a casual gesture, but she had the sense he wasn't usually casual. He was nervous, like her. “I'm Sebastian. You must be Clarissa.”

As he spoke, she thought she saw a shadow wash through those eyes, suddenly making them pitch black. It made the hairs on her nape stand up. Just like in the dream, looking at them made her feel like she was falling into an awful pit.

She noticed she had allowed her smile to waver, because he straightened, a ghost of something uncomfortable passing through his expression. “Sorry, did I interrupt something?”

She was quick to course correct; “No! I mean, yes, I'm Clarissa. Well, Clary. Call me Clary.” And she extended a hand for him to take. Immediately she noticed his skin was cold, almost as much as Simon's.

“I’ve wanted to meet you for a while,” he spoke after a pause. She was attempting to look at him again, and failing. All she could do was stare at his chest. He was taller, but it wasn’t a matter of where her gaze naturally rested; she did not want to fall into that pit again. “You’re rather famous, you and your brother.”

“You’ve met Jace?”

He let go of her. He probably could tell she was stiff around him, and she tried to make herself relax purposefully. She was being rude, and she didn’t even know him. “Yeah, it didn't go very well. I think I was staring at him too hard.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t take it as a compliment. Jace loves attention.”

“Do you?”

She blinked in surprise, and finally dared to turn her head. He had walked inside her room very slowly, looking around at it instead of at her. Currently he was focused on the painting she’d placed on top of her covers. “Huh?”

He passed his fingers through it very delicately. “Do you like attention?”

It was an odd question. “No,” she settled with. Something about him made her stand on edge, something felt wrong, in a way she could not place. “Not really.”

“You’re more like me, then.”

It was like vertigo. He made her feel vertigo. “I suppose.”

He dropped his arm. For a moment Clary had the strangest impression that he looked sad, of all things. “You made this?”

It was a landscape; what she’d painted. Rolling hills and woods, with a red sky above it. Somehow whenever she tried to make something nice and normal, an impulse would take over, and it would become twisted like that. It looked apocalyptic. “Yeah. It’s not my best one. Didn’t sell.”

“What do you use? To paint, I mean.” He was talking past her, but it did not read as disinterested. Instead it was intense, as if he wanted to get every answer out of her, with no time to spare to make conversation in between.

“Well, this one is oil, but I use all kinds of stuff. I like pastels, and charcoal.”

“Do you usually do landscapes?” She pursed her lips. At her silence, he looked at her again, and it made her notice that he, too, had been avoiding doing so. “I’m sorry, am I being overbearing? I can leave.”

She wanted to be polite, and say he hadn’t been, but it was not true. She was overwhelmed. He stepped towards the door, and their shoulders brushed briefly.

And then she felt a shadow pass through her heart. It ate her alive, right from the inside out, but it was not her own pain entirely. It hurt, to make him leave, to know that she had made him sadder, and yet it also felt wrong to have him around.

She shook her head. She was being ridiculous, probably a byproduct of that stupid argument she had with Jace earlier. She reached out to take his arm and stop him.

He did.

“No, no,” she managed to say. Her throat was hoarse. “I’m sorry, my mind is all over the place. It’s not you, really. Do you paint, too? Is that why you’re asking?”

He was looking down, past her eyes. It made him smaller, as it was not natural for him to do it. “I— I’ve always liked to draw, but— well, my aunt didn’t approve of it, so I never really got much practice.”

“What, did she think it’d interfere with Shadowhunting?” She had meant to sound humorous, but after saying it, she thought it wasn’t, really. In her experience, Shadowhunter families were horribly strict. She had gotten away with a lot, and here was this boy, who had never gotten to have any hobbies. “No, that’s awful. You could still do it, you know? I could give you some tips.”

He scoffed, but, just like before, to her ears it sounded despondent. “I don’t think I could ever be as good as you. I really liked it, I mean, your painting. It’s a shame no one bought it.”

“I’m used to it, it’s okay. Not a lot of people show, so only the absolute best get to sell. Plus, thanks to Jace,” she rolled her eyes, “I was late.”

“Is it still on sale, then?”

“What?”

She saw it again, the blackness. Just as things shine when they catch the light, his eyes seemed to catch shadows. He truly resembled that prince from her dreams. She had drawn him a lot, as a child, and as weird as this encounter was, it was still familiar, and the familiar is always, on some level, comforting. “I could get it off your hands.”

She had an impulse. She went over to grab the painting, and turned to hand it to him. “You can have it. Consider it a welcome gift.”

His face had been a careful mask the entire time; despite how strong his presence was, he had hardly shown any emotion at all. Now, though, he looked baffled. “What, just like that? Why?”

She answered honestly; “I don’t know. Maybe you remind me of someone, but I think you should have it.”

“Oh… alright.”

The mask was going back on, but it had cracks now. She felt satisfied, because she had seen that sickly sadness retreat a few steps. “It was nice meeting you, Sebastian. I’ll see you for dinner, yeah?”

“Yeah…” his voice trailed off, quiet. “Yeah, sure.” And he walked out.

Chapter Text

He could feel Jace’s eyes on him all morning. It was a constant grating sensation, like nails scraping on chalkboard. He sat there at the dining room table, having breakfast as if the angel boy’s gaze wasn’t glued to him. It was his own game of spite not to meet it.

Alec Lightwood was going on and on about how their strategy of going off rumours wasn’t working. He could be heard all the way from the kitchen.

“There isn’t much else we can do, Alec,” Maryse, the Head, sait curtly before she exited the dining room with a short; “I have to portal to Idris. I have a meeting with Robert with the Council.”

There was a tense silence after she was gone. Alec sat down next to Jace with a huff. “You know,” Jace was quick to say, “we can always go with Isabelle’s idea.”

“What’s that?” asked Aline. She had arrived a little after Sebastian himself. The Penhallows were staying in place of Maryse and Robert, as impromptu tutors. They had their hands full, Sebastian thought. Too many young Shadowhunters under one roof.

“Doesn’t matter,” Alec cut Jace off before he could speak. “The Clave has already denied it.”

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

“Jace.”

“Come on, now,” Aline rolled her eyes. She was doing that thing Sebastian hated, when she made her voice whiny and high pitched. “What is it?”

Jace, for once, kept quiet. Instead it was Isabelle who spoke up, her long tails tapping against the teacup she was holding; “well, who would know better about Sighted mundanes… than Seelies?”

Aline immediately looked disappointed. “Seelies,” her voice was flat. “Have we stooped so low as to ask Downworlders for help?”

Her seemingly innocuous comment was not taken graciously. Isabelle’s brow furrowed, but it was Clary who spat in a biting tone; “what’s that supposed to mean?”

Sebastian flicked his eyes to her. He had remained quiet on purpose, trying to gauge the way everyone spoke to one another. He had not anticipated his sister to be such an ardent demon defender, as Valentine would call it. And yet, it made sense. She had not grown with Shadowhunter customs, always sheltered by Jocelyn. No doubt she didn’t know the terrible things demon-adjacents could do.

Which also meant… 

Aline had put her hands up in a peacemaking gesture. “Gee, I’m just saying. We used to be able to solve our own problems.”

“This Queen is young,” said Isabelle, a little defensively. “She hasn’t even surpassed a mortal’s lifetime. She’ll be more likely to help Nephilim, to change the ways of the Seelies of mistrust and seclusion. Meliorn has told me, everyone is excited for the change she might bring—”

“Who’s Meliorn?”

He tuned out the argument. He didn’t care for it; he was watching Clary. Clary, who might have very well accepted him if she knew who he was. She had apparently accepted Jace in his place, though they were having more differences lately. Could it be because she no longer trusted him, because of what she thought he was? She would be smart not to trust him.

Not to trust… either of them.

The thought dejected him. He leaned back in his chair, biting down the nail of his thumb as a form of fidgeting. 

“This is such a dumb argument,” said Clary, and not to Aline. Suddenly she was talking to him in a low, conspiratorial voice, completely aside from the main conversation. “Don’t you think?”

The logical thing was to agree, but he wished to test her boundaries. “I don’t know. Seelies are tricky.”

She pursed her lips, analyzing him. “I know. It was the way Aline said it.”

Sebastian stared at her for a good three seconds. He considered pushing more, but finally he simply smiled. “You’ll have to forgive her. I don’t think she’s met a single Downworlder. She was raised in Idris.”

Her eyes shone with interest, surprising him. “Idris. Have you been?”

Of course, he thought. Of course Clary had never seen it, and now, he could tell her all about it. “I lived there as a kid. There’s no place like it.”

“That good, huh?”

He laughed, and for once it wasn’t entirely forced. “It’s home. For you, too, even if you’ve never been. It’s home to all Shadowhunters.” All except for me. “No demon can get past the wards. You don’t know what it is to let your guard down until you’re able to. It’s… peaceful, and beautiful. Have you ever been to the countryside of France? It’s very much the same.”

“I’ve never left the States,” Clary looked down at the table, wistful. She was beautiful, he thought. She was… she was everything he was not. In her face he could read a kindness he had never known, one that was not imposing, or conditional. He wondered how much their mother truly resembled her, as he had not seen her in so long, the memory of her appearance was vague and tarnished by his own imagination. It was true he and Clary didn’t look too much alike. He always wished he looked more like Jocelyn, not out of some loyalty to her, but simply because he knew he was the spitting image of his father. It was a miracle the glamours and hair dye were working so well. “Well, there was that one time I went to the City of Bones, but you know what I mean. I’ve always wanted to travel.”

“Right.”

He had been prepared for the hatred that would arise when he looked at Jace. He had spent his entire childhood resenting him. What he had not been prepared for, however, was the longing that was striking him now. Clary made him feel like a child, like that day when he got his father so angry he pulled him out of the cabin, and then—

There’s nothing to be done about it now.

You are the way you are.

It’s in your blood.

His fingers on the table twitched. Clary looked up. “Are you alright?” But she barely waited for a reply. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you nostalgic, or…”

She had said it as a question, asking him why he was upset. Except he wasn’t upset, upset was for people. He was manipulating her, just like he had with his father, playing the victim when he was anything but. Demons do not regret who they are. Demons do not mourn a sister they could have had.

He almost felt guilt, if he could feel it at all. Every normal emotion was no doubt a shadow of the real thing for him, a fake. It would explain why he never seemed to act the right way, no matter how hard he tried.

How could she even tell he was upset, anyway?

“It’s nothing,” he finally said. “It just reminds me of my parents. They died when I was young.”

He had never been in the Fey Realm before. It stretched out as far as the eye could see; bright greenery, littered with the colours of different flowers and bugs. The sun was out, leaving shadows that danced at their feet in the form of leaves and twigs. He could hear so many small sounds, but it was not overwhelming in the same way the city noises were. He knew the sound of wilderness. It calmed him, despite himself; despite knowing he was in enemy territory.

It was young fey who guided them, that man named Meliorn. He had kissed Isabelle’s hand, and with just a look Sebastian knew why. His father’s words resonated in his mind, about Shadowhunters that dallied with Downworlders.

Aline was the only one acting offended by the sight. She had turned her head, seemingly mortified, but with one piercing look from Jace she had said nothing. Sebastian wondered if he had reacted out of protectiveness for his sister, or a real sincere belief that what she was doing was okay.

He guided them into a clearing. In it there was a big, ornamental wooden table, littered with food and drink. It smelled sweet and enticing, though he knew not to eat any of it, and he leaned towards Clary to warn her of it, knowing she might be ignorant of how to deal with faeries. “I know,” she said. “I made that mistake once before.”

He did not ask her what she meant, he became too distracted when he saw the Seelie Queen.

It had been many years since he last caught a glimpse of that fey girl, but there was no doubt in his mind that it was her. She had the same lovely features, albeit a little older. She had the same freckles in her cheeks and in the same order, the same scarlet hair, the same gentle smile and shape of her lips. 

He froze. She was staring directly at him.

“Sebastian?” 

Clary’s voice pulled him out of his spiral. She had turned to him in expectation, and he realised everyone had begun sitting down.

He followed, though his limbs were stiff and uncooperative. Could she have forgotten about him? It had been many years, and he doubted she considered him important, though Seelies do not usually forget debts.

“So,” the Queen spoke. The sound was just as he remembered; it made trees move, seeking to hear it from closer. It was a lovely tune, sweet as molasses. He felt as if he was entranced by it, and this in itself made his alertness spike even more. “What brings you Nephilim to my court, without allowance from the Clave?”

There was an awkward pause. Jace was the one to break it; “forgive me, but how do you know we do not have allowance, my lady?”

She seemed amused by the question. “I hear all sorts of stuff. The birds and the bugs talk to me,” and her eyes wandered, and landed on Sebastian again.

She knows, he thought with dread. She knows who I am.

He looked side to side, to Aline, and Jace, and Clary and the Lightwoods. Could he fight all of them? What would Valentine do if he knew he failed? Would the Queen side with them, or with him? Neither, he figured. She wouldn’t want to draw the ire of either the Clave or his father and his makeshift army.

“Then you must know what we’re looking for,” Alec leaned forward, tilting his head downwards politely.

She was still staring at him. There was something in her expression, a certain amount of effort exerted on her brow. He realised with a start she was attempting to look past his glamour. She almost seemed disappointed, though he could not say why. Was it because it was there in the first place? “I do,” she spoke distractedly. Sebastian noticed Jace throwing him an odd look, no doubt because the Queen was very unashamedly paying all her attention to him, despite the fact he had not even uttered a word. “You wish me to tell you of the Sighted mundanes I know of.”

“Yes…” Jace kept looking back and forth between them, perhaps debating as to whether or not to bring it up.

“Oh, for the Angel’s sake,” Isabelle rolled her eyes. “Do you two know each other, or what?”

“Izzy,” Alec hissed angrily. “Apologies, my lady, we—” but she waved a hand and silenced him.

Sebastian waited for a good five seconds. She did not reply, or blew his cover immediately. She had that same slight smile, inviting and sweet. He licked his lips and dared to lie, since she could not; “once. I was working on a case. Turns out the Seelies really like the air in France, is that not true, my lady?”

It was as if the air itself giggled with their private joke. “That’s quite right,” she wrapped one finger around one of her curls, twisting the hair into an even more defined spiral. “I’ve rather fond memories of our encounter.”

“Sebastian,” Aline gasped, scandalised. She wasn’t the only one bothered; he saw Meliorn, standing behind the Queen, make a face of distaste. What she had implied was far more than he would have expected. Wouldn’t the Seelie Queen be ashamed of mingling with a commoner like himself? Though fey titles were not like mortal ones, and neither were their customs.

He felt a little rattled, just like when he was a boy. He waved his hand and attempted to play it off; “nothing happened. Shouldn’t we talk about important matters, instead?”

Jace, of course, looked absolutely delighted. “Well, if you are so pleased, perhaps we can come to an agreement.”

The Queen let a moment go by, only so that when she replied, she had seemingly shaken off the previous conversation entirely. Now she was talking business. “We certainly can. I will give you a list of Sighted mundanes, if you give me a seat at your Council.”

Her statement fell on them like a pile of rocks, even the Seelies that still remained in the room stirred, reacting in hushed voices. Sebastian couldn't help but scoff; couldn't help but find humour in her tactics. It was a smart ask, albeit not one they could ever grant her. He wondered if the Clave as a whole would ever be desperate (rotten, as his father would put it) enough to agree.

“Your Majesty,” Alec started, his body stiff and uncomfortable. “You yourself said we have no allowance from the Clave. We don't have the authority to provide you that.”

She shrugged. She did not care, that much was clear. “Do you have a better offer?”

“How about Valentine dying?” The hatred in Jace's tone surprised Sebastian. Apparently angel-blooded ones could despise with just the same fervour.

The Queen picked up a grape off her plate, and rolled it between her fingers. She looked bored. “Why should I worry about Shadowhunter infighting?”

“Valentine is a threat to your people.” The difference in Clary's demeanour was stark. She was too forward, not at all attempting to meet the fey standards of propriety. “He hates you. He will come for you just the same as us. He won't stop until you all are anihilitated.”

The Queen popped the grape in her mouth. She chewed it and swallowed before she answered a simple, “is that so?”

Sebastian could sense the question directed at him, if unspoken. He cleared his throat, and said; “Valentine hates Downworlders. Anything with demon blood.”

“It follows then that he would hate his own son.”

He felt a lurch of nausea.

Jace scoffed. “I thought that was obvious.”

“He is your father,” she continued speaking as if he had not said anything, “he cared for you. Fed and clothed you, kept you alive. The affection of family ties isn't so easily shaken.”

Was she talking to him, or Jace?

Him, of course. Seelies cannot lie, and Valentine isn't Jace's father.

“I hate Valentine,” said Jace. “I would kill him with my bare hands.”

“And what of his daughter?”

Eyes turned to Clary.

She pursed her lips, annoyed. “I hold no affection for my father. He neither fed nor clothed me.”

“But do you hold it for your brother?” Her smile was wider now. “I have heard you two were involved, before you found out.”

Sebastian stiffened.

He looked sideways to Clary, who had gone pale, and Jace, who was clenching his fists.

“We didn't know,” Jace muttered between his teeth. 

“Is that why you hate your father?” she laughed in between her questions. Sebastian would, too, if he wasn't still waiting for her to give him up. “Because you think he made you fall in love with your sister?”

Jace stood up, hands slamming on the table. “That's enough!”

“Jace,” Alec was quick to place a hand atop his shoulder. “Come on, she's only trying to rile you up.”

“Do you consider your feelings for her as evidence of your alleged demonic heritage?”

At this, Jace went quiet.

Sebastian was the one glaring at her now. All this theatre had to be a preamble. Still, what she was saying bothered him.

“Darkness drawn into the light,” she went on. “Perhaps it is natural, no? Who would have thought Valentine's experiments would turn against him, becoming more dear to each other than towards him?”

He looked at Clary. 

Was that why he longed for her? Some effort to balance himself out? To find the goodness he lacked in her and purge his own soul?

“We're not experiments,” Clary followed Jace's example, and stood up. “There isn't anything remarkable about Valentine's abuse.”

They were leaving, he noted. Jace was walking off in anger with both Alec and Clary following to calm him. Aline and Isabelle were next to move. He stood up, but the Queen put her hand up and said; “not you. You stay.” He looked down at his untouched plate. She seemed to read his confusion, because she added; “only to have a word with me, then you may go.”

“Get it, champ,” Isabelle bumped his shoulder, smirking, as she led a very stricken Aline away.

The Queen gracefully stepped off her throne. She motioned for him to follow, and though he wanted to refuse, he did so. They did not walk for long, only until the trees gave them a semblance of privacy and they were out of earshot.

“It's good to see you again,” she said.

He tried to find his voice. It was harder to pretend when they were alone. He felt angry at the thought of being blackmailed or played with. “Why didn't you tell them?”

“Is that why you are so tense?” Her head cocked to the side like a curious bird. “You mustn't worry. I have no intentions of divulging your secret, Jonathan Morgenstern. I'm not interested in Shadowhunter squabble, as I have said.”

“Don't call me that,” he snapped, surprising even himself, but the name was scalding hot. A painful reminder. “It's Sebastian now.”

She blinked, but did not protest; “very well.”

He stared at her.

He knew she could not lie, but was that not the point? If he allowed his guard down, he would not anticipate deception. Fey know just how to twist their words so that you cannot read their true meaning.

“You know what I am,” he watched her reaction, though he hadn't phrased it like a question. Her silence confirmed it. “And yet you have taken me here to speak alone, unprotected.”

At this, she laughed. The trees shifted, dancing as if wind had struck them. “Are you implying I should be afraid of you?”

“I could kill you,” he pressed. “Your guards would get me, sure, but not before you were dead.”

“Perhaps,” she shrugged. She did not seem the least bit worried. “But you won't. You do not enjoy killing, do you? Unlike your father.”

His ears rang. The situation was so absurd to him he for a second wondered if he was awake, or had stumbled into a fey-induced dream. Nobody had ever assumed a positive in him, nobody had ever assumed good of his intentions or actions. Was there any reason she would do that? Was there something she knew? Even if she had spied on him, what could have possibly clued her in?

His voice had died. He cleared his throat to resurrect it. “How can you be sure?”

“I'm not,” she shrugged. “It is a mere hunch. When I met you, back then, you seemed so scared, and innocent, but your eyes held strength. I cannot imagine Valentine has completely squashed it, if not for lack of trying.”

Innocent. It was such an odd descriptor. He made a sound between a huff and laughter.

“Those other two,” she went on, “Jace and Clarissa, they were wise to turn on their maker. It must be toughest for you, you were with him the longest, but you'd do good to follow in their footsteps.”

His amusement was turning to irritation. “I thought Shadowhunter infighting did not interest you.”

“It does not. You do.”

He recalled Valentine explaining that fey live in such strange ways a Nephilim could never comprehend it, and how that in itself is the danger.

He felt it now; the incomprehension. She spoke to him in a way nobody had ever done before. It was not even flirtatious; she was being too direct and straightforward for that. She was not coy, or shy. She declared her interest for him like a child pointing to a toy and saying 'that one, I want that one.'

“You flatter me,” he finally responded, hating how hesitant he sounded, even to his own ears. “I have no need to turn on my father. He has done good by me.”

Her gaze, inexplicably, became sad. She looked like she wished to argue, but instead she exhaled, and said, rather abruptly; “why must you hide your eyes? I had looked forward to gazing upon them.”

“Have you brought me here to ask me to deglamour?”

“Yes.”

It had to be a trick. 

He looked back to where the rest of the Nephilim had gone. Was she stalling him? Was that her goal?

Finally he caved by asking; “why?”

Her expression was casual, her brows furrowed slightly as if it was surprising for him not to understand; “because they're beautiful.”

He felt heat starting to creep up along his face. He bit the inside of his cheek. His eyes were anything but beautiful. Throughout his entire life he had not met a single person that was not put off by them. Even himself, when gazing at a mirror, could sense the drop towards the abyss that they held.

Not one, except the Seelie Queen.

“Let me see them,” she said. “And come back to my court, to visit me. At least once. Then I shall consider the gift repaid. You do owe me.”

He hated that she was right. He did owe her. And, if he didn't, she might rat him out.

Reluctantly and with a sigh, he took out his stele, and deactivated the glamour rune. It was like taking off a heavy coat and being able to stretch. It felt good, though the result was still unpleasant.

Not to her, though. The Queen leaned forward into his personal space. She smelled sweet, like roses, and it made the hairs on his nape stand up. A part of him wished to step away, and another, treacherous one, wanted her to lean even further.

She lifted her hand, and touched his cheek with two fingers, ever so gentle. He felt a shiver climbing up his spine, though he didn't allow it to make him tremble. He had never been touched like that. He had never been looked at, this closely, with anything that wasn't fear or contempt.

“My lady,” he spoke after what felt like whole minutes. It came out in a whisper. Despite himself, he did not wish to break whatever spell they were in, but the intensity of the moment was getting to him. He felt he ought not to break eye contact, given her request. “For how long?”

Vaguely he wondered if this was a ploy to make him stand here for eternity.

The spell wasn't broken. She answered him in that same low, breathy volume; “they have no end, do they? Truly a void. Just like demons.”

It stung.

He would not have thought he allowed himself any hope, or ideas, and yet it felt like he had when she said that. He stepped back, breaking away to instead gaze at tree tops. Of course she thought they were beautiful, she might think the same about hellish creatures and cockroaches. 

His chest constricted painfully. He felt so stupid. What had he thought? 

Yet she kept talking; “but they are not empty, like theirs. It's the complete opposite. A void that is filled, an impossibility. A contradiction as complex as God. In your eyes you can see the true vastness of a soul. There is nothing else like it on this Earth.”

Now he was sure he was blushing. He felt hot all over, though not in the sense of any arousal. He could not process her words, not truly. It was unthinkable to hear something like that and believe it referred to him. “I don't—” he stammered, blinking furiously. “I don't have a soul.”

She scoffed, more in humour than offense, more like a half-formed giggle. “Then what was I looking at, silly?”

To that, he had no answer.

Chapter Text

Stepping out to where Jace, Clary and the rest were waiting, he could immediately read the tension there. Alec was talking to Jace in a hushed voice, and Isabelle was leading Aline away, presumably towards the Institute.

“—I don't give a damn what the Council says!” It was a sudden outburst. Jace pushed Alec away, who looked mostly annoyed more than he looked wounded. “For fuck's sake, Alec, is that really the only thing you care about?”

“Don't take it out on Alec,” Clary's voice was low, as if she had not meant to speak but couldn't help it. “We all know what you're really upset about, Jace.”

“That isn't—”

But parabatai or not, Alec could not stop the car crash from happening. Jace spun towards Clary, venom in his eyes, and snarled; “what? You think I'm upset about you? You're not the centre of the universe, Clary.”

Sebastian felt something compelling him forward, though he didn't know what it was. It was both a violent impulse and one entirely different. He stepped in between Jace and Clary, placing a hand on Jace's chest.

They were eye to eye, like two goats meeting by the horns.

“Jace,” Clary started. “That isn't what I meant.”

Jace took a step back. Albeit his face was still contorted in anger, he also seemed shocked by Sebastian's presence, as if he wasn't used to being directly challenged. He glanced at him with a scoff. “What?” the corners of his mouth twitched up in a forced smile. Then he looked past Sebastian and to Clary, and finally all around. “Why am I really upset? Why don't you enlighten us? Is it perhaps because our dear father poisoned me and made me into a monster?!” His volume rose as he spoke, until it was a full on yell, hands up dramatically. Afterwards he turned around to walk off in strides, much to the dismay of Alec, who still attempted to intercept him. He chose to follow instead when he failed.

Sebastian watched them leave. He thought he should feel something unpleasant after watching angel-boy rip his identity out of his hands and then cry out as it burned him, but he did not. He did not feel much of anything at all.

He turned to Clary. She had her arms crossed, and she was staring sideways into the distance. 

He ought to comfort her. He had the vaguest idea of how, because of his training, but performing an action and actually doing it are entirely separate. One can stand in front of a group and teach a skill, except if nobody is learning it, it is a pointless endeavour.

He took a step towards her. “Hey,” kept his voice gentle, low, like he was supposed to. “Are you alright?”

She shrugged, but the answer was obvious. Was she holding back tears?

It caused his chest to get tighter. He felt frustrated at himself that all he could offer were practiced motions in hopes that it would pass for the real thing. Jace could comfort her, a shadow whispered. And you wonder why she prefers him, too?

Jace could, and instead he had done this. Instead he wallowed in self pity that didn't even belong to him.

“He shouldn't talk to you like that,” he finally said.

She scoffed, though it was not a confrontational gesture. “I don't even care about that. I'm just so tired of him pushing me away. He used to trust me. Ever since we found out, it's like I've got the plague.”

And yet she still wished him around her. 

Don't get ideas. It would be different if she knew it was you.

You aren't Jace.

You could never be like him.

It didn't really even hurt to hear them speak. He had for a long time, and their words were unsurprising. He knew they were right. There was no reason to fight them. It was less like being hit with a rock and more like somebody pointing out you have a gash in your forehead; the painful part is over by then.

“You don't have the plague. He's an idiot for acting that way.”

“It's a big adjustment,” her tone was drained; a half-hearted defense.

Sebastian would never defend Jace, even when pretending. “It is, for both of you, yet you aren't screaming in his face.”

It was sudden; the crying. One second she was held together and the next coming apart at the seams. He felt a tinge of panic that he had hurt her without meaning to, and was quick to reach a hand and place it atop her shoulder. Clary stiffened. 

The shadows laughed. He retreated.

“I'm sorry,” she murmured, dropping her shoulders in a relief that stung him. “We've just met and I'm already crying on you. You must think I'm not real Shadowhunter material.”

She was right; he didn't, but it was not her fault. She had been sheltered, and had been raised without the necessary strength to suppress emotions, or to have the instinct not to get close to someone like him — a fact he was very aware of at the moment.

It was also true that he didn't care. For the first time, his respect was not tied to the level of threat someone posed to him.

“God, I hate crying!” he almost jumped from the sudden onset of rage in her voice. She was wiping her tears with the same ferocity he would have. Perhaps they weren't so different after all, though the absence of the characteristic Shadowhunter expression still told the same story. He would have certainly invoked Raziel over God only from mere proximity — and perhaps also from the worry that he'd choke on the name like a vampire might.

“I don't mind,” is what he answered, mainly in an attempt to pacify her. “Not so long ago you were living like a mundane, right? I'm impressed you have survived our world so far. It's vicious.”

She hummed. Her eyes turned distant, but even from the lack of any screaming or punching he knew she was still deeply angry. He wasn't sure it was at Jace anymore.

There was a pause, and then — “have we met before, Sebastian?”

He was surprised by the inquiry, but he didn't let it show. “I don't believe so, why?”

“You're just…” her hand was still over her own cheek as she looked up at him. He had the impulse to break eye contact, given how she had peeked past the glamour before, but his gaze was glued to hers. “...so familiar, somehow.”

He wished she had not said that. He could feel a semblance of hope stirring inside of him — pointless, really. Many things are familiar. His father's whip was familiar to him, yet he would never love it.

“Maybe I just have one of those faces.”

Chapter Text

It was late when Clary returned to the Institute. It was the only way she could spend time with Simon, after all, since he was hogtied to night hours.

Jace wouldn't have been happy, but Jace wasn't speaking much to her lately. She still remembered him seconds before their argument outside the art show. His eyes had been as soft as before, and like many other times she had fully believed their rough patch was behind them. There was something about Jace that inspired her to feel hope when rationality did not invite it. 

But there was no resolving it, not really. No matter the amount of conversations they could have, she knew she would still love him, and he was still her brother.

Regardless, Simon made sure to walk her home. She went up through the lift and walked over to her room, and that was when she heard rustling, like paper.

She peeked inside, and she saw Sebastian.

He was clearly invading her privacy, yet she felt no sense of real alarm. He did not stand out against her personal space, like he belonged there, too. He wasn't doing much, either; he was standing in the middle, flicking lazily through the drawings in one of her large blocks. His touch was gentle, same as before; fingers caressing the pages, his eyes dancing through the lines with intense curiosity.

She stepped in. “Were you looking for me?”

He flinched back from her desk, and there rang the faint thud of paper as the block closed. She noticed now that he was holding something, though he put it behind his back before she could see it properly. “Clary,” he spoke. His voice was hoarse and startled. “I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have— you weren't here. I couldn't resist taking a look.”

She had the oddest sense that he was lying, that he had planned to spy on her things and had been there for far longer he was letting on, but she had no basis to believe it. She had no basis for the way her stomach churned when she was around him, either. It reminded her of one of the first conversations she had with Jace when he was still training her.

“I don’t get it,” she’d told him. “That Eidolon, it creeped me out even before we chased it. How do mundanes get fooled by them? They’re clearly vile.”

“You can tell because you’re a Shadowunter. It’s your instincts. To mundanes demons are sickly sweet. Charming, irresistible. To us, they’re revolting.”

There was no way around it; that is what Sebastian Verlac made her feel. Revulsion.

“Please get out of my room,” she said, injecting the firmness her mother had taught her to when confronting boys who do not respect boundaries. 

His face fell, and with that alone the entire interaction flipped upside down. His wounded gaze was like a needle piercing into her chest. Immediately all she could think was that she had been too harsh, and she ought to take it back.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, but this time it sounded defeated. “I was going to— I’ll leave.”

“Sebastian,” she started, dizzied from the whiplash that was occurring inside of her, but attempting to sound a little less defensive. “You can’t just waltz into my room like that.”

He said nothing. His eyes were staring down into the floor. The gesture itself seemed to indicate shame, but she could read nothing explicit in his expression.

“What were you doing?”

He pointed half-heartedly at her drawing block.

She wondered why he was so fixated on her hobby, when nobody had paid it any mind at all since she became a Shadowhunter. “I would’ve shown you if you’d asked.”

“I was trying to surprise you.”

“Surprise me?”

Dead eyes finally looked at her. He had none of the passionate attributes someone would have when defending themselves, like he was happy to let her think badly of him. 

Or, she realised, like he didn’t expect her to believe a word he said.

She pressed him with a head gesture.

“I drew you something,” he cracked. He waved that something he’d put away behind his back — a piece of paper, now she could see. “And— I just wanted to make sure you’d, ah, like it, I suppose. I was trying to repay the favour.”

Already she could feel her anger melting away like it had never been there. “Why wouldn’t I like it?”

He shrugged helplessly. “My drawings are a little morbid. I was very confident at first, but then you weren’t here, and I started to overthink it.”

“Let me see.”

She took a step forward and he one back. He was clutching his own drawing against his chest, shielding it from view. “It isn’t any good,” he said. “It was a stupid idea. I’m no artist like you are.”

“Let me see,” she insisted. “You owe me, after scaring me like this.”

Very reluctantly, he gave it over.

The paper itself was clearly not meant for drawing on; it had been ripped out of a notebook, though it thankfully lacked margins that would obstruct the traces of the pencil. Her first emotion when gazing upon it was shock. She never thought this level of detail could be accomplished with a simple pencil — and she could tell it wasn’t a good pencil. The shadows were too glossy and not blended properly, though he hadn’t marked them too rough so as to avoid the effect as much as possible. The drawing was of a hare, which was clearly alive by the alertness in its eyes, yet its rib cage was torn open as if from claws, and out of it emerged what could only be its sibling.

She stayed quiet as she examined it. It frayed his nerves, clearly, because he began muttering; “it’s grim, I know. It’s not— I shouldn’t have thought you’d like it.”

“It’s amazing,” she spoke before thinking.

“Huh?”

“It’s really good.” She looked up at him. “You’re really good. I honestly thought you wouldn’t be, because you said you didn’t practice, but this is so well proportioned. The bones are even in the right place, and the perspective is perfect. I mean, you’re working with depth layers here, because you put another hare inside, but there’s no distortion. It’s like I’m looking at it.”

He stared at her the more she spoke, but for the life of her she couldn’t figure out what he was thinking, or feeling. His face was such a careful mask there wasn’t an ounce of joy, or even the anxiety that had coloured his tone before. “Thank you,” was what she got. “You can keep it, if you want it. Like I said, I thought I could repay you. One for one.”

“Now we’re even Steven?” she tried at humour.

He blinked, like he didn’t quite get her joke, and then began slipping past her. 

“Wait, Sebastian,” with guilt still sticking to her, and that same unexplainable desire to see him smile, she grabbed his wrist.

He was so cold, and she felt so wrong whenever she touched him, and she couldn’t know why. It wasn't right to be so prejudiced over another person. It wasn’t natural.

“Let’s play a game,” she went on. “Let’s do one together.”

“Do one?”

“A drawing.”

He was biting the inside of his cheek, unsure. It seemed to be a common gesture of his. “I don’t know how to… draw with someone else.”

“It’s easy,” she moved before she could think better of it, retrieving her block to open it on a fresh page, and then searched through her drawers for materials. “I draw something on it, and then I pass it to you, and you do something on what I made, and then you pass it to me.”

“Oh.”

“We can use charcoal,” she placed her box of it on the bed, and gestured at him to sit. “It’s basically like a pencil. Have you ever used it?”

He shook his head.

“It’s like a pencil,” she opened the box, placing one on his hand. “Except darker, and if you fade it with your finger it stains more but it blurs together better. Look, try it.”

She worried for a second she had pushed her luck. She was giving him the block now, too, and he was looking at both objects in his possession like they were alien technology. Eventually, however, he pressed the tip of the charcoal on the page and drew a simple line on one corner. Then he rubbed over it with a finger.

His eyes lit up. “Oh,”

“You want me to start?”

And so she did.

The first few minutes they were silent. She let her hand move freely without thinking too much about what she was doing. Only when she was a little into it did she realise the subject she'd been drawing looked suspiciously like the boy in front of her — she drew him sideways, laying down horizontally across the page.

Embarrassed, she passed it over to him. There was, again, no external reaction. He simply pressed the charcoal on the page and began to draw like she had instructed him.

“I hadn't met many Nephilim who liked art,” she muttered, slowly gaining enough confidence to speak louder in an attempt to converse. “I thought I was the only one.”

“We're soldiers, not artists.”

She blinked. It was a very Jace thing to say. “Is that why your aunt didn't like it?”

He shrugged, taking the charcoal off the paper and beginning to fade with his thumb. “She thought it was a waste of my time. Time I could spend training, bettering myself. She just wanted what was best for me.”

“You can't possibly hope to spend every hour training.”

She said it thinking it was a very common sense position, but the expression in his face told otherwise. “What else would I do?”

Again, she recalled Jace. When I met Alec, it was the first time I met someone my own age, he had told her. I hadn't had any friends before. My father was all I had, all I needed.

She had believed his was an exceptional case, given Valentine. Apparently she had been wrong. “Did you not have… friends?”

Hesitation hung in the air. His motions had paused for a moment, and he was twisting one lip inwards, biting it slightly. She opened her mouth to apologise for the intrusion, but already he was answering; “I know I make you uncomfortable.”

It wasn’t what she expected to hear. She felt her cheeks go warm with shame. “I— well, you were looking through my stuff.” 

Too defensive. She could see him retreating back like a crab into its shell. He did not press her, even though she knew he was right, and she was uncomfortable beyond any actions he could have taken or abstained from.

It formed a knot in her throat. She pushed past it. “Okay… okay, you’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just me, I’m—” but he was shaking his head, and her voice died.

“It isn’t you,” he said. “It’s me. I make everyone uncomfortable.”

“Sebastian—”

“It’s the truth.” He was back to drawing, speaking of the matter with a cold casualness that surprised her. He had been acting, before, meek and friendly, and now he seemed to be as impenetrable as a mountain deep in the tundra. “Ask anyone here, they’ll say the same thing. They’ll say they get a weird feeling. Maybe they’ll feel bad about it, because they don’t know me, but they’ll feel it. Unless they’re very dense and unintuitive, I suppose.”

She recalled Alec’s gaze when they were in the Seelie Court, filled in mistrust, or Jace staring at him throughout breakfast. Her mouth was dry. “...where are you going with this?”

“I’m cursed.”

“What?”

He lifted the charcoal off the page and passed her the block. “I think I am, anyway. After my parents died, I was convinced I’d been cursed in the process. I told my aunt. She didn’t believe me at first. Then she called the Silent Brothers, and they looked me over, but they couldn’t find anything. I don't know what it is, but something is wrong with me. It makes people not like me, even though they can’t explain why. It makes them not believe me, or trust me.”

She hated how much sense he was making. She wanted to tell him that it must be nothing, but she couldn’t. It was true that she had not believed him, and that she felt wrong around him, and that she couldn’t pinpoint the cause.

She looked down at the block. He’d drawn over the eyes of the subject, and now they looked like empty sockets bleeding out downwards.

She made a fist around the charcoal. “Well, then I’ll just get over it.”

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I feel uncomfortable, sure, so what? Lots of nice things are uncomfortable. If I eat too much chocolate I’ll get sick, it doesn’t mean I don’t like it.”

He scoffed. It was both humoured and disbelieving. “Oh, so now you like me? Because you feel bad?”

“Maybe I will, if you stop showing up to my room unannounced, jerk.”

She got a real laugh this time. “Okay. Fair enough.”

She was focusing now on creating the landscape on their shared drawing. She started with the horizontal lines. “Art is not a waste of time. You must agree with that, otherwise you wouldn’t have kept at it.”

“I kept at it because I am a bad student.”

“You kept at it because you had things to say,” she turned the block towards him, only to show him. Out of the drips from the eyes, she had begun creating a lake. “It’s only human.”

His features softened. He let a beat go by before he spoke; “I think it needs colour.”

“You know, you might be right.”

Chapter Text

Sebastian dreamt of the forest where he killed for the first time, where his father took him after he sent Jace away. He was grown now, walking through it, but he was holding the same rifle the same way, and his boots crunched through the same leaves, and the space was coated in the same scent of wet dirt. Down his cheeks droplets of rain stuck to his flesh and then slid to his mouth. He could taste fresh water instead of the blood he knew would come; bitter iron that soon became nausea and vomit. He was headed to where the girl had been, to check the trap. He was holding the rifle with impassive certainty, no longer afraid to shoot, but as he pointed it to kill the girl, he saw something else.

It was the Seelie Queen. She was a girl at first, the same as when he had met her, but upon the blink of an eye she was as he saw her in her Court. She was not trapped, she stood tall and unbothered. She wasn't even wet. He imagined the rain spoke to her the same as birds and bugs.

He levelled the weapon at her.

“Sebastian,” her voice travelled through silky, smooth honey instead of air. When it reached him it left traces of sweetness around him. His hands on the rifle relaxed involuntarily, until they were almost limp. “I've come to collect your debt.”

He tried to find his resolve to shoot, but he was completely frozen, glued to the spot as she took steps towards him. He tried to speak, but his lips were stuck together with something sticky and intoxicating.

She crossed the boundary between them, invading his space and the corners of his mind. He couldn't see anything past her eyes and the freckles on her cheeks. “Kiss me,” she said. She could have leaned in and done it herself, but instead she was asking. Her breath caressed his chin, causing him to part open his lips.

He woke up with a gasping shudder. The kiss had faded out like smoke, unreachable. His body felt hot and uncomfortable, but he couldn't find any sympathy for it; clearly it had betrayed him. Everything was upside down. He hadn't wanted the dream to end — he wanted to return to the Fey Realm and discover that is what she would ask of him next.

He pressed his fingertips over his eyes, then downwards, carving out the sin off his flesh. Valentine had never spoken to him about women beyond what he would say about his mother, which could vary between nostalgia and outright vitriol. It wasn't simply that he wanted her, it was also that she was not his kind.

Except of course in that myth where fey are born out of the union between the Heavens and the Hells. If that were true, it would mean they were the creatures most like himself.

A needless distinction, however; he had heard his father cuss out traitor Nephilim to know what he would say now. He could feel his disappointment in the form of needle-like stings, much like stepping on a dead bee and suffering the consequences regardless; even in absence his father managed to fill him with dread and regret. It figured that, just like with the drawing, he was pulled into all the bad habits and vices. 

He felt sick all morning. He didn't fancy eating any breakfast, but he tried to trudge through as he was taught. One isn't meant to make a show of weakness, after all. 

The Penhallows had made pancakes — the American kind. He knew of their existence but had never had them. Clary was preparing hers with honey on top, and he grabbed the syrup instead, knowing the first would only remind him of things he should forget about. He found them to be sickly sweet, far too heavy for a proper breakfast. Eggs were a far better staple and a better source of protein.

Judging by how everyone ate them, though, that wasn't the first concern. “Cheer up, Alec,” Isabelle whispered to her brother across the table. “It's pancakes.”

Alec was unimpressed. He was prodding it with his fork, eyebrows pushed together in a frown. “You asked them to make them, didn't you?”

Isabelle puffed out an exasperated breath. Sebastian was already not paying much attention to them. He noted Jace was nowhere to be seen, and that Clary's mood was all the lower for it.

“In any case,” once more the Lightwood girl tried to be cheerful. “While we were in the Court —”

“Will you lower your voice?” Alec looked back to where Aline conversed with her parents. They, however, seemed not to have heard a thing.

“— Meliorn advised me not to just go off Downworlder rumours. I went through some cases of people who'd gone missing for a very short time and came back talking about fey or aliens or the like.”

“So, crazy people,” Alec filled in.

“Or Sighted mundanes.”

Clary stood up from beside Sebastian, saying nothing. He saw that her plate was empty. 

“I know what you're thinking,” Alec kept talking, “you're not following up on any leads alone, not after what happened. And I can't go with you, I promised Magnus I would see him today.”

“I can go with her,” said Sebastian, leaning backwards as he watched Clary leave the room.

Alec did not seem pleased. “You don't have to do that,” but his tone indicated it was more an order to back off than it was a mere polite comment.

“But it is very nice of him,” Isabelle said, smirking as she took a piece of her chocolate covered pancakes into her mouth. The next few words were spoken with a hand over it to cover her chewing. “So it's settled.”

“I hate you both.”

The lead they followed ended up in a dead end. It was a man in his fifties who ranted to Isabelle about 5G and New Age for fifteen minutes before she found a moment to extricate them from the encounter. By the time it was over, she was laughing — he couldn't understand why. He only related failing a mission with the anger of his father.

“Well, now we have the rest of the day,” and she grabbed his hand and dragged him away.

Eventually they reached a building with bright neon letters up front. Outside were dozens of mundanes, some of them forming a line to enter. Music was blasting through speakers inside, reaching the street, along with the scent of alcohol.

He stared. “Shouldn't we be going back?”

“Relax, you're starting to sound like Alec.” Already she was waving a boy over, her lips pursed almost in a kiss. “I'm just here to pick something up very quickly.” The boy reached them. He was clearly older, though he was scrawny and shorter even than Isabelle. He had overgrown brown hair falling over one cheek, almost covering his eye. “Martin,” Isabelle smiled, her voice sweet and persuasive. “You don't happen to have a couple of extras with you?”

And that was how, a few minutes later, while walking along the street in front of Central Park, he was holding a cigarette. Evidently he was examining it too much, because Isabelle mocked him.

“You know,” she said, “I handed it to you cause I thought you knew what you were doing.” It was muffled through the one she held between her lips. One hand shielded it from the wind as she flicked the lighter once, twice, until the spark took and lit it. “Have you never tried one, Verlac?”

He held it up to his eye. It was easy to imagine what Valentine would say. “It's not something Shadowhunters should do.”

“There's lots of things Shadowhunters aren't meant to do,” she stopped now, plating her heels down in the pavement and forcing him to be still in order to keep the same pace. “Like being with faeries, and yet we both broke that rule, didn't we?”

He rolled the culprit stick between his fingers, only to avoid looking her in the eye. He considered if lying was a better option, to gain her trust, and then the inevitable thought arised; whether or not he would be lying at all.

“Just give me the damned lighter.”

Her mouth was wide open as she laughed. He grabbed it out from her and lit it without thinking much of it — what did it matter, if his lungs suffered? Cancer can't get cancer.

“Oh you are bad, Sebastian Verlac,” the word was unspoken more with respect than derision, like it was a good quality. Sebastian inhaled and immediately began coughing, much to her delight. “Don't force it. You gotta draw it into your mouth first, not directly into your lungs.”

He tried doing as she said. The taste was still too bitter, and unpleasant, but there was also a lightness now. The fog of his mind lifted. Suddenly the constant stress of what Valentine would say or what Valentine would want didn't seem so daunting.

He did it again, and it once more resulted in coughing. Isabelle giggled. “You didn't have to do that, crazy.”

“My aunt would kill me,” he admitted. The thought was like a splinter that never went away. “She hates me, you know.”

He didn't know why he said it, even as it came out of him. The words of the Seelie Queen had plagued him, about how Valentine hated his own son, and how Jace had agreed without hesitation despite being the favourite. 

Isabelle considered him. She was taking a long drag herself. Most people would answer with an I'm sure that's not true, but she didn't. He liked her better for it. “Why does she hate you?”

He shrugged. He couldn't very well say the real reason. “She never wanted me, I suppose. I didn't turn out the way she hoped I would.”

“I didn't, either.”

He looked at her, and at her long hair blowing behind her. He really looked now, thinking of the immediate discontent Aline had shown. Isabelle Lightwood was clearly the problem child, just like him. It was strange to find kinship in somebody who was not tainted; every other person he'd empathised with had always been wrong in the same way he was, had always had the same demonic ailment.

“Is it true that Valentine hates Jace, you think?”

It was a dangerous question to ask, but it felt in the spirit of things. Isabelle pursed her lips. “I think Jace is trying to convince himself of it, because it'd be easier that way. It would be easier than to admit he loved his father.”

His jaw set. He wished he hadn't asked, but now that he started, he couldn't help himself. “I would have thought he was a complete monster.”

“I don't think he was. I mean, now I'm sure Valentine did a lot of fucked up shit we never realised. Things Jace thought were normal — but all the stories he used to tell of his father are still true, they still happened. Jace always talked of him with a lot of affection. He said his father was a patient man, that he would always make sure Jace was never hurt, and was always kind whenever he was. He,” she took a pause to chuckle, “he told me that his father would give him whatever he wanted on his birthday. He said once, he asked for a tub full of spaghetti, and his father did it. Isn't that crazy to think about now?”

He didn't answer. His chest was burning, but it was no longer the cigarette. Anger so excruciatingly strong pulsated behind his eyelids. It was that same childish feeling of unfairness. Why, why, why why? He could remember himself lying beneath a tree and clutching a broken foot, begging to be healed only to be met with a wall of stone.

He never got anything on his birthdays, not even a cake. He got lessons, if he was lucky. He had thought— he had always thought the falcon was an exception. He had always consoled himself by thinking that even though nobody else would love him, his father had. He had never considered that even in that he only got an inferior version, that he was doomed to never know the full extent of what a father is supposed to be like when you're a normal child with a heart and soul.

“Sebastian? Are you alright?”

He blinked, trying to pull himself out of his spiral, but the pain was blinding and intense. He took another drag and coughed in frustration. He couldn't manage to replicate that airy feeling from before, and now it simply tasted gross. “This is horrible,” he spat, if only to change the subject. “I don't get why you do it.”

“It gets better later, trust me. Though you should probably just not do it again.”

He opened his mouth to retort something, but that was when they both heard the loud sound of a car honking at them. He turned, only now noticing they were standing in a parking spot, but before they moved, the car was already advancing. It was only an inch; clearly meant as a sign of impatience. Isabelle held up a middle finger, yelling “asshole!” before they both moved.

Once parked, the owner of the car took off without so much as a glance. Sebastian stood there, next to her. She was beginning to walk now, to continue on to the Institute. He didn't want to leave. The fury he had stewed in had reached its boiling point. Without thinking he took out his seraph blade and jammed the end of it into the car's front window, shattering the glass.

The alarms blared, but before anything else happened, he turned, grabbing Isabelle's arm and running off with her.

“What the fuck?” she screamed, but it was half caked in delight. She was cackling. “You're actually demented!”

It wasn't something he didn't already know, but it was the first time it was framed as a positive.

He joined in laughing.

Chapter Text

He was still a little out of breath once he was back at the Institute. Isabelle had gone off to call Alec and reassure him she was unharmed, and now he wandered the halls with only his own thoughts. He didn't appreciate the sudden idleness, he did not wish to wallow in the knowledge he'd just gained. Perhaps he should head to the training grounds, merely to have something to do—

He stopped right outside the spiral staircase leading up to the greenhouse. Voices echoed down, in a volume normal people wouldn't have heard, but he could. He recognised Clary's, sweet and gentle. “...didn't need to do all this. You know I was never truly angry at you.”

It was Jace who answered. His was soft, in ways Sebastian had never heard him sound. There was none of that bravado he usually put out, no arrogance or defensiveness. “I still wanted to show you I was sorry.”

He couldn't help himself. He looked up through the slits of metal, albeit he knew there was no catching a glimpse from down there. He wanted to know what they were talking about, he wanted to know why Clary seemed to care so much about Jace. There was some deep rooted hope that it had something to do with her believing him her brother, that the love she had wasn't like Valentine's; only meant for one of them. “Well, I forgive you. I mean, how couldn't I, after tasting these sandwiches?”

There was a pause. She had joked, but Jace wasn't laughing. “She was right, you know,” he said. “The Seelie Queen. She's right about me. I'm wretched.”

“Jace—”

“No, Clary, it's true. The blood in me— I'm part demon. It must be why.”

Sebastian's throat closed painfully. He felt his heart lurch until it had climbed all the way to the back of his mouth. He grabbed to a pole of the staircase and leaned forward to listen with anxious anticipation.  

“Magnus is part demon,” said Clary. “Being part demon doesn't mean anything, it doesn't make you evil.”

Not true, Valentine's treacherous voice whispered in his mind. Naive girl.

“Magnus was naturally born that way. I'm an experiment, something that never should have existed. You know that even your mother—” he corrected himself; “our mother… didn't want to meet me.”

It was a similar sensation as before; like something was pushing behind his eyelids, forwards, trying to break open his skull. It wasn't angry anymore, though. It was a much more pathetic feeling, the kind that would bring tears if he wasn't so versed in suppressing them. 

“You know how I feel about what mom did.”

“But she's right. What kind of mother would want to face their child as I am? I'm wrong.”

“Jace, stop.”

“No. It explains everything about me, just like the Queen said.”

Shut up, he wanted to scream. He wanted to barge in there and make Jace swallow his words. What right did he have, to steal his grief? What right did—?

No. He felt a buried, deeper emotion stirring, and he stifled it back down. 

Clary was still speaking, exasperated; “what does it explain, Jace? How you're kind, and fearless, and loyal, and everything demons aren't?”

Everything you aren't, the shadows gleefully reminded him.

“It explains,” said Jace, evenly, “why I feel the way I do about you.” For a moment, Clary did not answer. When she did, she was too quiet for Sebastian to hear her. Jace spoke again; “I lied. That's what demons do. They lie.”

“Stop,” he could hear the crying in her voice; not external, but barely contained. “What you're saying is horrible. You're saying you only love me because you're evil. You're just using me to hate yourself even more.”

“I never said I was using you—”

“Then say you'd love me even if you didn't have demon blood.”

No words came. Instead, Sebastian heard rustling, and shifting. He was quick to move, diving for the corner where the next hallway crossed and out of view. It was Jace climbing down the stairs, putting on his jacket in angry but dejected motions. His face was shrouded in shadow, and he was muttering curses under his breath. 

All he could hear from upstairs was Clary's soft crying.

He reached the Fey Realm by foot alone. The sunrise was beginning to creep up on him. He couldn't sleep, and he did not fancy lingering with the heaviness his heart was burdened with. This was a nice distraction, and a way to rid himself of obligation.

A couple of guards greeted him. Among them was Meliorn, who had that same glint of distaste in his eye. Sebastian arched an eyebrow at him challengingly — he knew this fey liked Shadowhunters alright, so to him the attitude was hypocritical.

No words were exchanged. They led him through thick trees as he stepped between roots, until he spotted the Queen a little ways off. She was kneeling down in front of one great oak, speaking to, as far as he could tell, no one; “why must you be so stubborn? Our brightest days are long behind us.”

“My lady,” one of the guards muttered with a flourishing bow. “Sebastian Morgenstern is here to visit you.”

He side-eyed them, gritting his teeth. It was one thing for her to know, and another for the entire Court to be aware, especially considering Meliorn's bias towards Isabelle. Though, regrettably, it made sense that fey would not keep secrets between each other.

“Ah, lovely!” she straightened up at once, clapping both hands together in a show of great delight. “Perhaps he can convince this oak to let go of their acorns.”

He blinked at her. 

She waved her hand nonchalantly at her entourage. “Leave us.”

“My lady,” Meliorn began to protest. He was tense, with one hand on the hilt of his sword as if expecting a surprise attack. “We do not know if the experiment is stable.”

The comment irritated him, though when he felt it the emotion was accompanied by something akin to boredom.

He was tired of suppressing. Clearly, here, he didn't have to pretend, and so he allowed the shadows to crawl inside of him and move his mouth to form biting words; “why don't you let her get closer, little fairy, and I'll show you how stable I am?”

Meliorn snarled at him. “I'll cut you in half before I let you lay a finger on her.”

“Meliorn,” the Queen spoke. Immediately the one addressed shifted into a position of attention. “He won't hurt me. Do not concern yourself with it and leave us, please.”

Meliorn looked like he wanted to argue, but he bit his tongue. Sebastian could not help but watch him with gleeful spite as he bowed and they all obediently retreated. 

“You came,” she said, waving with a hand for him to approach her. “I am glad.”

Don't take the bait. He didn't move, instead; “I have done what you asked. Release me of my debt.”

“You have not,” her tone took on a scolding tone, though it was as cheerful as a teacher addressing a kindergartener. “You have come, yes, but you are to visit me. Visiting requires socialisation. Come here and speak to the oak, go on.”

He scoffed, but he did take a step forward. “I don't speak tree.”

It was meant to be mocking, but she didn't seem offended. “Everyone speaks tree,” she extended a hand, presumably as a way to ask for his. “Here.”

Reluctantly, he took it. 

She guided his palm across the bark. “It's a stubborn one,” she said. “But last autumn there were not enough nuts around these parts. I'm putting pressure on them a little early.” It was all sounding like nonsense to him, and she could read it in his face. “What? Do you think yourself above these tasks?”

“It's certainly not demon hunting.”

“No,” she agreed. “It is more fundamental.”

He couldn't keep the derision in. “Acorns? Forgive me, my lady, but as far as I'm concerned, it can keep its stupid nuts if it wants them. Why should it have to give them up?”

She let go of his hand, pulling it away from the tree. Her brow was furrowed and her lips were pursed. She looked like a scorned angel. “If the acorns do not fall, the squirrels, and the woodpeckers, and the pigeons and jays will starve. There will be no new oaks. The temperature of the forest will shift. It will become drier, the shade of old trees will dwindle. The soil will suffer. The plants will erode. In a few generations no life will be able to survive. There'll be no rabbits for your kind to trap or deer to shoot with rifles.”

He looked at the stupid oak again.

Could a few nuts really be that important? Looking at it now, it didn't look like much.

He pulled back his hand away from her grasp. “You've picked the wrong one to be preaching about squirrel charity.”

“And why is that?”

Again, he didn't hold it back. He allowed the glamour to fade, for his eyes to grow pitch black and his lips to spew venom. “I am death and destruction. When I was but a baby I made flowers wither with just a touch.”

She looked unimpressed. “Then why are you not killing my forest as we speak?”

It took him aback. He frowned, disliking the fact he could ask himself the same question. Truth was, he had read of this ability by sneaking a peak into Valentine's journal. He'd never done it consciously. It would be useful right about then, but alas, it did not spontaneously happen.

Upon his silence, she went on; “death and destruction are part of nature. If the trees do not die, mushrooms won't grow. When the jays, and the woodpeckers and squirrel decompose they feed the soil new nutrients. The forest only goes on because things die.”

“What does it matter if the forest goes on or not?”

She did not miss a beat pondering the question. “What does it matter if Valentine loves or hates you?”

He rocked back as if she'd pushed him. “What?”

“Does it change anything?” her fingers danced through the bark again, and he watched as a tiny sprinkle of acorns began to dislodge off the branches. “Does him loving you mean he did not cause you pain?”

“Shut up.” He couldn't contain it even as he tried, even as he knew you aren't meant to break decorum around fey. He already had, but this was far worse disrespect. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

“What does it matter if your sister accepts you? If she loves you? She will die all the same, won't she? And so will you.”

She wouldn't stop, he realised. No matter the way he spoke, or threatened.

Just like when he was a child attempting to arise a reaction in his father, he escalated. He reached for her wrist and pulled her closer to him, gripping it forcefully. Air flared out from his nostrils like a dragon's breath. “This is why you wanted me here for, isn't it? To taunt me, to play with me.”

She looked at him and then at their joint flesh, impassive. “Not quite, no, though I must admit it is a little fun.”

“I should kill you,” he snarled. “I could do it now and nobody would stop me. See then how fun it is to mess with me.”

He didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't what happened.

The Queen took a step forward, even closer to him. She grabbed his other hand and pressed his palm over her throat, tilting her head back to allow him access.

It was a very easy gesture to decipher; go ahead.

His lip twitched. She still didn't believe he would do it. From spite alone he tightened the fingers he had over her, enough for the nails to dig in a little. 

Kill her, the shadows chanted. Excitement was in the air, like the way the world stands still before lightning strikes.

But he didn't close his grip. He could not bring himself to further tense it. Frustration rolled off him in waves, and he cracked, cursing under his breath. “What games are you playing?” The question was laced in something more vulnerable, a fact he was acutely aware of and despised, but couldn't help. “You're trying to distract me.”

“Are you distracted?” Her voice was a whisper now; soft wind caressing him and causing goosebumps. He was leaning forward, before he realised, into the crook of her neck, inhaling her sweet, intoxicating scent. It was like having ripe, perfect strawberries in front and being unable to think of anything except to taste them, to have them break apart inside one's mouth and release their sugary juicies, just like in the dream.

She moved the hand he was gripping and he let go of her without thinking. She let it travel through to the same place he was touching but on him instead. Fiery wicks of flame danced along his clavicle and then towards his nape. It activated his body's sense of danger, but instead of fightning he stood there, frozen, allowing it to transform into a pleasant shiver rather than adrenaline. He wanted her to touch him more, with more force and more intent. He wanted the ghostly sensation to become grounded; for her to grasp at his hair and pull him into a better reality.

Her lips brushed his.

He snapped awake. 

It was an ungraceful stumble backwards. He was barely able not to fall, dodging through tree roots and twigs. He could tell even without a mirror he looked a mess, with flushed cheeks and his breathing erratic and out of sorts.

Pathetic, is what it was. It hadn't even been a challenge for her. She had merely needed to wave the prospect of companionship and he had crumbled like he had no defenses in him at all. The lurid loneliness that always clung to him was now strong enough to make his bones ache. That frail and stupid part of him was begging for him to fall for it, even if willfully, simply to know what it is like to be embraced and coddled.

Stupid.

Pathetic.

He cleared his throat, looking away and wishing the ground would swallow him.

“Before you leave,” she spoke up as if reading his thoughts, “let's try it again.” He didn't protest, didn't even look at her when she grabbed him and made him touch the bark of a different tree. “You must feel it here, in your chest,” with her other hand she had jabbed a finger into it, “your desire to see the forest live.”

It wouldn't work, he thought. What desire could something like him possibly muster? What compassion can a demon give? 

But he humoured her. He half-expected the tree in front of him to burn up into ashes instantly; that didn't happen. Instead a soft rustle of leaves occurred, and a couple of acorns fell at his feet.

He stared at them in astonishment.

“You seem to often forget,” when she talked next, her lips were very close to his ear, kissing it as some form of compensation, “that we're both also part angel. Life and death. Destruction and creation.”

He stepped away from her. He was sure he was sweating now, even though the summer heat had long faded.

“Will you come and see me again?” she asked.

His voice came out hoarse. “I have repaid my debt.”

“You have. Yet I still wish to see you.”

Saying no was the logical choice. Sebastian, though, was apparently weak in the face of her requests. “What will you give me if I do?”

She smiled conspiratoriously. “We shall see.”

Chapter Text

When Sebastian woke up, his ears were buzzing. It was faint, but persistent, like there was a fly inside his room — except of course, there were none to be seen. He'd experienced this before; it never signalled anything good.

He rolled out of bed. He'd come back to the Institute when it was already morning, yet judging by the light coming from the window, it was still early. Still, the colours around him were dimmed. The presence of darkness was all around him. He had this persistent feeling he was being watched.

He'd once told his father the shadows spoke to him. “Don't listen to them, then,” Valentine answered, and that was that.

Through the noise came a knocking. “Come in,” he called, though he was still reaching for a shirt and putting it on. 

The door creaked. It was Clary. She hesitated when she caught a glimpse of his bare torso, but it was quickly covered, and so she said nothing of it. Instead she greeted him; “good morning.”

“It is morning indeed.”

She huffed out a laugh. “Didn't sleep well?”

He paused before he answered a simple; “no, not really.”

“Any energy left?” He arched an eyebrow, so she elaborated; “Isabelle and I are training. We thought you might want to join.”

He stared at her, analysing. He couldn't tell if she was asking out of pity — it was not a sentiment he was used to receiving. He wasn't sure if he liked it. It was better than derision, but it was not pleasant, either.

He had made up that lie about a curse to try to cover for her clear suspicion against him. He had been careless when getting caught in her room; he'd been in there too long, and though he had not lied to her about the reason, it was true he had little regard for her privacy. He would do it again if he knew she wouldn't find out. After all, once Starkweather's trial began, he may never see Clary again.

The thought was grim and he pushed it away. 

In any case, the lie was a complication. He knew Valentine wouldn't have liked it — it was too close to reality. Perhaps that is why he had done it, and any other reasoning was an attempt to justify it to himself; perhaps he longed for her to accept him so badly that he had tried to craft a mask out of his own face.

“I could do with some training,” he ended with, lamely. “Just let me get my gear.”

“You're holding back,” Isabelle said, with her hair up in a ponytail and a few stray hairs sticking to her forehead from sweat, “aren't you?”

Sebastian was standing in front of her, hands up in order to block her strikes. He felt sluggish, but clearly that didn't slow him down too much. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep. It made dust and darkness stick to him like glue, weighing down his limbs every time he moved. It made it harder to distinguish actual blows from those changes in light only he could see. He was so focused on appearing normal and retaining control he could hardly tell how hard he was striking.

So he arched an eyebrow. “Did you want me to hit you harder?”

Isabelle didn't reply immediately. Her eyes narrowed, and she fainted an attack to his left, but it was too telegraphed for him to fall for it. He dodged the real punch to one side and struck her in her belly. 

Isabelle swore, out of breath. He saw Clary move, concerned, but she put a hand up. “You're too damn fast,” she straightened up, clutching her stomach. 

He looked at his hand like it betrayed him. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“No, it's fine. It's good. Clary, you wanna give it a shot? I need a minute.”

She hopped down the ring, going for her water bottle, and Clary stepped up. There was something he couldn't decipher in her eyes. “You fight a lot like Jace,” she said.

He tried to suppress his irritation. “Do I?”

Sparring with Clary was a whole different endeavour. Isabelle was fiery, and confident. She was not afraid to take risks or throw unexpected punches. Clary, by contrast, was careful. Every move she made was a way for her to find the limits of his reach, or analyse how strong his stand was.

He probably could have overwhelmed such a technique, but he was curious, and so they ended in a dance of feinted moves and non-committal attacks. Her eyes followed his every twitch, and he moved his body to match her pace. In a strange way it was like having a conversation with the goal to know one another.

She threw another one of those weak punches, the kind that signalled she was really just testing for an opening, and he met it with one elbow, but then as he did, her feet moved. He shifted to block a kick that never came; the weak punch turned out to not be so weak after all. Her fist connected with his chin. His head spun to the side.

And then all that slow dance was over. He kicked one of her legs to try to make her fall, and she grabbed onto his shoulder to continue barreling on his face. Soon they were on the ground, his ears ringing, his heart pounding. She was faster than he had thought; she had been concealing her ferocity. 

He grabbed at her right wrist to begin a chokehold, when she tapped on the ground twice before he could.

He breathed heavily, their faces close enough their foreheads were almost touching. “Sorry,” she panted, just as tired as he looked. “I haven’t practiced a lot of ground work.”

There was a whistling sound. He looked up to see Isabelle, with the tip of her water bottle to her lips, but it wasn’t her that his eyes locked on.

Jace stood by the door, leaning on its frame with his arms crossed. Sebastian felt nausea at the thought that he hadn’t noticed his presence. An extra heartbeat should have been obvious — Valentine would have been furious.

It was when their stares met that Clary and Isabelle noticed him, too. Just by looking at each other it already looked like a fight brewing.

“Jace,” Isabelle walked up to him, grabbing his arm to pull him out of said battle, but he did not move. “Wanna spar with me? I’m ready for another go.”

Jace, inexplicably, smiled. Sebastian recognised the gesture; it was the kind of smile Valentine had. “I think I wanna try my luck with the new guy.” The hatred inside of him crawled up to the forefront, and the noise in the room was suddenly excruciating. The shadows became static through which he could only see forward, right at his target.

Neither Clary nor Isabelle seemed to have the heart to object, though vaguely he could tell that Clary was looking at him as she stepped down. He couldn’t say what kind of expression she had.

Jace took off his jacket, and jumped up. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt. Sebastian watched him warily. He was taller, but Jace’s frame was bigger. He would wager they were about the same weight; the same capability to deal damage.

He walked up to Sebastian to offer him a hand. He stood up without taking it.

“I don’t know if I like this,” Clary whispered to Isabelle, watching the two Nephilim square up face to face. “I feel like Jace is trying to bully him just because he doesn’t like him.”

Isabelle, though, looked mostly amused by this development. “He’s going to have a rude awakening. If I learned one thing about Sebastian Verlac is that he’s not going to take it lying down.”

“So, Paris, huh?” said Jace, with his stance relaxed and not at all like they were about to spar. “Tu parles français ?” [Do you speak French?]

Sebastian cocked his head to the side and curled up his lips. His eyes were dead, and it made him look all the more menacing. She didn’t like it. It was bringing out everything unsettling in him. “Bah, oui. Tu penses que j’habitais en France sans parler la langue, con ?” [Duh. You think I lived in France without speaking the language, idiot?]

She could not understand his words, but she knew by Jace’s expression they hadn’t been kind. She couldn’t help but feel a strange admiration for Sebastian; not many, indeed, would meet Jace’s taunts with their own.

“Mais pourquoi l’insulte ?” [Gee, why did you feel the need to insult me?]

“Je suis plus direct que toi.” [I’m just more direct than you.]

“What the hell are they—?” but before Isabelle could finish, Jace had moved. He threw a punch at his face, faster than most people would have, but Clary also knew that he wasn’t really trying that hard.

Sebastian dodged to the side with ease. He didn’t return fire, he simply stood there self-assuredly. Clary had but a second to look at him, before Jace was blocking him from view, standing at the ready. She knew him; she knew he’d had a retort ready, and was now bewildered that he hadn’t gotten to use it.

“Qu'est-ce qui se passe ? Tu as la même expression que quand la Reine dit que tu es amoureux de ta sœur.” [What’s the matter? You have the same expression you had when the Queen said you were in love with your sister.]

Clary cursed herself for having taken Spanish in school instead of French. She watched Jace’s shoulders tense. Whatever Sebastian had said, it had pissed him off. “Eh bien, pardon, mais je n'ai pas tendance à aimer les harceleurs qui l’agacent.” [Oh, sorry, it’s just that I don't tend to like stalkers who annoy her.]

Sebastian’s face fell. There was something to him now that she could not explain, but she could read it regardless. She had spent the past half hour carefully examining his body language, and now, for whatever reason, he was off-rhythm. Jace had finally gotten into his head.

And Jace could always tell when he had succeeded. He moved in the snap of a second. A sound like the crack of a whip resonated. Clary couldn’t tell what was happening at first, but she felt a little relieved when she could. Jace was throwing strike after strike, but for a moment she thought Sebastian would keep up with him even if he was upset.

She was wrong. One of Jace’s kicks connected, right in the chest. It was such a violent motion she was worried he had cracked his ribs. Sebastian fell ungracefully to the ground, with the force of his entire body. He was clutching at his own chest and gasping, in that hazy panic of being unable to breathe.

Many things happened at once. Jace took a step forward, as if ready to hit him again. Isabelle yelled his name, to stop him, but Clary was already up on the mat, between them both.

She watched Jace’s angry expression melt into confusion. He stared down at the ground, at the boy he had beaten, like he couldn’t quite comprehend what had happened.

Even still, she couldn’t hold back her rage. “What is wrong with you?! You could have killed him!”

His lip pulled down, like it always did whenever she got angry at him. “Clary—”

But she turned, taking her attention off him and towards Sebastian. He flinched when she put a hand over his back, and then went very still. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, a little lost, but nevertheless she was quick to draw her stele and give him an iratze. “Are you alright?”

He inhaled, a little easier now. His gaze was down at the ground, and when it tried to meet hers it only did it for but a moment. He seemed, as far as she could tell, completely unbothered. It was a strange thing, because his body language betrayed the opposite, but there was no vulnerability in his face whatsoever. “I’m fine,” he croaked out, voice hoarse. 

Clary heard Jace stepping away. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him jump down, and how Isabelle tried to approach him.

She paid him no mind.

Chapter Text

For a few beats of time, Sebastian could not feel anything. He was aware that his breathing still struggled, and that his knuckles were bloody and his arms bruised, but it was a distant thing, as if it was second-hand information. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, at a low resonance, as if he was underwater. The air was heavy in that same way, coating his skin in a numbing agent.

Between that ringing were the thoughts, buried yet still thrumming. He had lost. He had not lost a fight in so long — and not only that, but he had lost to Jace. He had completely underestimated how fast he was, or how strategic. He had assumed that he would win, because if there was anything he was supposed to hold over Jace was that he was not weakened by feelings, like the ones that make you cry over silly birds or lose your temper at your alleged sister.

Jace hadn't trained with Valentine in years. Jace was supposed to be an easy target. And yet here he was, on the floor. Pathetic, Valentine would have said, and it was true. It had been laughable. He had even dared to taunt him, feeling secure when speaking a foreign language, because who would believe Jace that he had really said something so personal, if he was so prone at flying off the handle?

All this time that his father had preferred him… he had been right to. The realisation was crawling beneath his flesh, as he desperately tried to keep it contained. Suddenly all the effort he had put and all the heartache and the murdering and even this stupid mission seemed pointless. What did it matter? The truth was there for anyone to see; Jace was better than him. Valentine was never going to choose him — Valentine, who was the only person in the whole world who could ever care, who could ever have it in him to love something as wretched as him.

If he failed— if he failed this mission, his one chance would be gone, and by the looks of it the odds weren't looking good.

Nobody will ever love you.

Not your mother.

Not your father.

Not your sister.

Monster.

Useless.

Failure.

“Sebastian?” It was Clary who spoke. He blinked in confusion. Why was she still there? She had sat down next to him, and now she was shaking his shoulder. He hadn't realised how badly he had spaced out. “Have you got a concussion? I swear to God if he gave you one— Fucking hell, I don't understand what his problem is. Whatever you said couldn't have been that bad.”

He stared at her. Half of the words she was saying weren't registering. She kept ranting on and on about how reckless Jace had been, and how it wasn't fair to take out his frustrations on him, who had never done anything to hurt him. He couldn't quite process the situation. Jace… should have beat him further, because he had lost and— and—

The logic trained stopped as Clary kept speaking. Her hands inspected his face for bruises, and then his arms. He knew on some level she had to be wrong, that he deserved what had happened, but he couldn't disprove her even in his own mind. His heart certainly agreed with her about the unfairness of it, albeit perhaps for different reasons, and for a moment it overpowered the crushing despair that had taken over before. Along with it, there was something else.

His chest was aching, but it wasn't like before.

“Clary,” he spoke, with that same soreness in his throat.

Her jaw clicked shut. Her eyes softened. “Do you want me to take you to the infirmary?”

What he wanted was to ask her why she was here, why she had stayed behind with him and not gone with Jace. Jace had won, just like he had when they were children, and what winning meant was obvious. Why would it be different now? Why would Clary defend him, who, as far as she knew, wasn't even her kin?

But he didn't ask the question. He was older now and he knew better than that. Instead he shook his head mutely. “I'm fine.”

“Sebastian,” her voice was careful, like he was a wounded dog that she didn't want to spook away. “What is it? Are you very hurt? You look—” she hesitated. “You're scaring me.”

He moved by reflex at that, standing up so as to give her space, but her hand —like it always did— grabbed him before he could pull away.

“I didn't mean it like that,” she said, with a little humoured annoyance in her tone. “Seriously, you're freaking me out. I thought you'd be pissed off, too.”

He looked down at her hold on him. It was gentle, and… kind. A headache was beginning to form between his eyes. Despite himself he reached and only barely touched her knuckles with his fingertips, as if to make sure it was really there.

Again her face shifted in a strange way. Her bottom lip jutted out, as if she was going to cry. 

She didn't. She extended her other arm, and spoke under her breath; “hey, come on.”

He didn't know what she meant, or why she was making that gesture, up until she had grasped his other shoulder and she was moving him, pulling him closer to her. Then her arms wrapped around him and—

He froze. The air left him in one exhale, and with it that familiar void was now silenced. It was like it had never existed. His chest felt full now, unharmed. She was hugging him, she was hugging him— 

And then she shifted slightly, and he feared she was about to let go. Against his own will he grabbed her tighter to himself, his hands making fists of her clothing, clinging with a desperation he had never shown before. 

“Hey,” Clary repeated, and he didn't know why, but he didn't really care, either. “Is everything alright? Did something happen? Is that why you hadn't slept?”

He couldn't answer her. He was afraid if he did, he might begin crying. He couldn't remember having ever been touched like this before. He didn't want it to end.

Get it together, the rational part of his mind called. If she noticed him being off now, she would never get close to him like this again. Be normal. You know how to be normal.

He forced his hands to unclench and let go, forced his face to shift into a smile, hoping that it didn't look as shaky as he felt. “I'm fine, Clary, really, I'm just exhausted. I feel like I can barely move. That was some heavy training.”

She laughed, and shifted away from him. A wave of relief washed over him. “Yeah, you told me you hadn't slept and then you fought three people one after the other. I'm honestly surprised at how well you did. God, that makes me even angrier. Bet Jace wanted to feel all superior, and he was fresh out of the shower. Hypocrite. I bet he wouldn't have liked to go against you after being tired out already.”

His throat closed up. Valentine would have never excused a failure like this, he would have taken no reasoning for why it was acceptable, but her words made sense, and he found himself agreeing with her. Jace had been fresh and ready, and he was already sluggish, and slow. Surely, on equal ground, it might have tipped the other way. Perhaps— perhaps Valentine might still—

But the idea died. He didn't much care what Valentine wanted at that moment. He only cared about Clary. 

Chapter Text

Throughout the next weeks, the activity in the Institute had died down. Despite following a few leads still, there had been nothing substantial. Sebastian suspected his father was lying low, in preparation for the trial. He wouldn’t risk his plans being ruined when he was only a little more than a month away from stealing the Mortal Sword.

It was why he was surprised when he woke up to so much noise. There was the running of steps, and then Isabelle shouting from one room to the next that she couldn’t find her big makeup palette. He opened his door to Clary halfway into putting on her shoes. “Just use my one!” she said, “if we don’t leave soon we’re going to be late.”

“What if it doesn’t match the costume?”

“You’re supposed to be dead, Izzy, why don’t you just use the white make-up Simon has at his place?”

There was another reply, but Clary was already ignoring her and running up to him, instead. “Sebastian, good! I was waiting for you to wake up. Do you want to go to a Halloween party?”

“What?”

“I know it’s a little last minute. I told Simon I didn’t feel like going out and I’m too old for trick or treating anyway, but Maia said they’re throwing a party in Pandemonium, and I thought, fuck it, why be here and miserable when we could have fun?” He stared at her. She hadn’t stopped talking, not even to inhale. “If you don’t have a costume, that’s okay. We’re leaving early right now to swing by a store beforehand. I’m buying something for Simon, too, since he can’t go out in the sun. He says he’ll just go as a vampire because it’s free, but that’s so lame. I’ll buy him something, at least a cape so he can be Dracula.” Finally she turned, seemingly realising his silence. “So… do you want to go?”

He struggled to remember what the question had been. “To a… party?”

“Yes, a Halloween party.” She paused, awkwardly, at the cluelessness in his expression, and then her eyes widened comically. “Oh my God, do you not know what Halloween is?”

He shook his head.

“How do you not know?! Isn’t it supposed to be a myth, too?”

“I don’t think they celebrate it in France,” it was Isabelle, who was now returning to her own room, triumphantly holding a make-up palette. “We can’t possibly know all the myths in every country, Clary.”

“But it’s Halloween.”

“What’s Halloween?”

Finally she took pity on him. “It’s just a tradition. You dress up as a monster or something and they give you candy.”

“What? Who gives you candy?”

But already she was grabbing his hand and dragging him out of his room. “I’ll explain on the way. We gotta go, I want to have time to pick something. Last year we said we’d do Disney and I intend to make it come true.”

They were not all able to do Disney, whatever that meant, because Isabelle refused to go as Snowhite. She had instead picked up a green dress and proudly declared she would be Fiona. “That’s not Disney,” Clary objected, but she was ignored.

She was dressed with a flowy white shirt and a purple skirt, and was in search of a corset that wasn’t black. Sebastian had handed her a pink one, but she had pursed her lips and continued searching. 

“You’re going to be missing the tambourine,” Isabelle called from the changing room. “And you still need to pick something for the boys!”

“Simon will be Quasimodo, obviously,” she said this with her hand already full of a fistful of clothes. She was shoving them back in the bag they were in.

It was that comment that finally made it click in his head. “You mean the one from Notre-Dame de Paris?”

Clary blinked at him like he had spoken in gibberish. Isabelle emerged now, fully dressed. “Of course he knows the novel but not the movie,” she chuckled. “Yes, Sebastian, the one from The Hunchback of Notre-Dame.”

“That’s not a good translation of the title.”

“But what is he going as?” Isabelle pointed in his direction, looking at Clary with both eyebrows raised. Clary started rubbing at her temples, prompting Isabelle to attempt to calm her down; “I’ll keep looking for a corset. Just get him something in the meantime.”

So Clary turned to him, her face twisted in a frown. “Have you seen any Disney movies?”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“God, Shadowhunters are so out of touch. Okay, okay…” she ran over to the shelf where a bunch of masks and trinkets were on display. She plucked off one that was completely black, with spikes over at the top, and put it over his face as if to see. “You could be Batman. It fits you.”

He ducked away from the mask. “Do I have to wear something on my face?”

“Well, how about your head,” and she grabbed something else off the shelf. It was a pair of red horns attached to a headband. She placed it on him unceremoniously, and then shifted him around so he could look in the mirror.

He couldn’t help but see the irony. He scoffed. “I look ridiculous.”

Clary huffed out a breath, launching the headband back into a pile of discarded items. “Yeah.”

“Isn’t the theme… Disney?”

He had said it trying to be helpful, but regretted the instant her eyes lit up. “So you will do Disney?”

Her enthusiasm implied he would be reluctant if he knew what it meant. So far, all the reference he had was her half-cooked costume. “Just don’t put me in a dress.”

She laughed. “No, no. I’ll pick a prince. Which prince would suit you? Uh… there’s Prince Charming…”

“No.”

“Okay, okay. Prince Philip?” Her head disappeared behind a clothing rack. He could see the individual items being shaken as she rifled through.

“Like the Duke of Edinburgh?”

More laughter resonated behind it. “No! Like from Sleeping Beauty!”

He frowned. He had heard of the folk tale and read several different versions. “I thought his name was Troylus.”

“Oh, I got it!” And she appeared from behind carrying a pair of white pants and a purple vest. “You can be Aladdin!”

A French novel about a building, a European fairy tale and a Middle Eastern folk tale added into One Thousand and One Nights. He was completely lost as to what those three things had in common. “Just what on Earth is Disney?”

His question went unanswered. Clary walked up to him to shove the clothing in his hands. “Go change,” she said. “When we get to Simon’s we can cover you in fake blood. You could be bloody Aladdin.”

“Decapitation was a common form of capital punishment in pre-modern Islamic law.” 

Her lips pushed together. He realised she was trying not to mock him out loud. 

“What? It’s true.”

“Great. It’ll be historically accurate then.”

“Clary!” It was Isabelle. “I found a blue corset! Better than pink, right?”

“Go,” she pushed him inside the changing room. “Go, now. Yes, Izzy, thank you!”

They left the store about forty minutes later, after Isabelle insisted on getting costumes for Alec and Aline, even though Alec had already declared he wasn’t going to the party. Sebastian suspected she had gotten something for Jace, too, but she wouldn’t say so in front of Clary; they were still not exactly on speaking terms. So far he had only seen them exchange tense glances in the hallways.

He had thought it would make him happy, but it didn’t. Whenever it happened he would feel momentary relief, yet it was only followed by a deep-set nausea. He couldn’t stop noticing it, couldn’t stop looking for signs that Clary was still unhappy with Jace. It made him hate his presence even more than before. It made him miserable.

Isabelle left them in order to go fetch some “prettier heels” from the Institute, and Clary and him wandered the city until they reached Red Hook. They stopped near a restaurant called “the Jade Wolf,” and a plain white, wooden building right by the docks. She walked up to it and banged loudly on the door. “Simon!” she said, “I’m coming in!”

He heard no heartbeat, but he did hear a voice yell “ready!”

Clary pushed open the door, and waved him inside. He immediately noticed the vampire hiding in the shadowed corner, as the darkness grew when Clary closed it again. The room was illuminated only by a hanging lamp that gave off fluorescent light. 

The whole place was a singular room. The windows were blocked with wooden boards and boats were placed to one side in rows. The walls were decorated with posters. There was a desk, a guitar, and clothes piled on a drawer. It was clear that someone lived in it, and also that the place wasn’t originally meant as a residence.

“I got you a Quasimodo costume,” she handed the vampire the bag, who took it with a big grin.

“Ah, sweet! Thank you, dear Esmeralda.”

Sebastian couldn’t help but stare at him closely. He seemed around their age, but he could not be sure. He had messy brown hair, and pale skin. He was, like most people, shorter than Sebastian.

He looked harmless, yet he could not relax. He had not dealt with many vampires before, only knew the theory of it. There was plenty of wood around to make a stake, but he would have to be fast.

“Who’s your friend?” he motioned to Sebastian. His tone was friendly, just as his appearance would have him believe. Sebastian resisted the urge to step back in distrust.

“This is Sebastian. Sebastian, this is Simon, my best friend.”

Best friend. It was one thing to be allied with a Downworlder, but another entirely to regard them so highly. “There must be a story behind that,” he tried to keep tension off his voice. “I thought you had been kept from the Shadow World until recently.”

“And I’ve only been a vampire for like, what? Six months?” He said it casually, like a joke. In Sebastian’s mind it only served to blare alarms. Newborns are deadlier than any kind, Valentine had said. They retain the vitality of when they were human, but they have lost their soul. They will do everything to get a taste of your blood.

“It’s a long story,” Clary grimaced, but it was still a nonchalant gesture. “We’re childhood friends. When Valentine found my mother and we got separated, Simon stood by me. I don’t know what I would’ve done without an anchor of normal.”

He felt a pang of pity for her. Of course she would be attached, and of course she would not know better.

But he did.

“Alright, let’s get ready. I bought more spooky make-up, just in case.”

Clary sat him at the desk, and rummaged through her belongings. Sebastian did not take his eyes off Simon, but he was only met with another smile, devoid of any hostility. He was a good pretender.

“I think,” Clary took out the palette she had offered Isabelle, and a small brush. “You would look great with eyeliner.”

He had only planned to divert his gaze to her momentarily, but the moment he saw the small point on that brush, he fixated on it. “You're not getting near my eyes with that.”

“Oh, come on,” she was already dipping it into black. “I won't get it in your eye. I have practice.”

“Clary, I mean it—”

He backed away from her until his back was leaning on top of the desk and his head reached the wall. She was holding onto his shirt and leaning forward just the same, laughing. “Come on! I swear I'm not going to stab your eye!”

All he could think of was that, as much as he hated them, he really did not want to end up blind. Clary grabbed his chin to hold him in place and he shut them tightly in response. It only caused her to cackle harder.

“Okay, okay,” she muttered between giggles. “You can close them. Just relax them. Your eyelids are all scrunched up.”

He obliged, if only to make this end quicker.

He had the paranoid thought that he couldn't sense Simon like this. He couldn't hear any movement past her. It was the perfect moment for him to strike.

Yet the longer nothing happened, the less panicked he felt. Clary was touching his face with strange care. She shifted, causing her hair to tickle his nose. He couldn't help but flinch away from it, and she made a sound of protest that was just as coated in joy as before.

There was that feeling inside his chest again. The one that was pervasive, but it wasn't pain. It wasn't nostalgia, either, but it was close.

He knew it was a sign of weakness. He knew he ought to block it out, but it was more comforting and addicting than anything else he'd ever had. He couldn't give it up. He knew once it was gone, the void it left behind would be far worse than before he knew the feeling existed at all.

“There.” He felt her move away. He opened his eyes.

Simon was still sitting idly, examining the work just as Clary was.

“You look handsome,” she said.

“He looks like the singer from Green Day.”

He didn't know if that was a compliment or an insult, but Clary seemed happy. “Girls love Green Day,” she informed him. “The cool ones, anyway.”

“He doesn't look scary, though, does he?”

She grinned. “That's what the blood is for.”

Chapter Text

There were very few times he ever felt truly adrift. His grip on his own life was dependent on day to day routines, like sleeping with a hand on his seraph blade, looking for the exits of every building he entered, or counting how many heartbeats he could hear around him periodically. 

He had never made a single decision. Everything he did and trained for was designed by Valentine. He clung to these vestiges of humanity, the proof that he had not lost the one shred his father allowed him to exist for.

But on that night in Pandemonium, he lost that grip, if only for a little while. It was washed down with the gulps of that sickly liquid Isabelle swiped off some Seelies. He threw his head back and allowed her to pour it down his throat until his skin was tingling. 

He couldn't say why he did it. Stepping inside the club had been hell. Most of it was a singular, incredibly broad room, extending beyond the boundaries of the small entrance. The walls were solid concrete, but he could tell the ceiling beams were hollowed metal, because instead of absorbing sound they bounced it back around and created an unbearable echo. It had to be the worst acoustics for the loud music they were playing. The effect wasn't only on it, either; each singular voice came from every direction. He couldn't orient himself, couldn't distinguish potential threats. Even the crowd was too dense to follow with his eyesight; individuals would become lost in the sea of people, not to be seen again.

Clary had noticed his dismay. She had seen the way his eyes darted back and forth, and asked if he wanted to leave.

But he didn't, really. What he wanted was more of the soothing feeling she produced in him. He wanted Isabelle Lightwood to smile conspiratorially at him again. He wanted to understand why all the mundanes around him danced with their eyes closed, without a care in the world. He wanted Clary to show him a glimpse beyond the curtain, to know what it would have been like.

So he took the ticket in front of him, leaped out into the darkness without a parachute. If he just copied whatever they did, perhaps he would find reflected in them what it meant to be a person.

And it felt good.

He no longer cared about the echo. The beat of the music thrummed through his whole body, and its sourceless nature only enhanced the feeling. The lights became brighter, but somehow it wasn’t grating to the eye. 

But the nicest part was how his mind was dulled. His thoughts, normally so sharp and biting, were now too hazy to pose a threat to him. He was listening to them talk without immediately judging the intent behind it all, without fishing through the information to try to find an opening. At the moment Simon was halfway through a story of pouring soda packets into their mouth and having them bubble over. He was barely following in between all the noise, but he was laughing still. Clary was leaning on him, and her giggles left the imprint of her breath over his flesh. He wasn’t rationalising it as much as he was aware that her closeness meant trust. She trusted him.

Clary watched Isabelle dragging Simon to the dance floor at the sound of Toxic. She lingered behind, next to Sebastian. He was leaning on the wall with a dazed expression, though her worry was stifled by the drink she, too, had indulged in. 

“I'm glad you're having fun,” she told him. “I didn't know you weren't a party person. I hope I didn't, like, pressure you.”

He blinked at her. She fixated on those dark pupils again. Perhaps it was because of that same haze, but she thought they looked nice with so many colours dancing off them. “I wouldn't know. I'd never been to a party.”

She frowned, and then laughed. “Oh, you mean like, to a club?”

He seemed confused by the question. “Any party.”

She couldn't stop her own giggling from bursting out. It was simply such an exaggerated statement. “Yeah, right. What about birthday parties?” But instead he just shook his head, and her face fell. “What do you mean?” she put a little stress on the syllables. “I don't mean a dance party. Just a party. Even small ones, or from where you were a kid.”

Again his demeanour didn't change. Through his look of bewilderment had some amusement mixed in. In this state he seemed to find everything a little funny, if mostly in its irony. “I know what you mean.”

“But—” her head hurt, trying to wrap her head around this revelation. “What about your birthday?”

He chuckled, but moved his head side to side to indicate no, once more.

She struggled to remember what she had learned through the muddled corners of her mind. “Your aunt. Your aunt must've thrown you a party.”

“Nope,” he popped the 'p' casually, smiling still like this conversation was completely normal. “Never.”

A while ago, she might've waved this off as a Shadowhunter thing, but now she knew it wasn't the case. She was startled to think even Jace —who had been raised by Valentine— had spoken to her about fond memories he had from his birthdays.

She didn't know what to say. She was frozen in dejectment. Sebastian hardly appeared to notice her dismay. Somehow, he didn't care. He hadn't said it with any sadness or hurt. 

Something is wrong with me, he had told her. She felt her heart aching and she had the oddest sense that it was his pain and not hers, even as externally there wasn't anything to indicate it. There hadn't been much in her room, either, or any other time, yet she instinctively knew of its presence. He carried it not in passing. It was interwoven with him. Instead of a coat, it was a fabric sewn into his shoulders.

She suddenly felt sick. 

It was then that Simon and Isabelle returned. She caught Simon in the middle of Isabelle's loud recollection of him stepping on her feet, and pulled him a little bit away.

Because it was him, he immediately noticed the way her lip was pulled down. “What's wrong?”

She leaned in to whisper to him. “Sebastian just told me he's never been to a party. He hasn't had a party.”

Simon frowned. His eyes strayed off her and towards the dark-haired boy. He was listening to Isabelle and laughing again, like he had all night.

“Simon.” She felt tears prickle her eyelids, but she held them back. “I don't think he has any friends.”

He nodded. She recognised the determination in his gaze. In about ten seconds he'd slipped out from their group and came back with drinks — not the dangerous kind, but simply the fruit punch that was at the opposite corner.

Clary took hers and watched him pass them around. He raised the plastic cup. “To friends,” he declared, loud enough for them all to hear. “And to our new friend.” At this he pointed the cup in Sebastain's direction.

Clary watched him snort. He didn't seem touched as much as he seemed entertained, but she didn't care. She toasted with the same enthusiasm, and Isabelle put an arm around his shoulders for emphasis.

He hid his face behind his cup, as he drank.

About an hour later, Sebastian walked outside.

The lightness in his limbs had started to fade, and it returned a creakiness to his bones. Alertness was creeping up on him in the corners of the room, waiting for the right moment to pounce. He was attempting to outrun it.

He went to the back door. It was smaller, but still a heavy push. The night air hit him in one swift blow, carrying the scent of nicotine. He wasn't alone. There was a couple there. One of them extended a pack of cigarettes his way with a questioning look.

He hadn't sought an exit with the intention of smoking, but now that the offer was there, it was easy to take it. He plucked one off the pack with a mumbled “thanks,” as the guy lit it.

He inhaled. He had hoped that it would be easier to find the right angle again, but it devolved into mundane coughing in about two seconds. The man that had just extended it frowned at him, but said nothing.

Sebastian heard the door open behind him. He turned to see Clary's eyes darting around looking for something, land on him, and pass through gladness straight to muted disdain. “Sebastian!” she shouted, taking two strides. He was quick enough to raise his hand before she could pluck the cigarette off him. “What are you doing?! Put it out!” At his nonchalant reaction, she spun to face the couple, who were now staring. “You know he's a minor?”

The man put both hands up in a 'don't involve me' gesture, and was quick to pull his girlfriend and himself back inside the club, the butts haphazardly thrown into the garbage. Clary watched them leave with fury in her eyes.

He took the moment to inhale again. His coughing was what made her turn and try to snatch it a second time. He laughed. “Calm down, Clary! It's just one cigarette.”

“Those things are gonna kill you!”

“I'm a Shadowhunter. I'm going to die young anyway.”

He had said it with humor, but was surprised to see her expression fade off into sadness. She crossed her arms, lip pulled down. “Fine. Do whatever you want.”

He blinked. She seemed angry, but nobody had really ever been angry at him in this way.

He didn't like it. His chest felt a little heavy out of the sudden. “Okay, okay. I'll put it out.”

He didn't want to do it. He was still hoping for at least one good smoke, but he did it anyway. Her face relaxed slightly. “Sorry,” she said, which was even more bewildering to him. “I guess it's not really my business.”

He shook his head, speechless.

“Sebastian,” her tone was hesitant. She stepped closer to him, until her chin was touching his chest. He was that much taller than her. “I wish you wouldn't be so sad.”

He frowned. Her words made no sense to him. He didn't remember showing any true signs of weakness, if perhaps only a little, to ingratiate himself to her. To gain sympathy.

But she said it softly. She said it with sweetness injected into it. A knot formed in his throat, just at the thought that she— what? Cared?

“You don't even know me,” he said.

“I know you a little.”

Perhaps that was true. Perhaps he had lowered his mask on purpose. Perhaps he was barely wearing one to begin with.

“What makes you think I'm sad?”

She shrugged. He thought she looked a little sleepy, but that was probably just the drink. “I can just tell. You seem… lonely.”

“Lonely,” he repeated. That alertness was growing stronger now, but the alarm inside his own head was still muffled. “I'm just not very good with people.”

“I think you're just fine. I think you just need a little practice.”

That knot was bigger now. It choked him. He thought it might be a sign he wanted to cry, but his eyes were as dry as ever. He hadn't cried in a very long time. 

He thought of what Valentine had said, when he had asked why they wouldn't try to recruit Clary. He had said she was too much like her mother. That Jocelyn had turned her against Valentine so completely, she would never show either of them the benefit of the doubt. But — what if Valentine was wrong? What if she wouldn't do so for her father… but it was a different story with her brother?

What if she could love me?

There was another idea pushing itself to the forefront. It was an ugly thing that had reared its head for the first time when Clary had hugged him. He had thought, I don't have to do this. I don't have to ever stop being Sebastian Verlac. They don't have to know. I could just do this forever. I could just be… this, forever.

Was it really such a bad plan? Was he really so invested in Valentine's machinations? As much as his father might be right, he had never particularly cared. He didn't care about Downworlders, or the Clave. He didn't care about the war. He had done what he did because Valentine was all he had.

“Sebastian.”

But now there was Clary.

She was leaning closer now. Uncertainty hung around her space. Shyly she reached up a hand and touched his cheek. She took a deep breath.

Then she leaned in, and kissed him.

His whole body locked up in tension. It wasn't like when she'd held him. It didn't feel the same. The alarm blare was loud and clear now. He thought he ought to push her off him. He was her brother, and she didn't know. 

Right as he managed to make his muscles twitch, she pulled away. 

He hadn't closed his eyes. She watched hers open. There was confusion there, and something worse. Was it disgust?

It caused a pang of pain to go through him. Suddenly he had the horrible certainty that she knew what he was now, that she had felt it. That he'd just lost her.

“That was wrong, wasn't it?” she muttered.

“No,” he shook his head. He was nauseous, and sick inside, and he didn't know why he was denying what was the obvious truth, but he couldn't help it. He didn't care if he tasted bile every time she kissed him. He didn't care what he had to do to keep her, even if that was to play unwilling boyfriend. “No. It was good.” And against all reason, against all the molecules in his body, he cupped her face tenderly and kissed her again, with his eyes shut tight and trying to coax her into something more pleasant. He felt her body rigid in his hands, how she tried to respond to him and failed.

She pushed him off. His heart squeezed in itself, panic leaving him in quick exhales. Her eyes were full of tears. “I'm sorry,” she said. “God, I'm sorry. I can't. Something is wrong with me. I shouldn't have done that.”

“Clary—”

But she was already walking away.

He leaned on the wall, clutching his chest and panting, trying to find a footing back in reality. He had felt this way before. All those times he was sure he'd faint, or worse, but it never happened. It always ended a few minutes later with him lightheaded and tasting iron.

He stayed like that for what felt like hours but must've only been ten or so minutes. His vision was blurring. His stomach felt like it might turn inside out any second. The shadows were back, creeping in like the slow cracks of thin ice when you step on it.

Maybe he had been stupid to think things could ever be different.

It was with this thought that the numbness spread. His ragged breathing slowed to difficult, shallow inhales. His body was still in the throes of being unable to draw in oxygen, but it was as if his lungs didn't really care anymore. He felt nothing.

He let go of his chest and passed his hand through his face. He was covered in sweat.

A little while passed, and the door opened. A random girl took out her pack of cigarettes. 

“Hey,” he told her, his face blank and his voice hoarse. “You have an extra one?”

Clary wasn't back inside when he finally went in. He only found Isabelle waiting for him, who said Simon had walked her out to the Institute and they should head back.

He didn't protest.

He thought he should feel worried. Simon had taken Clary. The vampire was now alone with her, in the middle of the night, while she was distressed. Yet he couldn't muster the energy for it. It was like trying to fill a bucket when there's a hole at the bottom. 

It wouldn't be like that if he was normal. If he wasn't a monster, he would have feelings. He would care for his sister like he was supposed to. She wouldn't look at him like she had before. He wouldn't have kissed her again. He wouldn't have had to.

There was that pang of pain, throbbing, but nothing more. Nothing but whatever rotten selfishness this was.

Isabelle was glancing at him every so often. She was on the verge of speaking long before she finally said; “I don't know if something happened, but if it did, you have to understand— Clary's a little, you know, confused. Because of what happened with Jace.”

Her words registered, but they didn't take on any meaning.

She kept going; “I mean, it's bound to mess a girl up when your first love turns out to be related to you.”

Or, he thought bitterly, when you're made to believe he is, but he isn't.

He wondered what Jace had felt when Valentine lied to him. He wondered if it was anything like what he felt now.

He doubted it. Jace was not like him.

“I'm sure she didn't mean to hurt you. But you're going to have to give her time, and space, you know?”

They stopped now, outside the familiar doors of the Institute. They opened right as Simon was stepping out, looking —strangely—, pissed.

“Sebastian?”

He didn't look at her when he answered; “I understand.”

She doesn't want to see me anymore.

The shadows writhed, and echoed further and further out, twisting in many more stabbing thoughts. 

She'll never love you now.

You were stupid to think otherwise.

What did you think was going to happen?

Isabelle was walking straight to Simon now. He heard them exchange words. She was, seemingly, attempting to calm him down. 

She finally waved at him as she stepped inside to the elevator, and then he turned to him.

“Look,” he started, voice tense and noticeably unfriendly now, unlike when he'd met him. “I don't know what game you're playing, but if you do anything to hurt Clary, I'm going to make sure that's the last thing you do, you got it? She doesn't need another asshole messing with her mind.”

He stared at the vampire, who grew hesitant when making eye contact. Unable to read him, no doubt. 

He found himself wondering why Simon hadn't attacked her, or why he even cared. He wasn't supposed to be able to care anymore. He wasn't human. 

He didn't say that out loud. He simply nodded his head and walked past him.

His objective was to simply head to his room and sulk, but his enhanced hearing had other intentions. He could hear Clary crying even when he wasn't anywhere near her.

And then— “It's okay, it's okay. What happened, Clary? Tell me, please.”

It was Jace.

He froze in his step. The nausea grew until it was right behind his mouth, ready to make him vomit. Instead he forced air through his nose and found that it had no effect on his brain. He was having another one of these episodes again.

He heard her begin to speak. He didn't wait to know what she'd say. He strided out of the hallway, and locked himself in his own room, palms covering his ears, lungs struggling to obtain oxygen. It was happening again. He wasn't a child anymore, but it was the same thing. It was always going to be the same thing. Jace, and Valentine, and now Clary.

If he had any hope before, now he was sure.

He had lost her.

Chapter Text

“Clary.”

There was a heavy silence over the room. At least, aside from his voice. Jace’s voice always seemed to envelop everything completely. She never tired of hearing it, even as his words cut her open.

“Clary, won’t you tell me what happened?”

She shook her head mutely. She didn’t want to talk; not really. She didn’t fancy the thought of sitting there and explaining to him that she had kissed another boy, and that when she did she felt a deep revulsion inside of her, like she was drinking vinegar straight out of the bottle. She didn’t want to tell him that he kissed her again, and all that she could picture was Jace’s face behind her eyelids.

She thought she liked Sebastian. He was unlike any person she had met. She understood him instinctually. She wanted to make him happy. And, though it was true that he put her on edge, she also felt oddly safe around him. He was like an old childhood plushie, weathered by age, but still homely. She thought these were good reasons to kiss him. She thought she could finally put the past behind her, and get over the fact that she had fallen in love with her brother. Instead she had hurt her new friend, and she had thought about Jace again, and she couldn’t deny the fact that she wished she had kissed Jace, instead.

And so she had come here, because as much as she was still angry at him —as much as she didn’t want to revise what he had said—, Jace was the only person who could understand. All she was able to say to Izzy and Simon was that she was fine and nothing had happened. They wouldn't have gotten it. They would have tried, but they wouldn't have gotten it.

“Did he hurt you?”

His tone was glacial. His eyes were hard as stone. She turned to him with a blank expression. “Why do you dislike him so much?”

He sighed, looking down and rubbing his thumb over his lip. She fixated on the motion. “I’d rather not talk about this.”

“You’re the one that brought ‘him’ up.”

“Am I wrong?”

It was escalating, she could tell. Their conversation was turning into a fight again and she didn’t know how to stop it. “Wrong about what?”

“That this is about him.”

Answering that would require her to explain. She didn’t want to do that. It was too painful even to think of what words to say, so she just shook her head hoping it would read as a general denial. Her lip wobbled and Jace’s face softened.

“Clary, if he did—”

“Oh, shut up.” She was angry now, though she didn’t know if it was at him or herself. “I’m the one who hurt him. He didn’t do anything wrong.” She didn’t look to see his reaction, but she could tell just from his tension that he didn’t quite believe her. “What?” she snapped at him. “I told you, so now you answer me. Why do you dislike him so much?”

There was a pause. She thought he would evade her again, but he acquiesced; “I don’t know. There’s something off about him. He acts differently around me than he does everyone else.”

“He said you disliked him from the moment he walked through the door.”

He shook his head. “I could tell even then. He looked at me like I was a cockroach.”

She could read the tension in his shoulders easily. It was the same tension he’d had when he’d seen her with Simon that night, months ago. He had been hurt then, and had masked it like he masked everything else. 

But she knew him better now. He thought that she wouldn’t believe him.

The idea was painful. She would always believe Jace about anything.

Her lack of a reply stirred him. He perked up a little, emerging from his shell in that hesitation that often broke her heart. She spoke then; “do you think it’s because of… because of Valentine?”

Jace scoffed. “You’re being polite with your wording.”

“Fine. Because of the demon blood.”

He shrugged. His gold eyes were off and staring at the wall. She both wished he would look at her and that he wouldn’t, because she knew the feeling it would cause within her. “It’s probably the most likely answer, isn’t it? Perhaps I shouldn’t blame him so much for it.”

“Jace,” her tone took on a dangerous edge. “Yes, you should. Why do you keep insisting this is any different from any Downworlder’s situation? Even if the blood influenced your behaviour, which it doesn’t seem to, you could just learn to manage it, like vampires manage bloodlust and werewolves manage full moons.”

“It’s not the same, Clary.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Okay, okay. Look—” The sudden acceptance surprised her. She frowned, and watched as he struggled to articulate himself. His face took a tint of vulnerability that she had seen before, but could never quite grow used to. “Maybe it's not. Maybe it shouldn’t be. But— It’s not supposed to happen to us. We’re supposed to fight demons, to be in control. It’s shameful. It’s so much easier to be accepting when it’s a distant thing. I’m not saying that’s how it should be, but that’s how it is. You saw what Alec went through. I mean, Maryse wouldn’t even look at me when she found out, and she raised me, and I know that she’s a great person, it’s just— It’s a hard thing to deal with.”

She let the information sink in. She thought of Aline, and what she had said, and how Sebastian mentioned she had been raised away from the Downworld. He hadn’t been, as far as she knew, but if he really had been so isolated as he seemed, it would stand to reason he was a little rigid around Jace without necessarily knowing why. “I could talk to him.”

“Clary,” Jace scoffed again, this time interposed with a chuckle. “How did you manage to turn this conversation on me?”

Because it was easier than to deal with what had happened. “Hm. Yeah. Maybe I can’t actually talk to him, after all this. I’m not sure.”

Jace’s knuckles twitched. He moved his hand towards hers, but stopped halfway through. His face was shrouded in deep pain. “Won’t you lean on me, at least? If I can’t— I would at least like to help you. To be there for you.”

She felt the sobbing trying to push itself back out her throat. She had been crying so long, her eyes had run out of tears. They were dry and puffy and she didn’t want to restart it all over again. “I just thought I was moving forward, but I wasn’t, really.”

“Oh.” He was all stiff now. His warmth was gone like a candle blowing out. “So this is actually about me.” She took hold of him before he could pull away, sneaking back into his arms like he had held her before, right in the nook of his neck. “Clary—”

She shushed him. “It’s fine. It’s just a hug. Whatever you think or feel or— It’s just a hug. Hugging your sister is normal.”

She felt his shoulders relax a smudge. “Hugging your sister is normal,” he repeated.

“I’m still mad at you for what you said.”

“I figured.”

Chapter Text

It was past eleven in the morning and Sebastian hadn't come out of his room. Clary was very aware of his absence. He was usually one of the earliest risers.

Guilt weighed down her stomach all through breakfast. She saw Izzy knock on his door a little while later, and get no answer.

She tried to recall what he had looked like last she'd seen him, but the memory was shrouded and blurred over by what she'd drank and by her own feelings. He hadn't seemed that upset, she didn't think — but then again, he never did.

Some thirty minutes later, after she had acquiesced to Alec insisting she at least eat an apple —“I'm not letting you out onto the field with an empty stomach”—, Simon called her.

“Clary,” he said. “You have to get to the Dumort. It’s Valentine.”

Sebastian wouldn’t look her way.

She hated that she was so aware of this fact. They were all standing in the foyer, on top of the rotting carpet that Camille, for some reason she would never understand, had never replaced. All except Aline, who took offense to the idea of being at the beck and call of Downworlders.

The last time she had been at the Dumort, she was rescuing Simon. A mission she failed when Camille Turned him anyway. The place didn’t arouse many fond feelings in her, shrouded from sunlight, with its broken shards of glass that were never picked up, and all the holes in the wooden furniture from an infestation that remained unaddressed. It looked as much like a corpse as a building could muster.

“It’s her,” Raphael was speaking, with venom spewing out of every syllable. He was sitting on top of the desk, meticulously taking out splinters from his forehead. “I know it’s her. She wants my head for saving this rat.” He pointed at Simon. 

“You’re saying Camille sent Circle members after you?” Alec’s eyes were narrowed, clearly trying to find the lie in Raphael’s words. “Why would Valentine work with a vampire?”

“How should I know? They had the mark on their necks. I’m not blind.”

“Alec,” Jace called him with a head gesture. Clary couldn’t hear what he said next, but she had a pretty good idea.

The Sighted mundanes. A vampire would be a perfect way to usher them in quietly.

Alec turned around after a second, to an irritated-looking Raphael. “You think they’ll come here?”

“They don’t have a choice,” said Isabelle. “They’ve tipped their hand. They can’t get him alone anymore. And during the day? Raphael can’t get out. He’s cornered.”

Raphael smiled with his lips pulled tight. His face was so pale it made him look like a doll. “Thanks for that.”

“So we wait here. Set up a perimeter.”

In the distance, Clary could hear Simon arguing with Raphael; “I knew we should have stayed at the Jade Wolf. You couldn’t have picked some place else where we could wait to die? Or, for that matter, some other door to knock at four in the morning?”

She tuned them out. Already she had heard a very passionate telling of this story — of Raphael showing up to the boat house with wooden stab wounds that had barely missed their mark, while Simon was still in a Quasimodo costume.

Instead, she peeked over at Sebastian. 

She felt his eyes before they crossed glances, for the briefest moment. He had been quiet all morning. Still, there was this oddest sense of indifference emanating from him. She knew he ought to be upset — who wouldn’t be? But if she wasn’t so used to Jace covering up his feelings in similar ways —albeit admittedly Jace did it loudly and with humour rather than quietly and coldly— she would have thought she imagined any affections he might have had for her,

“Izzy and I will take Raphael. Upstairs. You three should watch outside and the cellar entrance.”

Isabelle gave them a look, with her eyes a bit wide, almost like she was about to roll them at her brother. “Actually, why doesn’t Sebastian come with us?”

Alec frowned, clueless as ever. “We don’t need three people guarding—”

“I’ll take outside,” said Sebastian, and unceremoniously stepped out, making both Simon and Raphael hiss at the brief ray of sunlight that covered the entrance.

Jace looked her way. “Guess we’re on cellar.”

The air inside the cellar was much, much worse. There were dusty bottles of wines in racks, and though logic dictated they would be sealed, it still smelled of spoiled alcohol. Perhaps they had been there too long. Perhaps the wax and the corks had been chewed on by rats.

She drew closer to Jace at the thought. He threw her a look of amusement. It was easy for him. He wasn’t thinking of the possibility of rabies.

They made their way towards one of the doors; the larger one. It led out into a tunnel that stretched far past the Hotel Dumort. Clary wondered just how old the building was to have such a structure underneath.

“I see that he didn’t take it very well,” he started.

“Don’t.” She hissed it out in one exhale. Snappy and quick. She already didn’t want to have this conversation.

“You don’t really like him, Clary,” he went on. This time she allowed herself to glare at him, and at this his voice took on a pacifying tone; “I don’t mean it like that. I know why you think you don’t, but it’s not like that. It’s like Simon all over again. No, listen—” She was turning away, not fancying being reminded of what happened with Simon. “You don’t like him like that. You just feel bad for him, because he likes you”

She pushed him squarely in the chest, to make him stop chasing her. He didn’t really budge, so she did it again with more force, making him smirk. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I shouldn’t be having this conversation with you anyway.” To this, he had no defence. She immediately felt guilty when his lips pursed, the humour fading. There were things they still tried not to mention out loud. So she attempted to backtrack; “It just isn’t like that. Simon is my best friend. Isn’t it easy to… I don’t know, assume the love carries forward? Whereas I only just met him.”

“Then why?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. It was hard to put into words. What she felt for that boy was unlike anything she felt for anyone else. He was as familiar as her own shadow, and yet as unknowable as the darkness. She wasn’t even sure anymore that he liked her. Perhaps his pride had simply been wounded.

But before she could attempt to explain any of it to Jace, there was a noise. Rats, she thought, taking one more step back, but she knew after only a few beats that it wasn’t so simple. There was another sound accompanying that. If she had to describe it, she would say it was like the howling of ghosts in a movie.

“Well,” said Jace. “I can confidently say those are not Circle members.”

Sebastian watched the street and thought of his father.

Valentine allying with vampires. He never thought him willing to do such a thing, after how  he cursed the Clave for their Accords and their compromises. But then again, Valentine had made him.

He looked down at his own hands. Often he marvelled at how little he looked like a monster. Those two inside, at least it was easy to tell. They were pale and they had no heartbeat.

It made them remarkably good at sneaking up on him. “Ah, man, why did you have to open the door?”

He turned around. It was Simon, standing at the foot of the stairs that led up to where Isabelle and Alec had taken watch, just inches away from the sunlight that came from the opened main entrance. “I have to see outside, and also the paths up and down.”

It was simple logic to him. Behind him were the stairs. To the right, the cellar entrance. In front, the main street. Why would he shut himself outside, unable to see the other points of concern? Unable to hear properly?

Well, others wouldn’t have heard properly, but he could. He could hear Jace and Clary talking below him just fine — or he could, until Simon distracted him. He couldn't make out specific phrases, but he had been able to hear the amusement in his voice. It twisted his insides into a knot with that familiar, burning hatred.

“Well, can’t you shut it now?”

He stared at the vampire, who so clearly had the impression he could make any demands of him. “Why are you here?”

“Raphael was being a pain. I don’t want to be upstairs anymore. Plus, Isabelle keeps trying to make Alec talk about his love life. She wants to know if he’s ‘popped the question.’”

It was a very casual way of talking, one he wasn’t used to. Simon was being friendly just as he had before, as if the previous encounter had never happened. He didn’t understand it. He also didn’t know if he should be pretending in the same way. It felt ridiculous, like two people who spoke gibberish acting as if they could hold a conversation.

They were both rotten inside, what was the point?

At his silence, Simon’s face softened. “Look, man. I’m sorry if I was too harsh on you. You’re not the only one who’s gotten hurt over this whole situation, okay? If anyone would get it, it’d be me.”

This irritated him. “You don’t understand anything.”

“Don’t I? You and Jace clearly—”

And then there was a crack. It started small and grew, the noise snapping into focus like a piece of paper crumpling; if the paper was concrete, instead. It was loud enough to be an explosion, but there was no air expanding or fire scorching the walls. He felt the ground beneath him shake, and behind him — the wall.

He shifted, about to jump out of the way, but before he could he was being tackled into the ground. It took him a second to get his bearings. He could hear Simon screaming above him. As he blinked he realised the vampire had pulled him out from under the wall, and where he once stood was only debris. The sunlight was burning into him from behind.

Without thinking he kicked him off and further inside the foyer, all the way to the desk where the light wouldn’t reach him. Simon gasped against the wood in clear relief.

He stared at him.

Simon’s skin began to heal over, the burns slowly dissipating off his face. “Are you okay?” he asked in between pants of breath that he didn’t really need.

“Why did you do that?” he snapped. It was such a senseless thing, to have pulled him out at such a cost to himself. “I would have been fine.”

“Gee, you’re just as good at thanking as any Shadowhunter.” And, inexplicably, Simon smiled at him. “No worries, dude. I’m more durable than you. I can take it.”

The sound, as it turned out, was neither ghost nor Circle members.

It was Forsaken.

They hadn’t even had time to call out for backup. Jace was pushing them back into the tunnel, while Clary finished off any stragglers.

It was an ugly thing. Forsaken did not dissipate like demons. Their bodies, twisted and malformed with runes, were made of flesh and blood like any other human. Clary still remembered Jace’s face of despair, when he had seen Valentine’s cruelty up close. She knew then that his heart had broken, not only because of the mundanes Valentine had driven to madness with the runes; but because the image he’d had of his father was gone. The Michael Wayland he knew had never existed.

She jumped to her feet after ending one that was on the ground. Upon turning around, she saw the massive wave of them that was heading for Jace.

There were too many of them. He was already struggling just at some seven, or eight, and there was no guarantee that there wasn’t another group behind them. There were so many. Camille must have been helping him turn them into this.

She looked out at the tunnel. There had to be something she could do. She racked her brain for all the runes Jace and Isabelle and Alec had taught her, trying to remember one for this situation. The words in her brain began to jumble together. Communication. Healing. Endurance. Bravery. Fortitude. Grace. Locking.

Locking. Closing. What she needed was to close the tunnel, to break it. Just as Jace had finished the last Forsaken in front of him, she pulled him back. She heard him call out, questioning, but she couldn’t make it out. There wasn’t anything but her own mind and the stele.

It was like holding a brush in front of a canvas. She knew what she had to make. She had the focus to do it. She painted in the air in front of the tunnel. Break. She thought, and though she could not conjure any image from the Gray Book her wrist moved and drew anyway. She took lines she remembered from the Locking rune, and changed it to suit her needs. Break. She envisioned the walls of the tunnel eroding into dust. She envisioned an abyss of destruction between herself and her enemies.

She thought of Valentine, and of keeping him at bay. She thought of Jace behind her, who she wanted to protect. All the rules she was willing to break to keep him safe.

BREAK.

And it did.

The ground shuddered. The walls of the tunnel became sands blown away by wind. She heard the screech of the Forsaken before it was forcibly silenced. Jace was pulling her by the waist, trying to take her out of the collapsing cellar. The structural integrity of the entire building was compromised now. It was all straining like it was hit by an earthquake.

Chapter Text

Jace’s ears were ringing. He hadn’t been able to hear anything ever since the crack, since the walls had all crumbled around them. All he was aware of was Clary’s body pressed against him, of feeling her chest rise and fall. He had to make sure she was still breathing, that they had not been buried.

They emerged out of the staircase leading to the cellar covered in dust. His eyes took a while to adjust to the light. Down there it had only been the flickering lightbulb and the glow of their seraph blades. Here, the sun had barrelled through the front wall. The clusters of rocks were even at this level; a wall had collapsed inwards.

He saw Simon at the corner of the foyer, by the desk, and Sebastian jumping to his feet. He pulled Clary along with him, and that is when Sebastian noticed him. His eyes did that same flicker of distaste, one he was by now very accustomed with, and then dipped down and saw Clary.

It was hard to watch. As much as he disliked him, he couldn’t deny that what broke into his expression was pure concern. “Clary,” he exhaled out, shifting forward, like he wanted to go to her but he was holding himself back. “What happened?”

“I’m okay,” said Clary. The sweat on her forehead made both her scarlet hair and the dust around them stick to her. “I’m fine, really.” Her voice was soft. She spoke to him with a gentleness Jace wasn’t used to. It was different even from how she’d talked to him.

He forced himself to ignore it. It wasn’t so difficult only a few seconds later, when he saw his parabatai emerge, tip of an arrow first, from the opposite staircase.

“It’s alright, Alec,” he shouted to him. “They’re gone.”

Alec stepped in, his posture tense. He surveyed the area with one glance. “What in the Angel’s name happened?”

“Yeah, we’re all wondering that,” said Simon.

Jace saw, out of the corner of his eye, Clary begin to speak, but he cut her off; “we’re not sure. There were Forsaken, and then something blew up.”

“What, just like that?”

“You’re lying.”

Jace startled. He felt a tightness form inside of him, filled with a spite he hadn’t felt in a long time. 

It was Sebastian who had spoken. He was staring Jace down, expressionless as he often was, but his tone had been certain.

Jace forced himself to smile, though he knew he still looked angry, much as he could try to cloak it. “Of course I’m not lying. Why would I lie?”

He felt Alec’s gaze, going from Sebastian and back to Jace like he was watching a tennis match. Jace tried to convey to him the concern that he was feeling, blindly hoping their bond might carry it through. This has to stay quiet, he thought. He could barely process what Clary had done — wasn’t even sure if it was what he was thinking, even as he’d seen it with plain eyes, but he was clear on one thing; if the Clave knew, they would want to use it.

Alec pursed his lips. “This argument can wait,” he said, and Jace felt intense relief pass through him. He was stupid to ever doubt Alec; of course he would pick up on it. “Clearly Valentine is here, and we have to—”

He never got to know what they had to do. Out of a corner between the collapsed wall and the street, there was the blur of something pouncing. He felt Clary slip from his grasp, and then heard her scream. One Forsaken had tackled her to the ground.

“Clary!” Simon screamed, but he could not get to her through the sunlight. 

Alec raised his bow. He didn’t have a clear shot.

Jace was first to get there. He ran forward with his seraph blade first, and he started swinging at her attacker, but stopped when he was able to really look.

It was a child.

He froze. The horror struck him so deeply it had stolen his ability to move. His father— his father could not be this cruel, could he? Had he really taken an innocent boy out of his home and driven him mad with Nephilim runes?

He couldn’t bring himself to strike, but the boy didn’t stop on his account. He stabbed Clary's abdomen with something sharp that Jace couldn’t make out. This finally made him react, but he was too slow.

It was Sebastian who pried off the child. He held him up uncaringly from the scruff. Past him, he could see that Simon and Alec had gone pale just as he had.

But not Sebastian. His face remained indifferent as he twisted the kid’s neck and broke it with one swift motion. It crumbled to the ground like a puppet with no strings.

Then Sebastian’s glare turned to him, and now it was completely unmasked. He saw that distaste from before, not as a flash of a second, but naked and exposed. It was deeper than anything Jace would have imagined; it was a cold, pulsing hatred. “What is wrong with you?” he snarled. “It could have killed Clary.”

Clary. Jace shifted to look at her. It was only then that he saw that Alec was already on it; he had moved in between the stand-off he was having now, and was giving her an iratze. She was pale, and her eyes seemed unfocused.

Sebastian didn’t stop. He stepped forward, his voice rising with the force of his fury. “You’re weak. You shouldn’t be out here on the field.”

The guilt of his own hesitation had been preventing him from saying anything, but at that, anger rose to meet the other’s. “If I’m weak, then you’re a fucking monster. You killed a child without even blinking.”

“Guys—” Simon started.

But it was too late to stop the crash. Sebastian’s face twisted with rage. Even his eyes seemed to go completely black. Gone was the sad, pitiful boy that held a crush on his sister. “It was not a child! It was a Forsaken! But of course you would see no difference, you probably empathise with something like that, don’t you, you sick fuck? You probably see yourself in demons because you’re like them!”

“That’s ENOUGH!” Alec stood up, frigid with anger. “Do not speak to him that way, or your stay in the Institute is about to get very short.”

Sebastian jerked to the side, staring at Alec like he’d just noticed his presence. “You’re defending him?” he asked, aghast. “He hesitated in the field. He could have gotten her killed.”

“Sebastian.” It was Isabelle, standing at the doorway where Alec had come from. Her face was carefully neutral, but she had clearly heard the entire thing. “I think you should take a walk,” she said.

Sebastian whirled towards her, then looked at Alec, and at Simon, clearly realising nobody was exactly on his side at the moment. Jace identified about two of the hundreds of emotions that passed through his face before he concealed them all once more; confusion, and betrayal. “Fine,” he barked out, and walked out through the collapsed wall.

Chapter Text

His body was shaking with how angry he was — there was no limit to it. It grew and grew without overflowing, pressurised inside of him like a gas tank about to blow. He must've walked, blindly, for more than five blocks before he ran out of steam. When he stopped, the taste of iron in his mouth morphed into bile. With trembling hands he placed a palm on the wall next to him and leaned over, retching, barely containing the vomit that threatened to spill over. 

It was so stupid, it was so humiliating that he was feeling the same thing he'd condemned Jace over. The truth of the matter was that the crunch of that child's— that Forsaken's neck had caused his blood to run cold. He had wondered, looking at it, what possible reason Valentine could've had for making one out of a kid.

But he had to have a reason. His father never did things senselessly. Perhaps it was one he intended to Ascend, and something had gone wrong. Perhaps—

He rubbed his face with both hands. He was sweating. It didn't matter. Valentine never told him everything because he didn't have to know, because he wasn't even really a soldier. He was a carefully crafted weapon that was only allowed to operate autonomously because of the sliver of humanity he still retained; the one that made his existence so miserable, the one that resented what he was with such force his bones ached.

And, presently, the one that was painfully aware of the unfairness of the situation.

If he had hesitated, Valentine would have whipped him for a week straight. He would have taken it as proof of all the flaws that crippled his existence. He would have said, only demons empathise with monsters. And now, instead, everyone had taken Jace's side all the same. Sebastian had saved Clary, and he had acted according to what a Shadowhunter ought to do, and yet he was still the one ostracised, while Jace was coddled by his parabatai and his sister.

Why? Why, why why? It didn't make sense. Why wasn't Isabelle horrified at Jace's undue empathy? Why wasn't Alec angry that he had put them in danger, that he had failed? Why was he so easily forgiven, accepted despite his nature? They all thought Jace had demon blood. They all thought he was a monster, but they wouldn't treat him like one.

He looked down at his own hands, like before. There was no evidence of what he'd done; no blood on them. He could still feel it, though. He felt every murder he'd committed like a physical mark, a weight around his chest that grew heavier. One day he might not be able to lift it.

He was lying to himself.

The truth —the full truth— was that he hadn't wanted to do it, that he had seen that Forsaken for what it was before Jace did, when it was dashing towards Clary. He was fast enough to reach it before Jace — but he hadn't done so. He had frozen over, too.

Perhaps that is why he felt like this. He knew he deserved punishment, but his father wasn't there to administer it. It was a mix of guilt and dread twisting inside his stomach. It wouldn't be long before he did see Valentine. He was supposed to report to him soon, and then he would see just how badly he was doing. He had made everyone angry at him, and he didn't even understand why. He was in the right, but it didn't matter. And Clary— he had lost Clary—

The anger had not exploded out, even with the pressure it held. Now it was dissipating and zapping all the strength from his body. He slid down the wall onto the pavement. Once more he was reminded of those thoughts he'd had before, of abandoning Valentine's plans, of trying to start over.

Except there was one problem, wasn't there?

He thought of Clary pulling away from him, of her look of disgust. He achingly wondered if there was any way at all that he could win back her good graces.

Later, at night, it rained.

When Clary opened her eyes, she was lying in the infirmary inside the Institute. She recognised it by the ceiling. It was the first room she had ever known in the building.

“See?” she heard a voice say. “I told you she’d be alright.”

It was Magnus standing over her. She saw him wave, before somebody else pulled her attention away. Jace’s face came into view, his hand reaching for hers and squeezing. “Clary,” he exhaled. “How are you feeling?”

She blinked at him. It was a curious thing, to see such a different reaction. When she had first met him, he hardly seemed to care for her wellbeing, and now the expression on his face was tortured. “I’m alright,” she said. “What happened? There was… another Forsaken.” His jaw set, but he nodded. “What about Raphael?”

“He’s here, actually. The Clave is going to discuss what to do about it, now that Valentine is involved.”

“They might still deny it,” Magnus interjected. Jace’s eyes narrowed at him, as if surprised he was still in the room. “Technically, those were not Circle members, and I don’t imagine the Clave is dying to have to babysit a vampire.”

“Who else would make Forsaken?” she scoffed. And who else would make so many, and so cruelly? Only Valentine. “Raphael was right. He needs protection.”

“He’ll be fine,” Magnus waved a hand dismissively. “If nothing else he can hide in my apartment. The Dumort isn’t looking very hot at the moment — or perhaps it’s looking too hot. You know, sunlight. Personally I’m glad. I never liked that old building.”

“Magnus,” Jace’s tone turned slightly hostile. “Weren’t you going to look for Alec?”

Magnus’ eyes glinted with understanding. He gave Clary a look of this guy, am I right? before he left the room.

“You didn’t have to kick him out,” she protested.

“Clary,” Jace’s face had turned serious all of the sudden. “We have to talk about what you did.”

“You mean the rune?”

“The rune,” he repeated. “You made a whole tunnel blow up.”

“It didn’t blow up. It collapsed.” Frustration was gathering at the edges of Jace’s shoulders, turning into tension. He rubbed his forehead with his thumb, as if a migraine was kicking in. Just seeing that reaction made her a little irritated. “Why did you lie to the others, anyway?”

Instead of answering her, he snapped; “how did you do it?”

“I drew a rune.”

“But what rune? I did not recognise it.”

She shook her head. “I made it. A rune for Break. I changed the Locking room and made a new one.”

Jace’s hand fell to his side. He’d gone a little pale. “That’s not possible,” he said. “All the runes we use are in the Gray Book.”

“Well, not this one.”

“It has to be in the Gray Book, you’ve just forgotten.”

That irritation was beginning to stew. She snarled at him; “then you’ve forgotten too, haven’t you?”

“Clary,” he spoke with his teeth clenched. Angry or stressed, she couldn't tell. “The runes are in the language of Heaven. They were given to us by the Angel. Mortals can’t make new runes, because we do not speak their language. It’s impossible.”

She considered his words. She considered his words, and contrasted them to the tunnel that she had made crumble. “Maybe the Seelie Queen was right,” she muttered.

“What?”

“She called us an experiment. You, because of the demon blood. Me… he must have done something to me, too.”

His cheeks were definitely devoid of colour now. He shook his head, but it looked less convinced, and more like a desperate gesture. “He didn’t even know you existed. Jocelyn left him when she was pregnant.”

“Maybe she did something to her, not knowing that she was.” She couldn’t help but feel a little triumphant over this possibility. Finally she could beat him at his own game. “Maybe I have demon blood, too.”

“Demon blood cannot possibly make you create runes. If anything it’d be—” but he cut himself off, his gaze going sombre.

“What, Jace?”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. She could read between the lines of his statement; it would have to be an angel’s.

She wondered how Valentine had obtained such a thing. She didn’t doubt that angels could be negotiated with, but somehow she doubted that was what he’d done. 

“We have to stop him,” she broke the silence. Jace’s form grew even more taut as she did. “Regardless of why I can do it, it’s good, isn’t it? I can use it to fight him. He might not know what I can do. We can use it to our advantage.”

“No.” She was startled at the intense way he had spoken. “It could be dangerous.”

“So what if it is? I’m a Shadowhunter, and we have to use anything we can to beat Valen—”

“By the Angel, Clary!” And with that, Jace was standing up. Her words died from the shock of his sudden outburst. Fury spat out from his mouth, unbidden; “you never think things through, do you? This isn’t a toy you can play with. You could put all of us in danger! Just today you could have buried us alive!”

“Jace—”

“No. I’m not going to entertain this. Who even knows if you can do it again? If it was just a one-off, and when you try and fail we’re all going to pay for it.”

She stared at him, stunned. For all his faults, Jace had never spoken to her like this. Not even on his worst days.

There was a flicker of something in his expression she couldn’t place. It was gone too quickly. Then he stormed out of the room.

When Magnus walked out of the infirmary, as he was making his way towards the elevator, he crossed paths with a Nephilim he had not met.

It was a young man with dark hair and brown eyes, tall, and with an emotionless mask over his face. Strangely enough, he was currently holding a cat in his arms. It wasn’t Church — this cat was completely black, and it was shivering slightly from the rain outside, though the boy had curved into himself as if to shield it.

Those eyes found Magnus.’ He frowned. “Who are you?”

Instead of answering immediately, Magnus reached out a hand to the feline, who sniffed it. The boy shifted a little, almost stepping back protectively, but in the end allowed it to happen. “You shouldn’t be letting them get out when it’s raining,” he warned. He got a blank look as a response. It was then that it occurred to him that the cat was not a current resident of the Institute, and that the Shadowhunter had seen it in the rain and was unable to leave it there. He laughed. “You have a penchant for strays, then?”

This seemed to irritate the Nephilim. “Who are you?”

Finally he waved a hand, as a flourish introduction. “My name is Magnus. I’m the warlock that just saved your friend back there. Jace was insistent he didn’t want to call the Silent Brothers, for whatever reason. Wise, I think. I’m much more pleasant to look at.”

“You,” the boy’s confusion only seemed to grow. His eyes examined him with naked bafflement. “You came here to help Clary? Why?”

“Why did you just decide to adopt a pet?” He thought he might be able to fluster him, but he was not. Instead the Nephilim sneered and began to walk past him. “So are we leaving these introductions halfway?”

He threw the comment as a last-ditch thing, a way to have the last word. Shadowhunters like this were rarely polite enough to reciprocate — it was clear this one didn’t like Downworlders.

But to his surprise the boy paused, and muttered in a neutral tone; “I’m Sebastian.”

Chapter Text

After Magnus and Jace had left, Izzy came by to visit for a few hours. She brought her a couple of her magazines, and made easy conversation. A little while later the exhaustion took hold once more, and Clary fell asleep.

It didn’t last for very long. Her dreams were hazy and uncertain. She dreamt of walls collapsing, of porcelain jars breaking all around her, of the voice of an angel booming out in her mind. Who are you to think you can speak the language of Heaven?

When she woke up, her heart was racing slightly. Her eyelashes fluttered open, and she saw that there was no sunrise coming from the curtains just yet. That is when she felt his presence.

Oddly, it didn’t startle her. She could feel his gaze trained on her, just as well as she felt her own shadow, but there was no sound. There was no audible breathing, or even anything to glimpse at in the darkness. Still her lips parted and she whispered; “I know you’re here.”

Silence. For a good stretch of time she thought she’d get no reply, that perhaps she had imagined it and she was talking to an empty room — but then there was a shift, like somebody sitting up from a chair. “I’ll leave,” he said.

“No.” She tried to focus, to find him in the blurry patches of black; the absence of any light source. “Don’t go. Why did you not visit while I was awake?”

She heard a step, hesitant as it was. Then his voice came, a little farther away than before; “I didn’t wish to bother you.”

“Bother me?” No, that wasn’t right. “You’re mad at me, aren’t you?”

“Mad?” He sounded wrong, though it was hard to explain why. She wasn’t used to this hoarse, whispering voice that conveyed upset. He always seemed above it all, but now she had clearly caught him with his walls down. “Why would I be mad?”

Her mouth was dry. She wanted to ask him to turn on a lamp, but she was afraid the light would whisk him away the same as it would the shadows. She wanted to say because I hurt your feelings, but she was afraid to sound presumptuous. Instead she went with a safer; “because of what I did at the party.”

There was a long pause. For a moment Clary worried he had slipped out without making a sound. “I’m not mad,” is what he finally said.

“Not mad,” she ventured. “But upset?” Hesitancy hung in the air. “It’s okay if you are. I’m sorry… for… I mean, you didn’t even do anything beforehand, so I can’t even know if I played with your feelings. But it’s a shitty thing to do, to put it on the table just to take it away immediately.”

She waited anxiously. At least, she thought, she had gotten the apology out. “I don’t—” he started. He sounded lost, not at all the tone of voice she would have expected. “I don’t care about that.” Then what? She wanted to shout. What is it? But interrupting seemed like the perfect way to spook him. So, she waited. And waited. “You seemed— uncomfortable.”

Uncomfortable. It was a polite word. She could tell that buried underneath was what he really wanted to express; disgusted, revulsed, aversed.

Guilt fell down into her stomach, rattling her. Of course. After what he had said about that curse, it only made sense. He wasn’t hurt by her rejection, he was hurt by the way she had done it. “It wasn’t like that,” she exhaled. Her voice shook slightly. She didn’t know how to explain without making him see just how screwed up her heart was. “It wasn’t because of you. After— after we found out— I just haven’t been able to be normal. It isn’t you.”

Once more there was a couple of steps, but now he sounded closer; “you and Jace,” he started. She felt queasy to think where he was going with it, but was surprised at what he said next; “you made up.”

There was a question between the lines, but she couldn’t find it. “Don’t worry,” she scoffed. “We just had another argument again.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t tell if he sounded pained, or relieved. “Was it about me?”

The awareness of his involvement, even if not specifically this time, made the guilt grow another notch. Yet through the haze of it a memory surfaced. “Right. You yelled at Jace, didn’t you? I remember.” She got no reply. “You aren’t being fair to him, Sebastian. You shouldn’t judge him because of what Valentine did. No one should be judged for something they can’t help.”

A longer silence settled between them. Then his voice came again from the shadows, this time filled with contained spite; “nobody has extended me that courtesy.”

It wasn’t what she expected to hear, but upon doing so, she couldn’t help but understand it. She was starting to form a picture of his life, and it provided a strange sense of clarity. He wasn’t prejudiced against Jace — he was jealous.

She took a moment to think on how to approach it. In the end she said; “haven’t I?”

And for the first time she heard him breathe. It was a long and difficult exhale. “Yes,” he said. It was said softly and yet strained, as if he wanted to argue but found nothing to do it with.

“I am asking you… give him a chance. That’s all he needs. If you give him a chance he’ll extend one to you. I know him.”

Perhaps she was pushing her luck. Perhaps the way that their friendship had grown was too quick, not solid enough to be making requests and to be so attached. And still, she wasn’t all that surprised when the reply came; “...fine. But if he puts you in danger again, I’m not gonna let Lightwood push me around anymore.”

A faint smile pushed itself on her lips. She fought it until she knew he was out of the room.

Chapter Text

The place Valentine asked him to meet was a crumbling building that bordered the Hudson. The fire message arrived in the morning. He had been waiting for it while biting the nail of his thumb, until his cuticle started to bleed.

He arrived there when the sun was at its peak, though being early November made it cold enough to wear a jacket. He snuck inside through what must’ve once been an emergency staircase. He came out to a large room filled with lockers, some still pushed onto the walls and some face down on the floor. They were covered in graffiti, and he was sure any corner would house spider webs.

He waited. He was attempting to stop his own fidgeting, knowing it would be the first thing Valentine would remark on — but he couldn’t help it. His eyes darted from one entrance to another. His hands were sweating. His foot kept tapping the floor, up and down, up and down.

“Jonathan.”

He froze. His back muscles locked automatically, his mind going blank. He heard his father before he saw him; only a few seconds later he was emerging from the hallway up front, having found another way inside. Behind him, he could barely glimpse what once was the main floor of the factory, with metal beams all converging in groups in the center, creating the illusion of a man hanging from both floors. 

At least he had been able to stop fidgeting. “Father.”

Valentine walked up to him slowly. His gaze was calculating, no doubt already judging the state that he was in. He found himself wondering if he had forgotten anything, if he had placed enough runes, if he had checked that the roots of his hair weren't showing.

But there was no comment made on his appearance. “Report,” he demanded.

And so, he did.

He had gone over what he would say a million times in his head, so he successfully avoided stumbling over his words, or hesitating on details. He told Valentine about what they knew of his plans —the Sighted mundanes, Camille— and what they had tried to do about it. His father laughed heartily at the thought of a deal with the Seelies, and Sebastian was glad that he had not mentioned his own personal involvement. He went on all the way to the encounter with the Forsaken.

“I sent a child,” Valentine said, “Separately. I thought it might buy the others some time. Did it have any effect?”

Sebastian stared at him, though mostly he was attempting to avoid recollecting the experience. “Yes,” he spoke. “They were quite unhappy about it. Jace—” he hesitated, though he wasn’t sure why. “Jace could not kill it, so I did.”

“Is that so?” His father arched an eyebrow at him, in what looked like disbelief. Once more the unfairness crept up and caused a flare of anger to strike him. He swallowed it down, though it left a bitter taste behind. “I’m surprised. Well, if that is all, you may go.”

Valentine waved a hand dismissively, turning around as to go the same way he had come in.

He should have let him go. He should have allowed the relief to hit and moved on, but this was the real reason he had been so anxious — aside from the normal fear his father always produced in him. “Wait.”

Valentine paused, tilting his head slightly instead of fully facing him.

His mouth went dry. “I think—” he cursed himself inwardly for his choice of words. Valentine never cared what he thought. “I think we should reconsider Clary.”

Heavy steps moved closer to him. Valentine didn’t answer at first, instead examining in from this new position, his glare piercing and unforgiving. “We have already talked about this,” he said.

His heart was hammering wildly in his chest, but he fought to keep his voice levelled, to appear rational and collected; “I know. And it is true she has been turned against you… but not against me.” Valentine’s expression shifted, and he found himself talking faster, trying to avoid whatever conclusion he was already coming to; “She’s already forgiving of the idea, with Jace. I could—”

Laughter.

It wasn’t what he was expecting to hear. The sound echoed out through the empty building. It wasn’t genuine as much as it was cruel. “You could, what, Jonathan?”

And just like that, all his ideas crumbled swiftly. “I—” Say something. “I could—” Nothing emerged. Nothing except that stewing, cold anger that was always underneath, reliably. Valentine laughed again. It was what he needed to reach for it. He snarled; “don’t you want to reunite our family?”

It happened so quickly it caused one of his neck muscles to cramp from the whiplash. One second he was looking at his father’s impassive face, and the next his cheek was burning. “How dare you?” Valentine hissed. “How dare you insinuate I don’t love my family?” He rubbed the injury with one hand, trying to think of something to say, but Valentine kept on going; “of course I wish Clarissa would listen to reason. Of course I want them both back where they belong, but you?” Derision coated the one syllable word. “You think you can change her mind? Please, Jonathan. Be serious. You are the reason we are apart in the first place.”

He looked down at the ground. Suddenly he felt much younger than he was. He hated the feeling, he hated it enough to continue arguing; “we’re already friends—”

“Friends?” For a moment he thought he would be slapped again, but instead his father gave out a heavy sigh of defeat. “I should have known this would happen. Clarissa isn’t your friend, son. She is simply treating you politely because you live in the same building as her. I would wager she already doesn’t like you very much.”

He felt his face twitch involuntarily, though he wasn’t sure what expression he was making. “That’s not true,” he muttered.

“How would you know? You don’t have any friends. You never have and you never will.”

The anger wavered. Something else spread out through his body, something much weaker. Could it be true? Had he imagined the whole thing? There was no denying that she did not know him well. Perhaps the only reason she had been forgiving the night before was convenience. Perhaps she had lied when she said her aversion was not due to him, simply to spare his feelings, to keep the peace.

His father seemed to sense the shift in the room. He sighed once more, and placed a heavy hand on top of his shoulder. He tried not to stiffen. He was sure he failed, but Valentine did not comment on it. “I am telling you this for your own good, Jonathan. Even if you were right, even if you could fool her for a time, you would only end up hurting her.”

“No,” he managed to say, his throat hoarse. “I wouldn’t.”

“You cannot help it. Why do you think I kept you away from other people for so long? I knew you could not help yourself, even if you tried. And I know you have tried, and I commend you, but it is inevitable. It’s in your blood. To fight it would be as pointless as starving yourself. That is the truth all Downworlders face.”

He was shaking his head, but he could not find any arguments to dispute what he was hearing.

And Valentine knew it; “perhaps you’d attempt to kill her, just to see if you can. I know you think about killing me sometimes, don’t you?”

His stomach twisted in knots. He wanted to deny it. He wanted to tell his father that he was a faithful son and he would never turn on him.

But he couldn’t. It wasn’t the truth.

“Or perhaps you’d resort to worse. I imagine you have heard of what happened with Jace. You have always been competitive around him. You may try to recreate it, to see if you can do the same thing he did.”

At first, he didn’t register what Valentine meant. “What?” But when he looked at his father, he saw it written there plainly. He was suggesting, what? That he would attempt to— to be with Clary? Even despite her being his sister? “I wouldn’t,” he protested, but it was already trailing off, the words dying.

Wasn’t that what had happened at the party?

His body froze up in horror. He had kissed her again. He had told himself it was— it was—

What? What was it? He couldn’t remember the reason, the way he had justified it to himself.

“Oh, Jonathan,” Valentine shook his head. His eyes were soft and full of pity. “Has something already happened?”

No…

Overwhelming shame hit him so intensely he couldn’t help but step back. He swallowed down the taste of bile. He knew he must be red in the face, because he could feel the scalding burn over his cheeks. He wanted desperately to turn back time, to never have brought this up, or, better yet, to never have kissed Clary.

He parted his lips, trying to find his voice and deny it. It was an accident, he wanted to say. I didn’t want it like that, I didn’t, I just didn't want to lose her. But he was mute. He couldn’t conjure up enough force to speak.

“See? It’s for your own good. You have to keep a good distance. The Angel forbid what could happen if you decided not to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

Nausea crawled up inside of him. He shuddered with the effort not to gag. Stop, he wanted to plead. He felt as if ants were writhing beneath his flesh. It was like the ache of an infected wound, a rejection of his body against himself. He wished to peel off his skin, so that no part of him could ever touch Clary like that. He wished it could be enough to change what he was, to make him better.

I wouldn't.

I wouldn't do that to her. I wouldn’t force her.

But, as hard as he wanted to, he didn't quite believe it anymore. Valentine was right. There was no escaping it. There was nothing good to find inside of him. He was sick. He couldn't even love her, he couldn't even try to without dragging her down with him. 

He felt Valentine’s hand on his cheek, this time firmly grabbing him instead of striking. He was, however, only vaguely aware of the contact. His mind was stuttering, filled with static. “Tell me,” said Valentine. “Tell me you have understood.”

It took several inhales, exhales, to be able to utter anything at all. “I understand.”

“Tell me she doesn’t love you.”

It was just as he had asked for Jocelyn. It was as humiliating then as it was now. He struggled with himself. He didn’t want to say it, but the entire conversation had drained him of any energy left to oppose his father.

So he obeyed. “She doesn’t love me.”

“She’ll never love you.”

His heart ached. Still there existed this part of him, the weakest, most pathetic part of him, that couldn't give it up, that languished inside of him, insisting that there had to be a way. There had to be something he could do. Anything at all.

He silenced it swiftly. It was better this way.

“She’ll never love me.”

Valentine tapped his cheek twice. “Good,” he said. “Good. Now, go back, before your absence is noticed.”

Chapter Text

Drops of water fell on soft dirt, faint yet distinct in their sound. Sebastian watched it with detached eyes. It was a plastic cloud with holes at the bottom, suspended above Clary’s houseplant. He had poured water on it and allowed it to rain after he’d noticed the leaves were starting to turn brown. She had been in the infirmary for a day and a half.

This is what he had allowed himself.

Many times he had passed in front of the sick room’s door. Many times he had stopped. He hadn’t gone in. He had heard her laugh through the wooden barrier, talking to Izzy or Simon or even Alec, and then he had left. He had allowed himself to hear her voice and to visit her room. In her absences he could still find her; in the drawings stuck to the wall, in the fairy lights she had hung over her bed, in the comic books she kept at her bedside table. 

The drips of the water stopped. He was stuck in place for a little longer, letting his eyes wander, absorbing details. She had a delicate taste. She liked pretty little trinkets, like coasters in the shape of vinyls or bookmarks with pressed flowers in them. Everything he noticed only served as another splinter in his chest. 

He heard a meow behind him. He turned to see that black cat near the door. It was staring up at him with a knowing gaze.

He walked past it, bending down to pet it briefly.

Later, he went to the kitchen, while it was deserted, but he couldn’t find any appetite to eat. He sat down aimlessly. The silences stretched. Even the shadows were quiet. They lingered in the corners of his vision, staring at him with hollow sockets for eyes.

“There you are, stranger.”

It was Clary.

He felt dread stir inside of him, but it was muted. He could barely react when she sat next to him. “What did you eat?”

His mouth was filled in paste. He kept his gaze fixed on a scratch inches away from his hand, on top of the table, so that he wouldn’t see her face. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” her voice became unsure. He could feel her looking at him with narrowed eyes. What was she thinking? Was she asking because she was worried? No — surely not. He was only projecting onto her what he wanted to hear, like his father had said. “Sebastian… are you alright?”

He nodded his head automatically, without thinking about it.

“Hey,” she insisted. “I was gonna make some waffles. You want some?”

“No. I’m fine.”

There was a pause. Clary didn’t get up to make waffles. “You know you can tell me, right?”

It hurt. It seemed to pierce past any defenses he'd usually have. Why was she speaking so gently? Why would she say this if she didn't really care? — But she did not, she didn't love him and she couldn't love him—

He felt a weight over his wrist. Next where he stared at, on the table, her hand rested on top of his.

It was sudden; the panic. All his thoughts and his feelings had been muffled, snuffed out in some heavily coated reality, dripping with a tar that barely allowed movement. Now everything caught fire. His ears rang. His stomach flipped upside down. He stood up so quickly the chair behind him clattered to the ground, and Clary startled, eyes wide.

Her lingering touch on his flesh was burning. The room was spinning. It was already happening. It had only been a few moments with her, and she had already reached for him like that. She wouldn't have done that if he hadn't— if he had not tried to take advantage, if he had not primed her for it, if he hadn't—

He fought to keep his breathing under control. His body was an oppressive force hanging over him, unreliable like a hostage he was trying to keep in line. He feared with an irrational force that it would move against his will and touch her, and then— More of that unbearable sound, like clanking of metal. His mind buffered and fought to keep the intrusive ideas from forming. I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to…

“Sebastian—”

“I have to go.”

“But—”

He walked in a wide circle past her, practically stumbling out the door. He barely managed to reach the bathroom before he was thrown onto his knees, retching and puking with his hands on both sides of the toilet. He didn't even close the door.

He shut his eyes tight. He tried to focus on the feeling of cool porcelain on his palms, on the carpet he was on, on anything except the barrage of thoughts and images that were flicking in and out. It wasn't curiosity that was driving them. It wasn't some fantasy he wished to chase. It was entirely the opposite — it was a compulsive attempt to keep his head on straight, to keep himself from hurting her, that created them. The more he tried to fight it, to avoid thinking of it, the more it surfaced. It only seemed to confirm Valentine's warning.

He wobbled to his feet. Above him and to his left had been the mirror, and it called his attention now. He gazed into his own eyes, black and monstrous. He saw his face was pale and his lips parted, breathing erratically. Still he felt detached from it, like he was watching someone else, someone who had hijacked his life and was now having fun at his expense.

“She's out now, you know,” Izzy told Jace that morning. “She was just here. She's fine now, she's healed.”

He answered her with little more than a forced humming noise. He didn't find Clary until later, dejected-looking, dragging her feet back to her room. 

They crossed gazes, but didn't speak.

He went past the kitchen, the opposite way towards the greenhouse, only to clear his head. It was then that he heard a concerning noise from his right. He paused before he dared to follow it.

The bathroom door was ajar. “Alec?” he called. “Are you—?”

But as he pushed it open, he saw that it wasn't Alec. There was a slicing sound through the air, and then he had a seraph blade pointed at his throat.

It was Sebastian. His eyes were wide and bloodshot. He was panting as if he had run a marathon.

Jace put his hands up, though he wasn't entirely sure that would help him not get stabbed. “Ah,” he said. “I see your breakfast didn't agree with you.”

He didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't for the blade to clatter to the ground. It wasn't purposeful, either. Sebastian had begun lowering it before it slipped from his grip fully.

Jace stood there for a few moments. In such a circumstance it would normally be easy to come up with a million mocking things to say, to throw them in his face for the way he had treated him.

Yet the sight in front of him didn't inspire it. There was none of that usual glare. Instead Sebastian's gaze was empty and defeated. His hands were trembling. His shoulders were hunched, making him appear smaller.

Jace found himself missing the fiery personality he had gone to expect. Even when it was cloaked in politeness, it was at least something he could admire. This? This was familiar for all the wrong reasons.

He hesitated before asking; “should I tell the Penhallows to call you the Silent Brothers?”

There was a faint shift of acknowledgement. “No,” he finally spoke. His throat was raspy from the vomiting. “I'm fine.”

If it was Alec, it would be easy to arch an eyebrow and scoff are you? But it wasn't Alec. Sebastian and him were on whatever lied at the opposite spectrum of parabatai.

Jace pursed his lips. He took a step back, to leave him alone —wordlessly and in the most awkward way possible—, but for some reason his feet were glued to the floor.

“What?” Sebastian snarled. Or rather, tried to. It was rather half-hearted. “If you haven't come up with something clever to say yet you really don't deserve to gloat.”

What came out wasn't clever at all; “what the hell happened to you?”

Sebastian's face twitched for a second, before it eased up into that blank stare. “I don't know what you mean.”

“You're acting like a little bitch.”

He hadn't meant to say something so harsh. Or perhaps he had, he wasn't sure. Either way, it marginally worked. He saw a little of the familiar scowl showing. “Don't you have other people to torment?”

“My schedule is free today, actually.”

Tired eyes stared back at him. “Go away, Jace.”

“Is this about Clary?” Now that got him a reaction. He saw the spark, the beginnings of the anger that was to come, and he pushed. “I gotta say, your little crush on her is a little endea—”

His words were drowned out by shattering glass. It took a moment for the pain to register. Sebastian had grabbed the back of his neck and pushed him face first into the bathroom mirror. Warm blood trickled down his nose, and perhaps his forehead, too, he wasn't sure. He spat some of it onto the sink, and turned to see the other frozen by the wall. He was surprised by his expression — he looked shocked by his own actions.

Jace's eyes dropped to the seraph blade on the ground between them both, and when Sebastian saw the gesture, he knew they were both thinking the same thing. He crouched down for it, as fast as he could. Still he was stopped by Sebastian tackling him to the wall. They wrestled until they were both on the floor. Jace reached a hand to grab the hilt at the same time Sebastian kicked it away.

It was the strangest fight he had been in. They were both trained, both strong and quick, and yet they were struggling against one another like school boys. They rolled around to the hallway. Jace managed to elbow the other three times on his stomach, but it wasn't enough to stop him. Sebastian expertly gripped one of his arms behind him and began a grapple. He felt his muscle beginning to scream and he gritted his teeth. He kept slamming his free elbow behind him, feeling satisfaction at the faint loss of breath he could hear behind him.

Eventually, though, it was over. Eventually he tapped down with quick motions, gasping out; “fine, fine, you win!”

For a moment he thought he wasn't going to be let go, that Sebastian might break his arm. It was about then that he wondered how on Earth nobody had noticed the commotion yet — but if Clary hadn't heard the vomiting from the hallway, it was unlikely anyone farther away had heard the mirror breaking.

But Sebastian did let go. Jace exhaled out a moan of relief and rolled onto his stomach, panting. “I guess we're even now,” he started with difficulty. “I beat you up, you beat me up.” Beside him, he saw Sebastian lying on his back, looking as out of breath as he was. “Well? Feeling better?”

The blank stare was back, and it fixated on him. Then something extraordinary happened — Sebastian laughed. It was faint at first, it began as a mocking snort and slowly morphed into something more hysterical. “Was this your idea of helping?”

Oddly, Jace thought, it might have been. “If it did help, then you owe me.”

“You just said we're even.”

“Huh.” He blinked. “I guess I did.”

There was a momentary silence, but it wasn't nearly as tense as the last one. Sebastian was looking at the ceiling when he muttered; “Clary told me I should apologise to you.”

Well, Jace thought, not without amusement, that wasn't an apology. Instead he said; “did she?”

“She said I shouldn't judge you for things you can't help.” He paused. “Which I don't. I judge you for being an unbearable asshole, and I think you could quit that anytime you wanted.”

It was his turn to cackle. His ribs hurt a little when he did — perhaps from one of the kicks he got before. It transformed into a groan eventually, and then another beat of just catching his breath. “Alright. I accept your apology.”

Sebastian scoffed, and sat up with one swift motion.

Jace watched him leave from the floor, with streams of blood still dripping down his nose. He was starting to see the appeal of him. He wasn't all that bad when he wasn't pretending to be nicer than he was.

Chapter Text

He hadn’t meant to come back. He had left the Institute in some vain effort to get away from all of it — in an effort to quiet Valentine’s voice in his mind. He walked aimlessly, or so he thought, until by some force his steps led him to the Fey Realm, instead.

He passed by a few guards. They didn’t acknowledge him; didn’t ask him his business, or to stop. They didn’t even leave to let the Queen know he was there. He was glad not to see Meliorn. He might’ve had to break his nose if he did.

“You came back.”

Her voice came from behind, but he didn’t turn just yet. “You asked me to.”

“I wasn’t sure you would. You weren’t bound to.”

I wasn’t sure I would either, he didn’t say. He shifted to look at her. She was dressed more plainly than other times, in what looked similar to a sundress. He wondered how she wasn’t cold.

She nodded her head back, in a ‘come along’ gesture. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

He let her guide him through the woods into a small building. It looked like a strange mix between a cottage and a greenhouse, with large, glass windows, separated with beams into sections like stained glass would be. Above, on the ceiling, was the largest one, letting in flickers of moonlight. Inside was a small table, as if for afternoon tea, and shelves littered with trinkets, pots with plants, potions and baubles. He analysed the space quietly, though she did motion for him to sit. He did. She opened a drawer, and picked out a flask. She then sat across from him and handed him a couple of berries that he didn’t recognise. Perhaps they were unique to the Fey Realm.

“Could you help me peel them?” she asked. “You have good hands for that.”

He frowned at her, but took them without reproach. He pressed one nail in slightly to create an opening in the skin, before he muttered; “why do you say that?”

“You’re careful. You take care of things around you.”

It was such a strange thing; to feel as if she was blatantly bullshitting him, yet know that she was incapable of lying. “What have I ever taken care of?”

She shrugged, casually, as she walked off again, picking up more things from the shelf. “A plant that needed watering, for instance.”

For a moment the statement was so out of place he couldn’t process it. Then he did — “you’ve been spying on me?”

She turned around. She was holding two glasses. “I wouldn’t say spying.”

He was flabbergasted. He stared at her, trying to muster up offense, but truthfully he didn’t know how to feel. Nobody had ever cared enough about him to do something like this. He was meant to be angry, right? “How did you even—?” And then it clicked. “The cat. You sent a cat after me?”

“I didn’t send him,” her lips pursed up a little, as if containing a smile. “I just heard some things from him in passing. He’s very grateful to you, you know, for saving him.”

He scoffed. “I didn’t save him. He wasn’t dying, he was just wet and hungry.”

By now he was almost done with one of the berries. The skin was very thin, and it made it impossible to take out more than small chunks. “You can be saved from more than just death,” she said.

The words came out before he thought better of it. “Is that what you’re trying to do? Save me?”

“Do you feel like you need saving?”

God. What a question. He laughed. “It’s done,” he handed them to her. “What are these for, anyway?”

“Drinks. For us.” She took them delicately, and then with an expert touch, she ground them by making a fist over them, pouring them over the two glasses.

He eyed her suspiciously. “I’m not an idiot. I know I’m not supposed to eat your food.”

“I won’t keep you.” She placed a glass in front of him. With graceful steps she walked around him, in front of the table, her lips to the rim. “It’s just a little game I thought we could play.”

He looked inside, into the liquid. It was dark purple, like wine, but it smelled much sweeter. “What is it?”

“It doesn’t have a name in English. I suppose you could call it truth-serum, but it’s more than that. It makes it… easier, to tell the truth. Makes it nicer. A little like how you mortals like to consume alcohol. It’s not perfect, of course, not like your Mortal Sword, but it is effective in games.”

Already he was standing up, taking a step back from her. “How stupid do you think I am?”

She shifted the glass in twisting motions over her lips. “I haven’t decided.”

“You’re trying to get information out of me,” he sneered. “What for?”

“I’m only trying to get to know you.”

“What for?”

But, to his surprise, she tilted up the drink. She gulped it down two times before it was gone. “Does that assist in establishing trust?”

His eyes flicked to his drink, left on the table, and then to her. “Why are you so obsessed with me? Why are you watching me? Why do you keep calling on me?”

“Do you remember the Downworlder your father caught?”

He saw a flash of that girl, of her blood staining the autumn leaves after he shot her. He felt nauseous all over again. “The warlock?”

“No,” she shook her head. “It was one of my kind. It was a fey.”

Ah — he did remember. It was on a following hunt he had gone on with his father. They had cornered another one near a cliffside, and, like usual, his enhanced hearing allowed him to reach their prey first. “I remember.”

“I had thought… that it was a shame. I met you when we were both young, and by then I assumed you had ceased to be the boy I knew. I assumed your father had turned you into a monster. But then this fey came into my court, and he said that you saved him.”

He shut his eyes tight. A headache was forming. “I didn’t save him.”

“You let him go.”

“It wasn’t like that.” He remembered. He remembered finding him, and thinking— this time he knew in advance what would happen. He didn’t want it to happen again. It was a harmless thing. He was a good liar. He knew Valentine wasn’t going to find out, he was simply going to be disappointed they hadn’t caught him. “It wasn’t like that. I just didn’t want to do it. It wasn’t because I was trying to save him.”

“Your father would’ve been happy with you if you had murdered him.”

He would have. The only times Valentine was happy with him was when he killed for him.

Anger flared up in his chest. “So?”

“So you still freed him.”

“I told you it wasn’t like that!” 

But with an exhale, all the anger was gone. He looked across at her. She hadn’t even flinched. Her eyes looked sad, but not scared. He wanted to be mad. This was— ridiculous. 

“So, what? So I saved one stupid fey because I wasn’t feeling like it, because I’m an undisciplined soldier and a disobedient son, and you thought I was Prince fucking Charming? Is that it? Is that why you’ve treated me this way?”

“If you want the prizes of the game…” she gestured with a hand to the forgotten drink on the table. “...you’re gonna have to play.”

He looked at it, truly considering it. Everything he had been taught told him not to do this. This was beyond accepting sketchbooks or asking acorns to fall. But what did it matter? He had lost already. He had lost Clary, and in her absence he was starting to resent his father more than he abided by him. He picked up the glass and drank it in one go.

“Very well,” the Queen giggled. It was a playful sound, like a young girl who has gotten away with something naughty. “It’s my turn to ask. Hmm…” She walked forward, circling around him like a hawk. The taste of it was still on his tongue. It was more bitter near the end. “Tell me… something that is on your mind a lot. Anything.”

There were a million different things he could say, many of them embarrassing. He was halfway considering which one, when it tumbled out of his lips without his consent; “love.”

“Love,” she repeated. Her eyes were bright with joy. “What about love?”

Hang on, he wanted to say, isn’t it my turn now? But it seemed that being asked something made it harder to control it. He was already speaking. “I wonder how it feels like. I wonder if I’ve ever felt anything close to it, if I ever will. I wonder if I have enough in me to at least have a lesser version of it.”

“Oh,” her lips pursed. He thought she looked a little like she wanted to cry. “You could. I know you could.”

He should be thinking of what information he could get out of her. He should be formulating something strategic, something valuable to give Valentine — or even to satisfy himself. Instead he found himself asking; “what does it feel like?”

“Love?” She stopped walking. Now her back was against the small table, leaning on it. “It’s never the same. It can be blissful. It can make you feel like you’re floating, like you’re invincible, like anything could go wrong in your life and you would still be overjoyed. It can feel terrifying, to look at the vastness of it, to know how dependent you are, how easily you could be broken down by losing the object of your love. It can be excruciating. It can be pain so intense you would rather meet Death, it can be an ache dull enough to erase everything else, to turn you into a shell.”

He swallowed down the knot in his throat. Pain, that he knew. Was the pain he felt ever an echo of—? No. It couldn’t be.

She spoke up again. “Tell me an old, fond memory.”

He expected to hear himself speak, but he didn't. There was the slow realisation that it was because he had none he could remember off the top of his head. He thought of Clary when she asked to draw something with him — but that was recent. He thought of the day his father told him he did a good job, yet what he recalled most of all was the revulsion of the kill. He muttered; “I don't have one.”

“There must be one.” She leaned forward, searching in his gaze like she could find it for him. “Keep thinking.”

It was looking at her that it came to him. He looked at the delicate space between where her jawline ended and her neck started. “When you gave me back my sketchbook.”

Her eyes lit up again, like before. He found himself unable to stop looking. “Your turn.”

Once more, he thought he ought to ask her what her plans were. How she was going to use this against him.

Once more, he didn't. “How old are you really?”

Sudden mirth came out of her. She covered her mouth to disguise the abrupt sound. “Haven't you heard you never ask a lady her age?” But she still acquiesced; “I believe I was born ten mortal years before you were, but we age differently. I was slow when I was a child. I estimate I'll reach adulthood around the same time you will.”

By fey standards, that was remarkably young. He was starting to understand why her guard acted so paternal towards her.

“My turn. Speaking of sketchbooks, what's your favourite thing to draw?”

He shook his head, scoffing. “I don't have any.”

“That's not true.” He opened his mouth to retort about what he had drunk, but she interrupted; “just because you believe it doesn't make it true. Tell me.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, perhaps a little too harshly. It seemed a futile effort, to try to find a personality where there wasn't a person.

And yet he found himself an adequate reply; “I like animals. I like… birds. Ravens. I got really good at drawing ravens.”

“You should show me your ravens sometime.”

He looked away, not entirely sure if he was embarrassed or flattered. “When I came here… earlier… I asked you why it mattered if the forest lived. You didn't answer me.”

“Hm.” She stopped for a moment. She was far better at not blubbering out in an instant, though perhaps it was the practice of being unable to lie. He did notice, however, that it was slowly becoming easier for him, too; less frantic, more sincere. “I suppose it doesn’t, in the way nothing truly matters. Who dictates what really matters in this world?”

He spoke up automatically; “God?”

“You believe in God?” She examined him. She had asked without judgement. “I wouldn’t have taken you for the type.” He shrugged. “Well, who am I to know what God wants? I care that the forest lives because… it’s better when it does, isn’t it? To see the trees become tall, to feel the fresh air, to hear the birds chirping.”

It was a very simple answer, and yet it stuck to him like a splinter he couldn’t reach, couldn’t entirely break down and examine. It frustrated him.

“If we are speaking of the forest,” she began, “what is your favourite season?”

Why were her questions so pointless? He couldn’t find any possible angle for her to use the information.

He opened his mouth, about to say I don’t have one in a tired repetition, but — he stopped himself. “I don’t know,” he said instead. “I’d never thought about it.”

“Think about it now.”

He shut his eyes. He thought of the biting winter air. He thought of bright green grass fields in summer. He thought of all the leaves turning orange in the autumn. But what came out was; “spring… I like to see the flowers bloom again.”

She smiled. “Spring. That’s lovely.”

He opened them again. He was strangely fixated in that same spot. It was easier than to look at her directly. Something about her intimidated him in a way he was unfamiliar with. It wasn’t the normal fear of being physically outmatched in a fight. “Have you done something to me?”

She blinked. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“No,” he agreed. He realised it was true as he said it, as he took a step towards her, hesitant. “I suppose it isn’t your fault.”

“What isn’t my fault?”

He took another. They stood mere inches away. She was shorter than him, but with the support of the table behind her, the difference was alleviated slightly. “That I—” he bit his lip. When he swallowed, it tasted like vinegar. It sent an unpleasant shock through his body.

“It’s not so nice if you resist it,” she whispered, her lips curling in amusement.

But he didn’t give in. Instead he muttered; “if I tried to kiss you, would you let me?”

There was the faintest flicker of surprise. She leaned forward a little. He could feel her breath over his own lips when she spoke next; “depends.”

He looked down as she talked at her mouth moving, and then staying still. He was fighting to stay still himself. He felt as though he was trembling simply from how fast his heart beat, yet he knew he hadn’t moved, because neither had she, or the table he had one hand over at the moment. “On what?”

“Are you going to run away after you do?”

He remembered himself last time, stumbling from her. He tried to recall why he did it, why he thought this was a bad idea. There had to have been a reason, but he couldn’t quite place it. “No.”

“Then…”

But she let the phrase hanging, licked her lips and stared up at him in expectation.

Truth was, he had never kissed anyone before, not in a real way. He leaned forward slowly, unsure of himself, and shut his eyes because staring at her so close felt awkward. He felt the moment they touched. She placed a hand on his cheek and pressed against him. Her mouth parted, and he took the invitation by licking the seam of her lips. She hummed in appreciation. He dared to go a little farther, and when she responded in kind and the sensation traveled through the tip of his tongue, his body shuddered with the force of it. It was unlike anything else he’d ever felt. It was like drinking water when all he had ever known was thirst. He pushed against her with newfound desperation.

She placed her hands now on his shoulders. He realised that he had pushed her onto the table by how much he was leaning onto her. She had to grab onto him not to completely lie down. 

He didn’t know what to do with his hands — he’d simply used them to keep his weight supported. She pushed against him a little, in what felt like a peacekeeping gesture. He didn’t struggle, but when their lips stopped touching he exhaled out a protesting sound he didn’t know he was capable of making. He wanted more. He didn’t want to stop.

He felt her chest shake as she chuckled. “You’re eager, aren’t you?” It should have embarrassed him. It should have made him feel mocked. And yet all he did was switch over to her neck, passing his lips through there. Slowly he allowed his hands to grab onto her waist. “You’re shaking,” she murmured. “Are you alright?”

He nodded. He felt high. “Yeah,” his voice came out hoarse, low and almost predatory. “Just— I don’t know.” He did know. He tasted bitter again. He was shaking because he was nervous, but even now he wasn’t about to admit it. “Should I stop?”

There was really no reason to ask. She was being a little more accepting than he’d expected. Her palm travelled until it reached the back of his neck, and then she made a fist of his hair and leaned forward. Her lips brushed over his earlobe, and then down, to some spot that followed the muscle that travelled to his shoulder. It caused an intense tingle to go through him — it was the sense of danger, of allowing it, that was causing him to feel dizzy. He had never trusted anyone like this. He had never thought he could.

She nibbled on the same spot, shyly. He gasped and his hand gripped onto her more forcefully now. It caused her to squeal in surprise, and—

And then, something in his mind shifted. His body tensed. Suddenly he was aware of what he was doing, of the kind of danger he was playing with. That familiar nausea reformed in his gut and he stepped back, not as quickly as last time, but still as final. “Hey,” she protested, at first playful. “You said—”

Her words died when she saw his expression. He could feel that the colour had drained from his face. He walked away, slow but purposeful, until his back was against a glass window. What am I doing? What am I doing?

“Sebastian,” there was a question in her tone, but it was a gentle one. “What’s wrong?” He shook his head. “Hey. It’s okay. We can stop.”

God, he felt sick. He felt like he might actually puke. He buried his face in his hands. “I don’t want to hurt you.” It came out without his consent, weak and pathetic.

“What?” She sounded lost. She sounded concerned. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he repeated. “I don’t want to— to force you—”

“Force me?” He wasn’t looking at her, but he could tell by how she said it that she was aghast. “You haven’t forced me to do anything.”

“Not yet.” He let his arms down, clutching to his torso as if it could restrain his own body. His eyes were still shut.

“Hey.” She was closer now, but not so much that he immediately moved away again. “What brought this on?”

He didn’t want to say it, but it was harder to keep a straight head like this. “Valentine,” the words tumbled out so fast they blurred into each other, “my father— he said—”

There was a faint touch on his arm. He stiffened. “Sebastian,” her voice turned a little firmer now. “You can’t do something like that by accident.”

“How do you know?” he spoke defensively, as if he was angry. He wasn’t sure if he was angry or afraid. “Every time I killed it felt like an accident.”

There was a long pause. He finally looked again. She was closer than he’d imagined. She was close enough to hold him. He should have been more afraid, but he was comforted by it. Her eyes were sad and distant. “You know he isn’t good to you, right?” she said. Her words were meek and barely audible.

He wanted to deny it. Instead the serum worked against him. “Yes.” It was one syllable; simple, defeated. The I deserve it part remained unspoken. “I’m sorry. I— I have to go.”

She stepped back. She smiled at him again like she always did. He could read the sadness through it, but it was still kind. “I did say I wouldn’t keep you.”

He only spoke what the serum demanded once he was past the door and she couldn’t hear him; “I wish you would.”

Chapter Text

The relief of not having run into Meliorn was short-lived. Barely had he taken a few steps away when said Seelie cut off his path, glaring at him with even more hatred than usual.

Sebastian stopped, careful to keep his expression blank. He wondered if Meliorn had seen what happened moments ago — there were, after all, a lot of windows.

“You should watch yourself,” said the Seelie with an icy tone, “don’t get too comfortable here.”

Despite his own embarrassment at the situation, he smirked, only because he knew it would bother him. “I think I’m doing quite well without your advice, actually.”

And indeed those eyes narrowed. “You know it won’t last, right?”

Tsk. Already he started walking past him, rolling his eyes visibly. He didn’t even feel like dignifying this with some petty response about how Meliorn was probably just jealous. It wasn’t worth it.

But clearly his silence wasn’t enough to end the conversation. With a louder volume, the Seelie kept going; “do you truly believe a creature as beautiful as her could ever hold affections for something as ugly as you are?” Sebastian stopped, his jaw locking. “You are a fleeting curiosity. Like a visit to one of those freak circuses you humans used to have.”

He’s right, Valentine’s voice whispered in his mind. Seelies are vapid and flimsy. They like unique things, until the novelty wears off.

He hated it. He hated that the words were actually getting to him. They slithered through his armor and pierced the inside of his flesh.

He thought of a million ways in which he could kill Meliorn right there and then. He didn’t do any of them. He kept walking until he was out of the Realm entirely, but the ache in his heart did not diminish. It was absurd to be so hurt over it; he had known this from the start. Seelies are Downworlders. Downworlders are like demons. Demons do not love. And yet he stood there and asked her what it was like, as if she had any more hope of knowing than he did. Stupid. He had been stupid.

By the time he arrived at the Institute it was only a few hours from sunrise. He had no plans for sleeping — his dreams had been unpleasant as of late and he would rather pass on the experience. Instead he made his way to the training area.

Passing through the hallway, he saw the black cat. He stopped to stare at it.

The cat slithered through the corner towards him, eyes wide and friendly. It was faintly purring in greeting. Sebastian sneered at it. “Traitor.” And he walked past it, to the sound of a protesting meow.

It was only a little later that his “training” devolved into something else.

He hadn’t wrapped his hands — he had not bothered. He was striking at one of the dummies in the same routine way he normally would, his mind elsewhere. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep. His imagination became vivid, like it does right before you drift off into a dream. The light in the room seemed to be snuffed out. He could still see, but it didn’t matter anymore; he was encased in shadows like it was a coffin.

He struck with more ferocity now. He thought back to that meeting with Valentine, and everything he said, and the more his hands hit the same soft surface over and over and over the more he wished he had done this then. All concepts of fairness and deserving eroded. The only thing that remained was the hurt underneath, and the desire to externalise it. Why did he have to put up with Valentine’s words, and his punishments, and his demands, when it was him that had made him this way? He had not asked for this. He had never wanted to be a monster. Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t Jace be the one burdened with inhumanity? Why couldn’t he have gotten golden, beautiful angel blood? Why couldn’t he have a mother, and a sister, and fall in love and be treated like a person instead of an expendable resource?

And why — why had Valentine lied to Jace about who he was? What right did he have? To take his suffering and gift wrap it for his brother to collect pity points?

He heard a crack. Sharp pain travelled from his knuckles all the way to his shoulder. He stumbled from the force of it, and it was about then that he noted the sound of a beating heart getting closer. “What the fuck are you doing?”

It was Alec Lightwood. He felt hands on his shoulders and shrugged him off violently. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he snarled, but his legs were failing and the gesture lost all intimidating power. Instead he fell down to his knees, unable to catch his breath. His ears rang and his vision was still a blind haze, blackened at the edges. Twisting wires wrapped around his torso and constricted his chest so badly he feared he was near the point of passing out.

“Sebastian.” Again there was a hand on him. He slapped it away and immediately noted the spray of blood that caused. “I’m only going to heal you, you jackass.”

He didn’t want to let him. What was the point of healing, anyway? And yet he was too dizzy to effectively resist. Alec gripped one of his elbows forcefully and began to draw an iratze over his skin. It did not so much relief as much as it numbed him. He wished the physical pain would come back and distract him from what was happening inside of him.

“Go away,” he exhaled out. He hated the sound of his own voice and the weakness it conveyed. He hated his body for allowing the rune to work, for betraying him now when he needed an escape. “I don’t need your help.”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna work on me, I have experience in this. You look like you’re about to faint.”

“So what?” he hadn’t meant to say this out loud, but it came out regardless. He spat it out at him with all the viciousness he could still muster. “What’s it to you? Why don’t you go take care of your precious Jace, instead?”

He had sounded like a child. Even now he could hear Valentine mocking him, and he was right to. He was pathetic. He hated it. He hated himself.

Alec’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what this is about? What happened at the Dumort?”

Sure, he managed to contain this time. And all the other times before. His life was an endless repetition of the same thing, of watching things he yearned for slip away from him and fall on Jace’s hands without any effort on his part. It was not even a purposeful thing. Jace didn’t know he existed. He didn’t care. He was simply worthy of them while Sebastian wasn’t.

Alec gave out a heavy sigh. Sebastian felt his rage for a few moments be directed to him. His body tensed as if ready for a fight.

But a fight did not come. “You were out of line with what you said.”

Out of line? He couldn’t help but laugh. There was absolutely no real humour on it. “Do you have any idea what I would’ve had to deal with if I’d fucked up like he did?”

Alec stared at him, analysing.

Too far. He had revealed too much. The faint fear of being discovered pulsed inside of him like a distant warning.

“We don’t do things like that here,” said Alec. “Hence why I haven’t kicked your face in after the way you talked to my brother.”

Slowly the rage was dissipating, just like it had before. He wanted to cling to it, but it was like an explosion that came and went. There was nothing left in its wake but him, destroyed. “That’s charming.”

“Look,” Alec hesitated. His mouth was set into a thin line, but there was something softer to his gaze now. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m not very good at this ‘making friends’ thing, Izzy always does it for me and then I just collect my share when she’s done.” What? What the hell was he talking about? “I know I’ve been a little harsh on you. I’m not a very trusting person. So — I’m sorry. You’re one of us now, and I should be treating you like it.”

He stared at him, shocked. “I’m not,” he mumbled out, though he knew he shouldn’t be saying this out loud. “I’m not one of you.”

“Of course you are,” Alec scoffed. “You saved my sister. You and Clary clearly are becoming good friends, as much as Jace might have disagreements about that. You’ve helped us in everything we’ve done.” And like it was nothing, Alec Lightwood extended a hand to him. “Truce?”

He dropped his gaze to it. His mind felt like it was buffering.

This was a good thing. It made his mission easier to complete, so why did he feel such dread crawling up him?

He took the hand with his heart in his mouth. “Truce.”

Chapter Text

The day they were finally recalled to Idris, it only filled him with dread.

It should have been good news. Valentine always expected the Lightwoods to go, to testify at Stearkwheather’s trial. He was meant to tag along — but the order had not simply asked for the Lightwoods. ‘All active Shadowhunters,’ it had said. It meant the trial was only a pretext; the true reason was that his father had made enough noise for the Clave to consider him a problem worth meeting for.

“You’re not going,” said Jace. “Not if I have to tie you up and sit on you until this is all over.”

He was talking to Clary. She had her arms crossed. They were arguing in hushed voices after hearing the news. Alec and Isabelle looked at each other uneasily, while Sebastian watched them without pretence. Once more he found himself in the position of wondering about Jace’s motivations.

“I have to go,” Clary hissed out. “I’m not stupid. I know this is about Valentine. I have to go. And you’re all going, so how come you’re acting as if the order doesn’t include me?”

Jace had at least some decency to look embarrassed. “You aren’t an active Shadowhunter. You’ve never answered to the Clave. You’re not in their records.”

“She’s definitely in their records,” said Alec. “She’s Valentine’s daughter.” Jace shot him an icy glare, but Alec was unbothered. “As a matter of fact, I overheard the Clave wants to meet Clary. Mother is already going to ask her if she’s willing to do it, so she can request for her to come with us.”

Clary didn’t waste a second; “I’m willing.”

Jace’s face had lost three shades of colour. “You don’t know what you’re agreeing to.”

So this was about the Clave. His brain was filled with ideas about how incompetent the Clave was, but he never expected to hear such distaste from the person who had turned down his father’s invitation to join him.

He didn’t like not having his own opinion. He had never met them.

“It’s not up to you, Jace,” Alec moved as if to leave. “I’m going to tell mom.”

He expected to see Jace go after him, or argue, but he stayed glacially silent. Isabelle followed her brother, possibly to avoid the tension, and it wasn’t long after that Maryse asked to see Clary. It left him and Jace alone in the hallway.

He hadn’t stopped watching him, but it took an entire minute before Jace actually glanced his way. It wasn’t a casual look; he stepped up in front of Sebastian with sudden determination. “You,” he said. “You could do it.”

Before he could ask ‘ do what?’ Jace was already dragging him away. “Hey,” he protested. “What the fuck are you doing?” They went all the way into the elevator that led outside, though they did not turn it on to move downwards. Instead Sebastian glared at him as Jace shut the door. It wasn’t total privacy, given one could still see inside through the metal diamond shapes, but it certainly obscured the view. It was like being in a confessional.

Silence followed. For all the fuss he had made, Jace’s lips were now sealed in a thin line.

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Spit it out already, will you?”

A heavy sigh broke the seal. “Look, I know you don’t like me, for whatever ill-conceived reason, but I’m not asking this for my sake. This is for Clary.”

“As a matter of fact you haven’t asked me anything.”

Jace’s left eye twitched. “You’re impossible.” He didn’t answer. “Fine. Convince her. Convince her to stay here.”

He let a beat go past them, as he considered this. If Clary wasn’t in Idris she would be out of danger. He knew for a fact Valentine planned to kill everyone in Alicante, lest they surrendered. For all intents and purposes, they were in agreement.

But he was unsatisfied without knowing Jace’s reasons. “Why should I?”

Jace’s eyes narrowed. “Because it isn’t safe. Are you stupid?”

There’s more to it, he thought. You either know something you shouldn’t, or something I don’t. “She’s a Shadowhunter. Nothing we do is safe.”

“This is different.”

Still, no elaboration.

Sebastian scoffed. “You’re asking for my help but you don’t trust me enough to give me the details?” A very ironic thing to be offended by, but Jace didn’t have to know that. “I couldn’t convince her anyway, you saw how determined she was in going. What makes you think I can do anything?”

Jace shook his head, laughing with a slight mocking tone he didn’t appreciate. “You are stupid. Of course you could convince her. She adores you, man. As much as I hate that, and as much as I would rip off your head if you did anything to take advantage of it, it’s the truth. I’ve seen how she acts with Simon and how she acted when she first met us. It took months before Izzy, let alone Alec, and her were friendly beyond ‘good mornings.’ The way she acts around you is the way she acts with him.”

He felt something tight settle in his throat. He crossed his arms in some attempt to shield himself from what Jace was saying. She’ll never love you echoed inside the elevator in incessant whispers, spiraling down into the empty space below.

Jace was lying. He had to be. He was only trying to manipulate him.

But… if Jace was lying, then he wouldn’t have asked for his help.

“Tell me why,” he finally said, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “Or no deal.”

Jace looked like he had just swallowed an entire bottle of vinegar. He exhaled, dropping his shoulders with defeat. “At the Dumort,” he started, carefully and with every word dripping reluctance, “she did something impossible.”

Sebastian recalled the collapse, and himself accusing Jace of lying. “Valentine didn’t blow it up,” he said, certain. He knew his father had no reason to do such a thing, nor would he be privy to.

“No,” Jace agreed. “He didn’t.”

A moment of silence.

“How?” Sebastian pressed him. “How did she make the collapse happen?”

And he hated that he felt a little hopeful, even if such a feeling was useless.

Was Clary like him? Was she different?

“She drew a rune,” said Jace. “She drew a rune that isn’t in the Gray Book.”

He opened his mouth to say that's impossible, before realising that was exactly right. Instead he muttered in understanding; “you don't want the Clave to know.”

“You know how they are,” Jace's voice took a new edge of anxiety. Sebastian didn't really know how they were, but he listened nonetheless. “They'll want to use it. They'll put her on the front lines against his army. She isn't trained for it, she's not even a full adult. She'll die. You don't want that, either, right? You care for her. I can see it. You're a fucking asshole but you care about Clary.”

He trained his eyes on the wall behind Jace. For once nothing in his mind felt the need to say I can't care about her. I don't have any real feelings. “No,” he admitted. “I don't want that.”

“Then convince her.”

There was something deeply ironic about this situation; about his father, insisting with fervour that he could never be the one to unite them with Clary; and Jace, begging for him to sway her opinions with the utmost certainty that he could.

He was leaning towards the former. “I can't. What on Raziel's name do you expect me to say to her?”

Jace passed a hand through his face in stress, but when he lowered it he had a hopeful look. “Lie to her. Tell her we’re portalling hours after we actually are. She’ll believe you. She won’t believe me.”

“They’ll be expecting her. They won’t leave without her.”

But Jace was already shaking his head, a faint smile appearing on his face. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of that.”

He wasn’t going to Idris.

Or perhaps he was. He wasn’t sure. He had begun pondering it that same night; the night when everyone else was supposed to meet with Magnus Bane at the Institute. He hadn’t told anyone, but he guessed if Jace was somehow going to make them leave without Clary, they would leave without him the same.

Presently, he was lying on top of Simon’s bed, though the vampire was nowhere to be seen. Clary had asked if she could borrow his winter coat. She hadn’t finished packing — as far as she knew, they were not leaving until the next morning.

Sebastian was watching her try it on. She was spinning a little, to see all the angles in the tiny mirror that she had brought with her. Vampires had no need for those, after all.

“What do you think?” she asked. “Is Idris much colder than here?”

He let his eyes examine her, then trace up towards the ceiling. There was this voice in the back of his mind that repeatedly told him he had to stay away from her, but after he had lied upon Jace’s request —something he never imagined he’d do—, more conversation had snuck up on him, and now here he was, like nothing was wrong.

“Sebastian?”

He cleared his throat. “I think it’s fine. It’s not that much different.”

She began taking it off. “Okay, okay… I don’t know what else to pack. I’ve never packed for such a big trip.”

He didn’t answer. All he was thinking were those words, over and over again, like a mantra. I’m not going to Idris. Not going to Idris meant betraying his father. It meant he wouldn’t be there to lower the wards. It meant he wouldn’t cause a distraction to facilitate him taking the Mortal Sword.

It meant he could stay with Clary. She wouldn’t be in danger anymore. Perhaps he could convince her to leave, go anywhere else. Jace seemed to think he could.

It was a stupid fantasy. He was painfully aware that she would not agree, that she might very well never speak to him again if she realised she hadn’t made it to Alicante because of him. He was even more conscious of the fact his presence was like a thorn in her life. Valentine was right. He was bound to cause her harm. He didn’t want to.

And yet here he was, selfishly.

“What are you thinking about?”

Her tone was cheerful, as she leaned over him. For a moment he was too entranced to move away. She still looked at him the same way; with warmth in her gaze.

Then that sense of alarm crept in, and he sat up and away from her. “Nothing.”

“Sebastian.” Her tone shifted. It was a little scolding, but in the same breath, it was gentler. “Come on, now. It’s been over a week. Are you really never going to tell me what’s wrong?”

He let out a laugh that wasn’t humoured. It sounded pathetic even to him, so drenched in sadness. He did want to tell her, despite knowing it wouldn’t lead to anything good. He wanted to open his own chest and show her that void and say me, I’m wrong. Can’t you fix me? Draw some angelic rune to make me human?

He couldn’t think of alternative words. Clary reached out to touch his shoulder and he flinched away from it, his body going rigid, sudden like a door closing. What was he doing, entertaining these ideas? He had to leave. He shouldn’t listen to his worst impulses, lest he wanted to be indistinguishable from an actual demon.

“You’re angry at me,” Clary whispered. “Aren’t you?”

‘Angry.’ He laughed again, stifling the actual pained sound that would have come out. “I’m not angry.”

“Then why are you—?” she hesitated. “You’re doing the same thing Jace did, when we just found out. Treating me like I’ve got the plague.”

He shook his head. He had to go, now. They were only an hour away from when they were supposed to leave. He couldn’t stay. What was he thinking; trying to doom Clary like that? “I have to go. I have some things to pack, too.”

She sighed in dejection. “Alright.”

It wasn’t long after Sebastian left that Clary decided to head back to the Institute, too. She had meant to wait for Simon to show up, but she had grown impatient. She had a strange sense of urgency, as if something bad was bound to happen at any moment.

Pretty soon she learned it had already. She was walking up the sidewalk towards the church when she tripped on something. She looked down to see a body. After the second of shock passed, she realised it was a Forsaken. It had the same Nephilim markings on reddened, bloated skin. She began running the rest of the way, and as she did she saw Magnus Bane standing in front of the building, with Sebastian right beside him.

“What happened?” she shouted. They both turned to her. Sebastian’s face was unreadable. He looked like he was in a strange limbo between two fundamentally opposing emotions. 

Then she smelled it — there was something sulfuric in the air. Had there been a fire?

“It wasn’t a fire,” said Magnus. She stared at him, bewildered, and he clarified; “I know what you’re thinking. The smell is hellmist. It’s a demonic type of smoke, it weakens certain magics.”

“Demonic mist? So there was—”

“An attack on the Institute, yes. You just missed it. Bunch of Forsaken, and when I say bunch I mean a lot of them.”

Clary felt herself sway. “Jace,” she exhaled. “The Lightwoods—”

“They’re fine. Well, mostly. The hellsmoke really messed with us, so I had to send them through the Portal to Idris. Fortunately those things weren’t interested in me once I did. Alexander was ready to pull me through, but I was not taking my chances with the Clave.”

“The Portal,” she repeated, and as she did she understood why Sebastian looked the way he did. “You closed it.”

“Yes,” Magnus spoke slowly and carefully. He had clearly just had this conversation a second ago. “I had to.”

“But,” she found herself arguing, though she suspected the answer to her question already. “You can open another one, right? You can send me after them and I can join them there.”

Magnus grimaced, but it was Sebastian who spoke up; “it’s not that simple. You can’t Portal into Alicante without permission.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, even though she did.

“It’s their Holy City, biscuit,” Magnus waved a hand in mock importance. “It’s like their Vatican. They don’t allow Downworlders at all, with very few exceptions. To go through the wards, they have to be expecting you on the other side.”

She shook her head. She knew, rationally, that it wasn’t Magnus’ fault, and there wasn’t anything any of them could do, but yet still she was trembling with anger. She could feel her face growing hot, and she started to walk off aimlessly, if only to avoid taking it out on them.

“Clary,” Sebastian called with a slight tone of worry.

“I need a moment,” she said. She stumbled down the steps. It was very late, so there were no cars around. She went to the side of the cathedral, and found herself following the stone path where it forked, making her way toward the small garden on the Institute's east side. There was still mist in the air, and the still lingering scent of sulfur that she associated with killing demons. These hadn’t been demons; they had been people, innocent people that her father had turned against them.

She had to stop him. There had to be a way—

She looked around, as if the answer was about to present itself to her. And it did; there, against the wall of the cathedral, were the unmistakable marks of rune-magic, glowing a fading blue against the stone. They formed an outline.... The Portal.

Runes. All a Portal was… was runes. I can draw them, she thought, I can make my own door. She stepped closer to the wall, her hand reaching into her pocket for her stele. She pressed the tip against the stone. She imagined the feeling of opening the window of a car and feeling the wind whizz by, carrying you into new places. She imagined the feeling and her hand moved just like it did when she painted.

When she stepped back to look at her work, she saw the single rune glowing, setting into the wall and then expanding out until it took a square shape. A massive doorway, golden instead of blue, appeared in front of her, bright like it had been cut into the cathedral by a laser. She was so excited by her accomplishment she mindlessly reached for it.

Then she recoiled. To use a Portal you had to visualize where you wanted to go. But she had never been to Idris. She could imagine what it might look like, but imagination wasn't enough. If only... She took a sharp breath. 

She had seen Idris. She'd seen it in a dream, and she knew that it had been a true dream. After all, when she had shown her painting to Jace he had said you painted Alicante. You painted home.  

“Clary?” She was vaguely aware of Sebastian’s voice, far off in the distance. It quickly turned a little frantic. “Clary, what are you doing?”

She reached for the Portal.

“Clary! STOP!” He was racing her way now. She saw him as her fingers were inches away from the doorway. She hadn’t even gotten her suitcase with her. “The wards are dangerous!”

But what did wards matter, when she could create reality just by drawing it?

Behind Sebastian, she saw Magnus, who started to run after her, too.

She touched the Portal just as Sebastian grabbed her wrist, but he was too late. Instead of pulling her away, it only served to suck him in right along with her.

Chapter Text

“Alec, calm down, will you?”

Jace watched his parabatai pacing back and forth, though his mind was somewhere else. Isabelle was the one still pointlessly attempting to ease his nerves. “I can’t believe I left him behind. I have to go back.”

“You can’t go back, don’t be stupid—”

The door opened, instantly shutting them all up. It was Maryse, followed closely by a woman with dull, almost colourless blonde hair and stern gray eyes. Jace recognised her from when they had just arrived in Alicante, when he had stepped out the Portal carrying Simon’s still bleeding body; it was the Clave’s Inquisitor, Imogen Herondale. She was now surveying the room quietly, her eyes resting for a moment on Jace, and then behind him, where they had placed Simon’s unconscious body. “So,” she said, “this is the vampire, and this is Valentine’s son.”

Jace forced out a tight smile. He still hated being referred to like that. It wasn’t like they said it simply because of family ties — it was a statement of what he was. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Inquisitor,” Maryse was quick to intervene, sensing, most likely, that Jace was not going to be very polite, “if you were to put him under the Mortal Sword, I am sure he would ease your worries.”

“Mom,” Izzy gasped in offence, though the Inquisitor paid her no mind.

“I shall,” she said, “but unfortunately we are in the middle of a trial. It will take some time to arrange this. In the meantime they will both be held at the Gard.”

“Held?” Alec was the one to speak up this time. “You mean you’ll imprison them.”

The Inquisitor turned to him, her lip curling in disdain, as if she was shocked Alec had dared to address her at all. “We can hardly have rogue Downworlders in the City of Glass.”

“Ah yes,” Jace snapped. “Rogue Downworlders. He’s so dangerous right now, lying unconscious on top of the guest sofa.”

Her eyes narrowed. The glare that she gave him was colder than even before. Jace numbly realised that this had nothing to do with Simon; she had just been looking for an excuse to arrest ‘Valentine’s son.’ Still he wished he had never sought out Simon for this. If he hadn’t tried to convince him to lie to the others about Clary wanting to stay in New York, he wouldn’t have been present for the attack, and none of this would’ve happened. “You have a big mouth, don’t you, Jonathan? Just like your father.”

He felt rage attempt to push itself up his chest. He wanted to scream. Instead he snarled; “my name is Jace.”

“I hope,” she went on, ignoring him, “that you won’t resist. Otherwise I’ll have to bring you in by force.”

“This is ridiculous,” Alec stepped in front of him. Jace felt his words die in shock while watching him. Alec was a rule follower, and yet there he was, raising his voice to the Clave itself. “He had no choice but to bring Simon. If he hadn’t, he would have died.”

“So you say,” she tilted her head to examine the vampire a little more closely. “And if that’s true, we will be all too happy to send him back where he belongs. In the meantime, he’s to be watched. And you,” she stepped closer to Jace, lowering her volume so as to talk to him directly, “you best not give me a reason to believe you did this as part of Valentine’s plans. The penalty for treason is high indeed, young man.”

Jace, all throughout, hadn’t let the smile leave his expression. He widened it now with hatred. “Of course not, Inquisitor. I am but a loyal Nephilim to the Clave.”

Normally, stepping through a Portal was like any other door, where your steps would eventually touch the ground on the other side.

But that wasn’t what happened when he followed Clary. The instant they were sucked in, his body was flung through space like a ragdoll. Air hit his face harshly. His stomach dropped with the realisation that he was in freefall. All he had to hang on was Clary’s wrist.

He heard her scream. He couldn’t tell where they were, or how long it would be before they hit the ground. He acted on pure instinct, pulling at her with all the force he could muster, and then holding on to her, shielding her in the only way he could.

His back hit something. He knew it hadn’t been solid ground only because he wasn’t dead, but sharp pain irradiated from it, taking all the oxygen out of his lungs. It quickly became apparent that was a death sentence in itself; they had fallen into water. He could not inhale.

His vision began to go black. He was too weak to move his limbs at all. I’m going to die, he thought, but for some reason this caused him no panic. All he could worry about was whether or not Clary was okay.

He felt a tug around his arms, but his awareness was fading off quicker with every second that passed. It was only the shock of breaking the surface that snapped him awake once more. He saw the night sky, and a landscape framed by familiar mountains. He tried to gasp air in, but instead his chest convulsed, forcing him to cough out the water. He could taste it. It wasn’t salty like the ocean’s would have been. Some of it had gone down his throat in his attempt to breathe.

“Sebastian,” Clary called in distress. She was tilting his head sideways so he wouldn’t choke down on it, all while her other hand frankly searched her pockets. “I can’t find my stele. I must have dropped it when we fell.”

She was drenched, too, and her throat was hoarse. She had coughed just the same as he had. From his position now, he could see where they were, and recognised the sight immediately. It was Lake Lynn.

“Oh,” he exhaled with difficulty. Everything was still spinning. “Fuck. Did you swallow it, too?”

“What?” she coughed again. “The water? I’m not sure. I think so.”

“Fuck,” he repeated. “Where’s mine? Where’s my stele?” But as he reached for his side, he did not find it. He tried to sit up, thinking perhaps it was somewhere closeby, but that same sharp pain echoed somewhere in the middle of his back. He couldn’t bite back the groan it caused. 

“Sebastian,” Clary’s eyes filled with tears. “What’s wrong? Where are you hurt?”

He shook his head, gritting his teeth. “I’m fine,” he said, but he knew as he said it that it was a lie. He knew what a broken bone felt like, and this was not so different. “Just help me get up.”

“You shouldn’t get up. You’re hurt. I’ll go get help.”

“Clary,” he tried to school his tone into something gentle. “We’re at Lake Lynn. We’re miles away from Alicante. There’s nobody to ask for help.”

“But,” she stammered. “I thought it had worked.”

“The wards bounced you off. I told you it isn’t possible to Portal in without permission.”

He could see her cheeks beginning to grow red. Despite the position he was in, he couldn’t help but feel bad for the way he’d phrased it. “Oh,” she exhaled. “I thought it was illegal but, you know… doable.”

He laughed, and immediately regretted it when his back screamed. “You thought—” he struggled through his sentences, desperately trying to play down the injury, “you thought it was just illegal? What was your plan once you went through?”

“I don’t know,” she confessed, and chuckled the same as he had. She looked like she might cry instead at any second. “I’m sorry. You weren’t meant to risk it, too. I didn’t mean for you to—” she hesitated. “Well, I suppose if you hadn’t, I would have died. I wouldn’t have been able to swim up if I’d taken the fall.”

The implication of her words was clear. He shut his eyes. How did he manage to keep having these types of discussions? “I didn’t know what would happen. It isn’t as if I meant to play hero.”

“You did,” she argued. “You knew about the wards, and you went in to save me. Then you took the fall for me. You saved my life.”

God, he was stupid. Somehow Clary idolising him was worse than outright rejection. It meant she was in danger. It meant—

He looked away from her. He hated the effect her words were having on him. It wasn’t often that he felt any pride in his actions. This was never going to end up well. “Whatever,” he spat, like a moody teenager that had absolutely nothing else to defend himself with. With newfound strength he forced himself to sit up, muffling a scream with a grimace the entire time.

“Stop—” she protested, but she was obviously too scared to push him off, fearing she would injure him further. “You can’t walk like this. We don’t even know if you broke something.”

Oh, I broke something alright. “We can’t very well sit here doing nothing. We have to get to Alicante. We drank the water. It’s not safe for Nephilim to drink. It can drive you mad.”

“But you said it was miles away.”

“Yes,” he made fists of the dirt at both of his sides. His vision had blurred and it was only now refocusing. “So we best get to walking.”

Chapter Text

Clary was running. The quick thrumming of her heart staved off any questions about how she had gotten here. The New York streets whizzed by in a flash. She ran past cars stuck in traffic, and people taking their dogs on a walk. She had never run like this before. When she was a kid, she liked those PE classes when the teachers asked them to get to the other end of the field as fast as possible. She was always impressed by how quick she could be.

This was a different kind of running. The wind hitting her face wasn’t inspiring childlike wonder. Her body pumped with adrenaline, keeping her from noticing how bad her legs ached, how her lungs burned in an effort to inhale enough oxygen to maintain her pace. She had never felt this level of urgency before. The worst scares in her life had been scraped knees and choking on an olive when she was five.

She stopped when she got to the block of her house. She saw that the windows were lit. Perhaps everything was fine after all, and her mom had just thought she’d heard something. Her words still rang in her ears, panicked in a way Jocelyn never was. No! she had shrieked, don’t come home, Clary! Promise me you won’t come home! Find Luke, tell him— tell him that he’s found me—

She went upstairs to her apartment skipping every other step. Just getting near the door she could tell something was wrong. It was ajar; hanging a little off the hinges like it had been kicked, or pushed. She went inside with her heart in her mouth. All the lights were on, even the lamps and the TV were blasting at full brightness, except for the overhead lightbulb that had burned out. She saw her mother’s pink handbag on top of the kitchen counter, where she always left them.

She quickly went around it to reach one of the drawers, and as she did she covered her mouth to contain a squeal of panic. All of them were scattered out into the floor, some of them turned upside down, with cutlery spilling out from them. Stiff with fear, she leaned down and grabbed the butcher’s knife; the biggest one they had. It felt inadequate in her hand; she had never tried to use an object to hurt anybody else, let alone a possible robber.

But what kind of robber turns the kitchen drawers upside down, yet leaves the TV alone?

She kept searching in a blind haze. The cushions in the living room had been cut open. The bookshelves were tipped over, their contents lying on the ground. To her, it looked like some police raid in a movie, when they were searching for cocaine. Worst of all were her mother’s paintings, ripped open — completely destroyed.

She was unable to keep down a sob. “Mom?” she finally called. She had tried to keep quiet, in case somebody was still inside, but it was impossible to do that now. “Mommy?! Where are you?”

There was a noise. Something fell like it had been knocked over. It came from her mother’s room. She raced that way, hopeful, but when she reached the entrance there was nobody — then she heard the slithering sound.

She looked down.

It was a creature unlike anything she’d ever seen. It looked like an insect, with several, long pairs of legs holding up its slimy, curved back. Behind it was a giant stinger, like a scorpion. She hadn’t even seen an actual scorpion since they’d gone on a trip to New Mexico. She screamed in terror just as its legs contracted and it launched itself towards her. She was able to turn in time, avoiding the brunt of its tackle. Instead it slammed against the kitchen counter, but in doing so it interposed itself with the entrance door.

She was trapped, she realised. Sobbing she lifted the knife in front of her, moving backwards until her back hit the curtains. The thing was snarling, but amidst its strange noises she thought she understood that it was laughing. “You’re all alone, now,” it said, “mommy didn’t teach you how to defend yourself, did she? Now you’re easy pickings for me.”

“Stay back,” she warned, but her voice was shaking and she didn’t feel any confidence when she said it. In an attempt to be convincing, she swung the knife in an arch in front of herself.

“Don’t kid yourself, little girl,” it mocked her. “You’re not a real Shadowhunter. You could never beat me, let alone Valentine.”

Shadowhunter. The word jogged her memory. That was right — she was a Shadowhunter, and so was her mother. She had kept it a secret. She had stolen Clary’s memories of the Shadow World. And now, Valentine was winning, and her mother was far away in Idris.

This had happened before. This was the night her mother was attacked. Jace showed up and saved her from the ravener. He took her into his arms and carried her to the Institute.

It was going to be okay. Jace was going to show up any second.

The demon laughed. “He’s not coming,” it said. “Nobody is coming to save you.”

Her mind stuttered in confusion. Then, suddenly, the ravener leaped forward. She screamed and scrambled away and to the side. The curtain fell heavily on the demon, who was now crawling up and on top of her, clicking its teeth together. I’m going to die, Clary thought. She was going to die to a stupid ravener, because she had no stele, or seraph blade. Because she wasn’t trained. Because she wasn’t a real Shadowhunter. All she had done so far were mistakes; she had endangered her friends when she collapsed that tunnel, had put Jace at risk multiple times when they’d just met. She always acted on impulses she didn’t really understand. She went forward blindly and incompetently. She wasn’t cut out for this.

Clary.

She heard a voice, far off in the distance. It was like a thought springing into her mind. It was familiar, as if her mother herself was speaking to her — but it wasn’t her mother. It was a masculine voice. For a moment she thought Jace was finally here, but it wasn’t him either.

Clary. Fight it. 

She clung to it with desperation. Her vision was blurring, but somehow the presence of this other person, whoever he was, had imbued her with strength. The demon was wrong. She wasn’t alone. He was with her.

But for once, this didn’t bring that old, familiar kind of relief. She didn’t relax thinking her friend would come and save her. Instead, the force pulsing inside of her wanted to rise up, to be strong enough to protect him, and Jace, and her mother. 

She jammed the knife on its side. The demon hardly look bothered, but it was enough of a distraction to slide from underneath it. She scrambled to her feet, still clutching the knife, thinking in desperation where her mother could have left her seraph blade, or her stele. Somewhere Clary wouldn’t see it, wouldn’t find it—

The box.

She ran into her room, and slammed her foot down on that loose floorboard. She took out the box — her brother’s box — Jace’s box, and sure enough, inside it was a stele.

It wasn’t a blade, but it was better than nothing. After all, a seraph blade was simply a blade that was Marked, right? Jace’s explanation slid into her brain — something about adamas being a special metal. She didn’t have adamas, but she didn’t need a blade that would work for long. She pressed the tip of the stele on the butcher’s knife, and drew.

It lit up in her hand. It was hot. She felt, instinctively, that it was about to explode. She could hear the ravener coming her way, and so she ran towards the door and stabbed forward, into its belly.

There was a bright light.

“Clary?”

It was that same familiar voice. She blinked, and Sebastian’s face came into focus. He was clutching her against a tree, his breathing uneven, his face dripping with sweat. She recalled where she was in a sudden influx of memory. When had the vision taken hold of her? How long was she out?

She parted her lips to speak, and coughed instead. Something black poured down her throat into her clothing. She retched and gagged on it, but, just like real vomiting, once she was done she felt better for it.

“Clary,” he repeated. “You’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” she confirmed. Her throat was hoarse and raspy. “What happened?”

“You passed out. The water— I was afraid this would happen.”

She pushed herself up onto her feet. Sebastian was pale, and swaying backwards, but she caught him before he could. She helped him get up. “You look worse off,” she muttered.

“Gee, thanks.”

“No,” she shook her head. “I mean it. Is it happening to you, too? Are you going to pass out?”

“I don’t know,” he shut his eyes for a moment. He did look like he was about to. “I keep seeing— things. Out of the corner of my vision, but when I turn—”

“That’s how it started,” she suddenly remembered. “But it’s over now. I feel better. Maybe it’s like a fever, and you have to sweat it out.”

“Maybe.” His voice was weaker now. She slid underneath him, and placed his arms around her shoulders. “Clary,” he protested. “I’m too heavy for you to carry me.”

“I’m a Shadowhunter,” she said. She grit her teeth and grabbed onto him from below his knees. Immediately her body strained, but she fought it. This entire situation was her fault, and she had to make it right. Pain was just pain. She was trained now, and she wasn’t alone. He gave her strength. “I can do it.”

He exhaled out something, but it was too incoherent to make out the words. He had passed out.

Clary was sure she had walked at least three hours. She remembered now that they had left Lake Lynn when it was still dark. The sun had risen when she woke up. She wasn’t sure what the exact time difference was between New York and Alicante, but she guessed some five to seven hours. That meant they’d been walking for around six.

Her body did resent it. She could barely keep moving. Sebastian hadn’t woken up, and she wondered how long she had been out — she hadn’t had a chance to ask. Perhaps he had done this, too, and it was even longer. Looking at the sky she could guess very little. It was winter, so the sun never came directly above to tell her when it was midday.

He stirred every so often, mumbling things that she couldn’t hear. She had tried to speak to him the way he had done for her, but it was hard when she was trying to keep moving. He still had no colour in his cheeks, and his hair stuck to his forehead. He was warm to the touch, and this was all without taking into account his previous injury. Would it make it harder to fight the lake’s influence?

She didn’t want to dwell on it. He’d told her the City of Glass was across the hills, and she was on them already, coming down on one. She could tell because the ground had become a little more uneven. They had to be more than halfway through.

Some half an hour later, she saw the outline of a house. Her heart leaped with joy, and she forced her jittery legs to hurry up towards it. It was a lone building, though she saw that there were three seraph blades embedded into the ground, forming an incomplete square where, inside, the house resided. A Malachi Configuration, she thought. That could mean—

She practically ran forward, struggling not to trip. Perhaps the vision had been more than just that. Here she was, possibly running into her mother’s house once more.

She knocked loudly on the door. Barely three seconds later, she was considering trying to kick it down, but there was no need. It opened, and standing there, in his familiar flannel shirt, was Luke.

Her eyes filled with tears in relief. Luke’s face contorted in utter confusion. “Clary?” he managed. “What are you doing here? What happened?”

She shook her head, clutching still onto Sebastian for dear life. “Mom— where’s mom? I need a stele.”

“She’s not here.” Luke reached out, carefully taking the unconscious boy off her and carrying him easily inside. “She was called into the Gard earlier, something to do with Hodge’s trial. Here.” He motioned with his head to the small living room table. Clary leaned down to pick up the stele, silently thanking the Heavens that her mom had left it behind. She ran up to Sebastian, who was still limp in Luke’s arms, and drew an iratze on his bicep.

He stirred. A pained moan left his lips, but that was it. She hadn’t been in many situations where one iratze was not enough, and she looked at Luke with a questioning look. “Should I draw more?”

His gaze was gentle. “Tell me what happened.” She gave him a quick summary of it — the attack, the Portal, Lake Lynn. Luke’s face distorted more and more as she spoke. “Clary,” he said disapprovingly. “You two could have died. What were you thinking?”

“I know,” her lip wobbled, and Luke’s anger evaporated once he noticed. “I have to help him. What should I do?”

“He needs more than just runes, though they will help. I’m not exactly sure how to treat poisoning from the Lake. A warlock like Magnus would be able to help, or perhaps a Silent Brother.”

Her legs gave. She fell backwards into the couch in defeat. “Then— if we bring him to the city—?”

Luke grimaced. “It’s still some two hours away by foot. I’m not permitted to live in Alicante, so the Clave was gracious enough to pick somewhere in the outskirts.”

“Don’t you have a car here?”

“No,” he scoffed, in between humoured and bitter. “There are no cars in Idris. Most technology doesn’t work near the wards. They always come to pick her up by horse.”

“But,” Clary felt her New Yorker nature creep up on her. “What about groceries, and everything else?”

Luke snorted. “I hunt in the woods. Jocelyn has a small greenhouse in the back of the house. We make do.”

Well, she thought, this sucks. She was glad that she had declined her mother’s offer to go live with her in Idris. As much as she had missed her, this certainly did not feel like home.

Luke was laying Sebastian gently on one of the couches. Clary stared at him, feeling helpless, when suddenly she remembered something Jace had said. We don’t use phones in Alicante, only fire messages. Right, she had known that about the wards, how it made technology not work, she’d just forgotten. She clutched her stele and got up. “Do you have any paper? And a pen?”

Chapter Text

“...and then, just as Kakashi strikes, Haku, the one with the long hair that I told you about, he steps in front and saves him.”

Isabelle nodded along, but she was barely paying attention to what she was hearing. Max must have been rambling on and on for the past fifteen minutes, and at some point when the bad guy was held down by a bunch of summoned dogs, she had been unable to keep up.

“Saves who?” she asked, just to keep a semblance of the conversation going.

Max pushed up his glasses, looking irritated. “Zabuza. The bad guy.”

“Right.”

And then those little eyes narrowed. “You’re not listening to me,” he said, with as much certainty as an eight year old could muster. “Are you?”

She sighed, defeated. “I’m sorry, Max, there’s just a lot going on.”

“Well, what’s going on?”

She shook her head. She couldn’t very well tell him that his big brother had just been imprisoned at the Gard.

But she didn’t have to. Just then, the door opened, and Alec walked in. Isabelle turned to him with hopeful eyes, and in response Alec motioned his head to Max. “Come on, kid, Izzy and I gotta talk.”

Max’s face scrunched up into a scowl. He grabbed his book close to his chest, from where he had been showing Isabelle all the pictures, and jumped up from the couch. “Fine,” he snapped, before walking off.

“Well?” Isabelle turned to Alec as soon as he was gone. “Did you see them?”

“Yeah. Jace is fine, you know how he is. Simon said he was a little hungry. He did lose a lot of blood. I’m going to try to sneak him something after dinner.”

She found herself smiling, trying to lift the mood; “you didn’t just offer him to bite you on the spot?”

Alec rolled his eyes at her. “Yeah, and risk getting caught? The Inquisitor wouldn’t have let me visit them again.”

She nodded. Dread was pooling at the pit of her stomach. What were they going to do now? She wished Clary was here. Clary always knew what to do.

And then, as if she’d summoned her, a piece of paper materialised in front of her. Isabelle blinked in surprise and went to grab it. “Who’s it from?” Alec asked, already trying to read from over her shoulder.

Isabelle recognised Clary’s handwriting. Izzy, it started, Sebastian and I are in Idris. We’re at my mom’s house. We fell into Lake Lynn and drank the water. I got better, but he didn’t. We need a healer. Can you help us? —Clary. 

“How in the Angel’s name—?” she heard Alec behind her. “How did they even get here?”

“She does sort of glaze over that in the message,” Isabelle, once more, tried for humour. “What should we do? I doubt the Inquisitor will just happily send them a Silent Brother, not after all this.”

Alec gave out a heavy sigh. He looked a mix of deeply unhappy and, strangely, excited. “I do know someone who could help,” he said.

The dots slowly connected in her mind. “Magnus? How would we get him here? You saw the attitude they’ve got towards Downworlders getting into the city.”

“So we don’t tell them.”

“But we need their permission for—”

“We don’t,” he countered. “We just need to open the Portal on this side.”

Isabelle stared up at him, bewildered by this sudden rebellious nature that had taken over her usually stoic brother. “I will admit… I think Magnus has been a bad influence on you.” She grinned. “I like it.”

Sneaking into the Gard was suspiciously easy. The hard part, Isabelle guessed, was going to be getting Magnus out without being noticed. They were at the Portal now. Most everyone was deeper in the building, where Hodge was. She had even seen Clary’s mom walk in a little while earlier.

“Do you even know how to do this?” she asked Alec from the door. She was in charge of making sure no one walked in.

Alec didn’t answer her. He was kneeling down in front of the contraption. Isabelle herself had never worked a Portal before — it was something their parents always did for them. She wished she had asked.

Then there was a thrumming sound. Runes came to life all around the edges, shining brightly and then dimming only a little. Alec took out the fire message he had prepared, and then drew with his stele over it to send it.

Isabelle looked back outside. There was a Nephilim turning on a nearby hallway, but he didn’t seem to be heading their way. She hadn’t been this nervous in a long time.

The sound died down. When she turned around, she saw that Magnus had stepped out from the Portal, and was dusting himself off. “My… So this is the City of Glass.”

Isabelle opened her mouth to tell them to hurry, since there was nobody in sight, but before she could, Alec pulled Magnus by his collar into a kiss. It was such an uncharacteristic gesture —Alec was mortified of PDA— that it robbed her of her ability to speak. It was a long kiss, as well. When they finally pulled apart, Magnus looked flushed, which was also uncommon in itself.

“Well,” he gasped. “I should be breaking the Law more often.”

“Shut up,” Alec was practically panting, seemingly as shocked with his own actions as everyone else. “I was so worried about you.”

“I told you I’d be fine. They were not after me.”

“You’re always telling me you’ll be fine, even when you won’t.”

“Alec,” Isabelle injected her voice with some modicum of pleading. “Now’s really not the time.”

“Yes,” Magnus echoed. “As much as I love all the attention on me, we should probably take this conversation elsewhere.”

“No… no…”

“Shh,” Clary forced the words out her mouth, though in their repetition she had begun to feel useless. “It’s okay. It’s not real, Seb.”

Sebastian was still on top of the couch. He was a little livelier now that his back had probably healed, but that only made his affliction more apparent. He was tossing and turning, breathing heavily and still sweating from the fever. Clary was sitting down in front of him, holding his hand. It was the only thing she could do.

“I didn’t know there were new kids in the New York Institute,” said Luke. He stepped next to Clary, and handed her the towel he had wet once again. “You should write to your mother more often.”

“I know,” she took it, dejectedly. She didn’t want to say the reason she hadn’t — they both knew it was about Jocelyn not wanting to meet Jace. “He came from Paris. He’s been with us for a few months.”

“You seem close.”

Clary shrugged. She pressed the towel over his forehead. “He saved my life just now.” More words tumbled out of his lips. She couldn’t make out most of them, but she thought she heard an I’m sorry. “I don’t understand. When he talked to me, it helped me. Why can’t I reach him?”

Luke sighed. “I don’t know much about the lake, but I’ve heard some legends. They say it’s toxic to Shadowhunters because it acts like— well, like Satan.”

“Satan?” she repeated, her mouth parted in astoundment. “I thought there wasn’t a Satan.”

“Not in the way most people think. Satan in the Bible translates as ‘the Adversary.’ The idea isn’t evil, per say, in fact angels act as adversaries throughout various stories. It’s a force that confronts you, tests your faith, makes you face your sins.”

“That’s what the lake does…” she murmured, remembering her vision. “But I got through it.”

Luke shifted, a little uncomfortable, though she was beginning to understand what he was implying. “I suppose his sins are heavier to bear than yours, Clary.”

“What happens if he can’t fight them? If he… loses?”

Luke opened his mouth, but just as he was about to answer, there was a knock on the door. He turned and went to open it. Clary was half hoping it was Jocelyn, even despite knowing her mother was not the person that could help. She was also dreading the possibility. It was harder to stay mad in person.

It wasn’t Jocelyn; it was Magnus, followed closely by the Lightwood siblings. No Jace. She fought to keep her disappointment in line.

“Your saviour has arrived,” Magnus said, stepping in. “Now, where’s the Nephilim?”

“Magnus,” Clary called in relief. “I can’t believe you came here. Thank you so much. I know you said you didn’t want to risk it.”

Magnus looked a little surprised. Clary had found, with time, that he wasn’t used to being thanked. “It’s no problem. Let’s take a look.”

He waved his hands. As he did, Isabelle kneeled next to her and embraced her. “I can’t believe you’re here,” she said. “I’m so glad you came, but how did you do it, Clary?”

“Yeah,” Alec echoed with his characteristic harshness. “We’d all love to know that.”

“Now, now, that can wait,” said Magnus. He was frowning. His magic whirled and settled on top of Sebastian like smoke. He had stopped stirring for a moment, though his gaze was shifting quickly back and forth behind his eyelids. “How long ago did he drink it?”

“I’m not sure,” she confessed. “Some eight or nine hours ago?”

Magnus pursed his lips, and dropped his hands. “I don’t think I can wake him up at this point.”

Clary felt her chest tighten painfully. “What does that mean?”

There was a heavy silence. She saw Isabelle rock back until she rested on the table behind her. She was pale.

“Izzy?” she pressed. She got no response. “Luke?”

And it was him that took pity on her; “he’ll die, Clary.”

“Die?” No. It couldn’t be. She looked back at him, and at the delicate features that she had come to know so well. His face was always so inexpressive. Often he intimidated her with how cold he could be, and yet now, he truly looked as young as he was. She wasn’t even sure of his exact age, but it couldn’t be older than sixteen. He was a kid just like her, and he had nobody but them. “He can’t die,” her words came out numb, disbelieving. “There has to be something we can do.”

Magnus hesitated. “There is something.”

“Magnus,” Luke spoke in a warning tone.

“What?” Magnus put his hands up, as if to say it’s not my fault we’re in this corner. “Clary, how close are you with him?”

“Huh?” She blinked. She realised she was shedding tears only after she did. “I don’t know. We’re friends. We’re good friends.”

“There is a way he could wake up; from the inside. Somebody has to go in and help him deal with whatever he’s seeing. But you have to know that you can do it. If he can’t face it even with your help, you’ll both die.”

“She doesn’t have to go in alone,” Isabelle protested. “He’s my friend too.” She looked at Alec, and saw a similar thought reflected. “He’s our friend.”

“While I appreciate the sentiment, I can only send one person in. I’m only one warlock, and this requires quite a bit of energy. In fact I’ll need somebody to lean on.”

Immediately Alec was there. He grabbed Magnus’ shoulder, before he realised everybody was looking at him and dropped it. “I can help you,” he said, a little flustered.

“How gracious,” Magnus smirked, then turned to Clary. “So what’s it gonna be, biscuit?”

“Clary,” Luke was shaking his head. “You don’t have to do this. He’s not your responsibility. Anyone can theoretically fight through it. Whatever he’s dealing with, it isn’t your fault.”

But she had already made up her mind. “He saved me,” she repeated. She looked at the people around her. “He saved my life, back at the lake. And he pulled me out of my vision. He’d do the same thing for me if the roles were reversed.”

She saw a flicker of something pass through Alec’s face; newfound respect, perhaps.

“I have to go in,” she said. “Send me through, Magnus.”

Chapter Text

It took a while for Clary to get her bearings. When she opened her eyes, she saw the unfamiliar, wooden walls of a cabin. There were windows, presently shut, shaking with the force of something outside. A storm, she realised.

She sat up. She had been lying on top of some carpet. She looked around. “Sebastian?” she called, but nobody answered her. Anxiety began to take hold of her. How could she help him, if she couldn’t find him?

She began to search for him. She went around the living room, opened the door to the bathroom. She saw there were stairs leading up, but when looking, there was only a void of darkness above. The rooms upstairs didn’t exist; they weren’t important. Now she tried in places she wouldn’t have thought of; she checked under tables, pulled curtains, took out the cushions off the couches.

Then she opened the kitchen cabinet.

She was startled by the sight of him. Sebastian was curled into a ball, pressed against the wall behind him. Various spices had fallen into the ground by his presence, some spilling on the floor. His eyes were shut, and his hands were firmly placed on top of his ears. He didn’t look sixteen anymore as much as he looked like he was ten or so, though it wasn’t a physical change as much as it was a feeling she had.

She kneeled in front of him. He hadn’t shifted to acknowledge her. “Sebastian?” No reaction. She reached out and tried to pull on one of his wrists, so he could hear her. 

Immediately he flinched and a tumble of words left his lips; “no, no, no, please—”

She let go, her eyes wide. “Sebastian,” she repeated, a little firmer. “It’s me, Clary. I’m your friend, remember?”

He curled further into himself. His hands formed fists over his hair. “I don’t have any friends,” he uttered with a dead voice. “I’ll never have any friends.”

A knot formed in her throat. She fought past it. “That’s not true. I am your friend.”

Slowly his eyes flickered open. He stared at her with something in his expression in between fear and hope. “Clary,” he said, this time with recognition. His voice had shifted into something more familiar; more grown up. “Clary, is that you?”

“It’s me,” she exhaled. “I’m here to help you.”

But her relief was short-lived. He began shaking his head. “You have to leave. You can’t help me. No one can help me.”

“Why’s that?”

It was the wrong thing to say. His eyes were empty once more when he answered; “I’m not like you. I’m like them.”

She wanted to press him, to ask him what he meant, but clearly such a line of inquiry wouldn’t help. “Just— It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere, okay? You’re not alone. You don’t have to face this alone.”

Still, he persisted. “You have to go,” his voice broke. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?”

“It’s all I do.” The way he was speaking… It was final. It wasn’t in the way one would say it when wanting to be disproven. Defeat dripped from his words. This was something he had long since accepted. “All I do is hurt people. It’s all I was made to do. That’s why they’re out there,” he shuddered. “They want revenge. I deserve it. I should just go out and let them have me, but I can’t.” He looked at her like nothing she’d ever seen from him before. His eyes were desperate and pleading. “I didn’t want to be like this. You have to believe me, Clary. Please. Nobody ever believes me.”

She looked where he'd glanced at; out one of the windows. It was a storm; yes, but now that she focused on it, she could see details she had missed before. The wind and the air and the rain seemed to form figures, ghostly forms that banged on the walls and screamed like wraiths. They were people.

She spoke before she could help herself, stunned. “Who are they?”

Sebastian looked away from her, in clear shame. He shook his head. “I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t.”

Somehow, she knew this was something she had to press him on. “Sebastian. Who are they?”

“I couldn’t help it,” he went on, defending himself from an accusation she hadn’t made. “I can’t help what I am. I’m poison. I didn’t— I’m sorry. Please, Clary—”

“These are people you hurt,” she guessed. “People you… killed?”

His face fell. His body trembled as his arms shifted, nails digging into his own flesh. “Please,” he repeated.

She wavered. He looked so pitiful right now, she only wanted to tell him that it was okay, but she didn’t really know if it was, did she? And that wouldn’t help. Waving off the offence wasn’t the same as confessing your sins. “Tell me,” she said instead, keeping her voice steady and as neutral as she could manage, “tell me why you did it.”

His lips parted. For a moment she thought she’d get the same jumble of excuses and apologies. She was wrong; he was mute. Perhaps he had no reason.

No. He had to have one. “Sebastian… tell me. I promise I will believe you.”

He struggled to speak. His voice trembled when he finally did; “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I thought he’d kill me if I didn’t—” he hesitated. He shook his head again. That wasn’t the actual reason, Clary realised, which was worrying in itself. Having your life threatened was justification enough. It meant coercion, and yet there was something worse underneath? “I thought— I thought if I did what he said, he’d—” The words faded. He let out a pained sound that vaguely resembled laughter. “I thought he would love me. I didn’t have anybody else. I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted him to come back—”

There were so many things she wished to ask. Who was ‘he,’ and how had he manipulated this boy so thoroughly? All she knew about Sebastian were the snippets of his life he had fed her, about an aunt in Paris and two dead parents.

But right now, it didn’t matter. “You’re not,” she said. “You’re not alone. I’m here.”

His face crumbled. His eyes were wide in disbelief. “Don’t you see… don’t you see I’m a monster?”

“You’re not a monster, Seb.” She pulled at his wrists again, trying to coax him out of hiding. “People aren’t fixed things. Anybody can wake up and decide to do good things. That’s what makes somebody a good person.”

There was regression now, in his voice. He sounded like a child again when he asked; “anybody?”

“Anybody,” she confirmed. “You can do it, too. You’ve been good to me. You’re my friend, Seb.” There was a pause. No objections were raised this time around. “Now,” she pulled at him to try to get him to get up, “why don’t we get out of here?”

“I can’t. They’re— out there.”

“I know. You have to face them. You have to tell them you’re sorry, just like you did with me, okay?”

He shook his head. She had managed to get him to his feet, but now he pressed his back against the kitchen counter. “I can’t. I can’t…”

Urgency was beginning to grow inside of her. How long did they have? She wasn’t sure. Still, she forced herself to remain patient. Something like this couldn’t be rushed. “Sure you can. I told you, anybody can choose to do good. Apologising is good. You can do it. And once you do it, you’ll see you’re not really a monster.”

There was a pause. For a moment her hope was beginning to die, and she was sure she couldn’t convince him, and they were both doomed, but then his eyes shifted to the door, hesitant, yet considering.

He grabbed onto her hand. So far, it had been her that had reached for him. “You won’t leave?” he asked.

“Of course not. I won’t leave.”

She took a step forward. He followed her. His gaze was glued to the door. His entire body was taut with tension, but he didn’t ask her to stop.

She grabbed the handle. “Ready?”

His breathing came out uneven. He squeezed her hand and she squeezed back. Then he nodded.

She opened the door. There was a bright flash, and she heard him speak, but by the time the apology registered, she was already awake, looking up at the ceiling in her mother’s house. She shifted her head from where she was lying on the floor after they’d moved the living room table. She saw Sebastian sitting up and coughing out that same black liquid.

“Clary.” She felt Isabelle squeezing her arm. “Oh, we were so worried. You were gone for like an hour. Magnus said he couldn’t keep it up for much longer. Are you okay?”

She nodded. In the corner of the room, she saw Magnus collapsing on Alec’s very willing arms. She smiled. “I’m okay, just a little dizzy.” Adrenaline was still pumping through her veins. 

Luke was patting Sebastian on one shoulder, asking him if he was alright. The Nephilim was a little red in the face. “I’m fine,” he barked out, gruff as usual. Then his eyes shifted and he saw Clary. It was a questioning look, and she thought, a little startled, that he probably didn’t know if it had been real.

She nodded. She watched his face break into shock. 

It was a while before the commotion died down. Luke made some tea, and attempted to coax the quiet teenager into conversation. Clary knew him well enough to be sure he wouldn’t say much beyond polite small talk. Eventually Isabelle intervened, taking up space, but Clary knew she’d done it for his benefit just like she’d do for Alec.

She sat next to him now that they had a moment. He wasn’t meeting her gaze. “Hey.” She bumped shoulders with him. “You okay?” He didn’t answer, so she dared, now, to place her hand over his gently.

He stiffened, just like all those other times.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, low enough nobody else would hear. “You’re not going to hurt me. Didn’t I prove it to you?”

His shoulders slumped. There was still that shadow of incomprehension in his expression, but there was also relief. Slowly he moved, until his arm was around her, and his chin was on top of her head. It was a very hesitant hug, but that didn’t matter. She felt something she rarely had before. She thought perhaps this is what little girls felt when their loving fathers held them — it was the same feeling Luke gave her at times, except it was much less distant. It was mutual. She felt like she was being held by her big brother.

It produced a strange sense of certainty in her. She didn’t want it to end. It was like when Simon walked up to her all those years ago, and she decided their friendship was a ‘for life’ thing.

A little while later, she went outside to clear her head. Alec and Magnus were standing by the door. She knew they’d been doing something mushy instantly, because Alec shifted away in a panic. She saw Magnus roll his eyes. “I’m going to get some tea, as well,” he said. “This was tiring work.”

“Magnus,” she called. “Thank you again.”

He waved his hand dismissively, and she was left with the oldest Lightwood. Alec was now fidgeting slightly, and with one hand he pressed over his side where Jace’s parabatai rune rested—

She stared at it. She had meant to ask him if something was wrong with Jace, but for a moment that faded away, and what came out of her mouth was; “Alec… how did you know you wanted to be parabatai with Jace?”

Alec blinked, taken aback. His gaze went inside the door and then back to her in understanding. “Well… it’s simple. You just know. You know you’re stronger with them, and you’ll always be. That’s about it, really.”

She nodded her head. Something heavy settled inside of her, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. “Right… Anyway, I had meant to ask, where’s Jace? Why didn’t he come?”

Alec made a face. “Yeah, we both have a lot to catch up on.”

Chapter Text

Sebastian watched the surface of his tea. It was probably cold by now. The man —Luke, he'd said his name was— had made another for him and asked “how many sugars? I didn't ask before,” but Sebastian was unable to scrounge up an answer. Nobody had ever made him tea. “Was it too sweet?” he'd said then.

He'd shaken his head. Luke then had placed one teaspoon of sugar inside and gave it to him.

Now he leaned on the kitchen counter, holding onto his cup with both hands and staring down, silent. He had tried to sort through his muddled mind; through the recent memories that he couldn't make sense of, but he found it was fruitless. It only made his head hurt, and eventually the logic broke down and left him more lost than he was before.

Somebody walked in the kitchen. He looked up, thinking it might be Luke. It was Magnus.

“Haven't touched your tea?” he asked, eyebrow raising. He sounded exhausted, yet cheerful. “It's a good blend. You shouldn't waste it.” 

Sebastian sipped it. It was cold, but it was still nice. He could feel Magnus' cat eyes staring closely at him, analysing. 

“Give it here. I'll heat it up for you.”

He blinked at him. There was a hand outstretched. “It's fine,” he finally spoke. He hated how rough his throat sounded, as if he had been crying. He hadn't been, but it was probably what everyone was thinking.

“I'm putting on the kettle anyway,” and indeed, Magnus poured some water into it before placing it on the stove. “Or would you rather have a fresh cup?”

“I'm fine,” he repeated, numb. He didn't know what to say. He'd overheard from Alec before that they'd gotten Magnus through the Portal in secret. That meant this warlock —this Downworlder— had broken the Law, risking getting caught in the most secure city in the world, to save him.

It made no sense. Magnus didn't even know him. It was a kindness that was beyond even what a normal Nephilim would show, and it was coming from someone who wasn't supposed to be capable of it.

“Alright,” Magnus said, getting a cup with some sugar prepared. “I'll let you be alone, don't mind me.”

The assumption was obvious. The assumption was that Sebastian wanted to be alone. His fingers twitched holding the cup, and he scoffed. His world was falling apart. All he could really do was find humour in it. 

“Wait,” he said when Magnus approached the exit. He felt dizzy, all of the sudden. Everything was wrong. Nothing made sense. He felt like Alice if she'd simply woken up one day on the other side of the mirror. “Magnus…” He hesitated, finally daring to look up. The warlock was glancing at him expectantly, yet patient. “Why did you do all this?” he finally said. “You don't even know me.”

“You're not very used to people being nice to you, are you?” Sebastian held the cup a little tighter. Was it so evident? “I do know you. I know you've a soft heart for strays, though you'd probably stab me if I said that in front of the other Nephilim. Tough exterior to crack, right?” Magnus let a pause go by, as if to let him confirm or deny. All he did was continue staring, dumbfounded. “I know you ran after Clary after she made the Portal, to help her. I know you're her friend, and the Lightwoods'. Is it really so strange that I'd help you?”

His head was hurting again. There was a reason this didn't add up, but he wasn't sure what it was anymore. “You're a warlock,” is what came out. “I'm a Shadowhunter.”

Magnus snorted. “Ninety minutes ago I had a Nephilim's tongue down my throat. I think we've gotten past our differences alright.”

He frowned, shutting his eyes for a moment to push the mental image away. He expected Valentine's voice to resurface somewhere in the back of his mind, to tell him how disgusting that was. It didn't, however. It was all so very… quiet. “I thought—” he started, but the phrase died. “I was taught… that you were different… from us. Dangerous.”

Why am I saying this out loud? It was a stupid thing to do. It was bound to seed mistrust, to put his mission in danger—

Mission. His… mission. Was he still doing that?

But Magnus didn't look at him with judgement. That analysing attitude had softened. “Well,” he started, that cheerful tone morphing into something more gentle, “does that theory hold up to reality?”

There were supposed to be a million reasons to say 'yes,' but he couldn't find them. He looked through hours and hours of Valentine's rants, glancing at the memories like flipping through pages of a book. So much of it was the same. So little had any explanations in it, anything that he could use to pose as an argument now.

He thought of when Magnus had helped Clary earlier, even though a Silent Brother would have done just fine. He thought of Simon running through sunlight to pull him out from underneath a falling wall — he was startled to realise that, had he been an ordinary Shadowhunter, he would have been crushed without his help. He was only fast enough to dodge it because of the demon blood, something that Simon was not privy to.

He thought of the Seelie Queen when he was only twelve. It was only her warning that kept him alive.

All his life, the people that his father deemed monsters had done nothing but aid him. They hadn't gained anything from it. They hadn't wanted to. 

He felt dizzy again. He placed the cup to the side, hanging onto the counter for dear life. It was like an abyss had opened beneath his feet, and everything was crumbling. It seemed so obvious now; how had he missed it for so long?

“No,” he choked out. He wasn't looking at Magnus anymore. His eyes were firmly on the surface of the tea again, steady. He needed something to anchor him while the world kept spinning. “No, it doesn't.”

“Hey.” The warlock stepped closer. A hesitant hand rested on his shoulder. “I take it the water did a number on you, huh?”

His lips moved automatically; “I'm fine.”

“Right,” Magnus scoffed. “Nephilim are always fine and unfazed, I get it. Look, it's true. We can be a lot to deal with; Downworlders. A newborn vampire without a clan, a werewolf without a pack, a warlock without anyone there to teach them to control their magic, Unseelies running around without any rules or cares for mortals… they can do irreparable damage. That's why it's so essential that we support one another. People like Valentine divide us, and a divided Downworld is a dangerous one.”

“You're saying…” he licked his lips. Some part of him was still protesting at how carefully he was listening to a warlock's words, how sincerely he was considering them. And yet, what else was there to do? Nothing made sense anymore. “...that you can be good… because you aren't alone.”

“In a way, yes,” said Magnus. “But isn't that true of everyone?”

I don't know, he wanted to say. I don't think I know anything at all.

“When I was younger, I did plenty that I regret now. I didn't know how to control my magic. I hurt people I didn't mean to hurt. For us, it's true, yes, we have a more… dangerous nature. Unsavoury instincts. There's also mundanes that are born with permanent, lifelong disabilities, and others that have bodies so strong they can break world records. We're not dealt an equal hand. Life isn't fair. But hey… eventually we find a way to meet in the middle. We learn control, we learn restraint, and when that happens, we're not so different, you and I, are we?”

He swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth.

Valentine was wrong.

It was the first time such an idea had rooted in his head. For so long he hadn't dared to question him, to doubt him. To finally do it with such certainty… was terrifying.

But— if Valentine was wrong… was he wrong about him, as well?

Jace's words resonated inside of him. Magnus was naturally born that way. I'm an experiment, something that never should have existed. But did that matter? Simon wasn't born a vampire. Werewolves were turned. Perhaps— if he could learn— if Clary could teach him…

What if it was too late? What if he was too old to learn, too far gone?

I have to try, he thought. The idea was fragile in his hands, same as the teacup. 

He rocked back a little, if only to put some distance between them. Magnus dropped his hand, looking at him with curiosity. He nodded his head silently in response. He didn't know what to say.

Magnus turned to leave. “Wait—” And he stopped. Sebastian felt distantly embarrassed for having done this twice, but it hardly mattered in the midst of everything else. “I— thank you. For what you did. If you hadn't… I'd be dead.”

Laughter. “My, Nephilim really have changed. I hadn't been thanked in centuries, and now? Two in a row. Remarkable.” Then he left. As the door swung open, Sebastian heard the outside conversation filtering.

Clary was yelling something; “...why?! I don't understand, I thought you had permission.” Worry struck him, leaving all the other matters aside. He kept the door pushed open to listen. Magnus had sat down on one of the living room couches, next to Isabelle, and they were both making a face as Clary's shouting reached them. “She can't just do that! I'm going to get him out.”

“Clary,” Alec stressed, trying to calm her down and failing horribly. “We need to be seen as cooperative, and once they put him through the Mortal Sword they'll see he hasn't done anything wrong. They'll have to let him go.”

“Cooperative? They're acting like Valentine.”

Sebastian glanced at Isabelle and Magnus, who were frozen. He searched for Luke, but couldn't find him. Some strange force moved him to go towards the front door, and to plainly open it.

Alec had his mouth parted, halfway into countering her point, but they both turned to him in surprise.

“Clary,” he said, and noticed in amazement that her shoulders slumped in response. “What's going on?”

She sighed. The fight left her as sudden as it had come. “Jace is imprisoned. They're holding him for no reason, just because he's Valentine's son. Because he has demon blood, I don't know.”

“They'll question him,” Alec interjected. “He hasn't done anything wrong. They'll release him after.”

He nodded. He thought he ought to feel something, given Jace was taking on a punishment that should have fallen to him — but it was just static. He was too overwhelmed to process it.

“It's still wrong,” Clary muttered between her teeth. “We have to do something.”

“It is wrong,” he found himself agreeing. “But if we try something like that, it's only going to make him look guilty. It'll make things worse.”

Her lips pursed. Alec gave him a look that he couldn't read — was it a grateful one? Then she walked inside, and it was apparent suddenly to him how exhausted she seemed. “When can we go to the city? I want to see him.”

“You should wait until tomorrow,” it was Luke that had spoken. He emerged out of the hallway, possibly after having gone to his room. “I've got clean clothes for both of you. I guessed a little with sizing, we don't have a lot of variety.”

“Oh, Luke, thank you.” A shy smile appeared on her lips. She looked towards Sebastian with humour in her eyes. “We do look a mess, don't we?”

He scoffed out a laugh. He knew that black liquid he'd coughed was still staining his shirt, even as he'd tried to pry it off with paper towels.

“Luke,” Clary walked forward, grabbing the clothes from his hands. “Uhm… when is mom coming home?”

Sebastian felt his body involuntarily going rigid.

“Tomorrow morning,” said Luke. “You can see her before you leave.”

He didn't hear what she said back. His awareness only returned when she grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards the hallway. “Luke said you can change here. There's a second bathroom, so you can shower. I'll shower in the other one,” she told him, head pointing inside a room.

His head shifted a little to the side. It was a master bedroom. Over the bed frame, there was a hanged painting. He could recognise Clary's features smiling at him.

Had his mother painted that?

“Seb?”

He blinked, turning towards her. He hadn't realised when she started referring to him like that, shortened but sweet. It felt good; like the name belonged to him now, rather than it being a borrowed thing.

“This is your mom's house,” he said.

“Yeah.”

There was so much he wanted to ask. There was so much he wanted to see. Yet, what was he really allowed?

What was he supposed to do now? He was tangled in a web of lies and he didn't know how to pry himself off it.

“You said—” he hesitated. “I overheard you saying she… didn't want to meet Jace.”

“Ah,” Clary sighed. “Yeah. I'm still angry at her over that, but I haven't seen her in so long… I don't know. It makes no sense to me, after how she mourned him.”

Mourned him?

Treacherous hope stirred inside of him, one he had long thought dead. His voice came out tight; “what do you mean?”

“She had this… box.” Clary lowered her voice into a whisper. “I thought it was my father's at first, but eventually she told me the truth. It was full of Jonathan's things — Jace's things, from when he was a baby. Clothes, a lock of his hair, pictures… things like that. She used to take it out every year on the same day.”

His throat was so constricted he could hardly breathe. So many times Valentine had told him that Jocelyn never loved him, that she left because of him. Of course this was another lie. Everything was a lie. “I thought—” Again, he stopped himself. “I'm sorry, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why… why did your mom take you, but left… him?”

Clary's face fell. It was an expression of deep sadness. “You don't know the story? She escaped Valentine when she was pregnant with me. He didn't know about me. And… when she came to the house to get Jonathan, Valentine had planted corpses there, burnt in the house fire. A child and an adult. Jace thinks it was the real Michael Wayland and his son; Jonathan Wayland. It was to make her think they were both dead.”

» Then he pretended to be Michael Wayland. That's who Jace believed was his father, until he faked his death… again. The Lightwoods took Jace in since Michael was parabatai with Robert. Jace had spent his entire life believing the Circle killed his father, when in reality his father was head of it.

» It backfired in the end, I suppose. When you're an abusive piece of shit and you give your child to a good family, he's bound to change loyalties. Jace and Alec became parabatai, and when Valentine came back for Jace, he turned on him to save me. To save mom.

Clary trailed off. “Then when mom woke up… she wouldn't see him. I can't understand why. She doesn't like to talk about it. The most she's said to me as explanation is that her son is dead. She said he died before he was ever born.”

Sebastian looked down at his hands. There was dirt under his fingernails. Mud that had stained him and had dried off.

His mother had once loved him, he thought. Loved him enough to mourn him. She didn't anymore, that much he could understand, but… if Clary was right, and he could change…

It was a foolish thought. If she had rejected Jace, who had nothing wrong with him at all, he couldn't imagine she'd ever give him the time of day. “Robert,” he found himself saying. “He was parabatai with Michael. How did he not know he'd died?”

Clary hesitated. “I'm not sure. Apparently their relationship was strained. They couldn't feel their bond much at all, anymore.”

“I didn't know that was possible.”

She shrugged. “Me neither. Jace and Alec are so close. I can't imagine it.” She paused. “Say… have you ever wanted a parabatai?”

He scoffed. “I've never dared to dream so ambitiously.” He took the clothes off her hands. “I hadn't… thanked you.”

“There's nothing to thank me for. You did the same for me.” He was shaking his head, but she was quicker to speak; “it's true. You have my back and I have yours, right?”

His fingers tightened on the fabric. Would such a sentiment remain if she knew who he was? How he'd lied to her? “There is still so much you don't know about me,” he said. It was precisely the kind of thing he was never meant to say, the kind of thing that would blow his cover. He couldn't bring himself to care about that. “Are you not going to ask me… about what you saw?”

“Sebastian,” her features softened. “You're my friend. I'm not going to pressure you to tell me things you're not ready to talk about.”

He stared at her. The words were easy to understand, but it wasn't anything he'd ever expected to hear, or knew how to interpret. “I lied to you,” he admitted, his voice quieter. “I've lied to everyone.”

“About what?”

He shrugged, helplessly. “Everything? I'm—” he hesitated. “I'm not who I said I was. I was going to— I was supposed to—” the words died. “I'm sorry, Clary.”

She was silent for what felt like forever. Then she said; “you were supposed to turn on us, is that it?”

He nodded, numbly.

“Okay,” she said, carefully. “Are you still going to?”

“No,” it came out before he thought about it. The word itself was painful to utter. “No, of course not.”

He felt her move, and then her arms were around his torso, her head resting on his chest. “Then it doesn't matter anymore,” she whispered. “You can tell me the rest of the story later, when you're ready. It's been a lot today, I know.”

That headache was coming back, pulsing. He wasn't sure if it was just sleepiness, now. They'd been awake and walking for so long. “I'm sorry,” he repeated, if only because he didn't know what else he could give her. Because her reaction made no sense to him.

“It's okay,” is what she said. “Go take a shower, okay? We're just making ourselves dirtier now.”

He laughed, and she did too. He stepped away from her and towards the door.

Chapter Text

Sebastian didn’t wait until the next morning. He allowed himself a few hours of shuteye. Luke had arranged pillows around the living room. Clary and Isabelle took the couches, and he and Alec were on the floor. He got up silently.

He had waited a long time to meet his mother, and yet… He couldn’t do it like this, not when she didn’t know who he really was.

Vaguely, he was aware that he had to tell Clary the truth, but even thinking about it filled him with such overwhelming anxiety it made his own body feel foreign and detached from himself. And so, he got up and sneaked out the front door towards Alicante. His mind was filled in images of his mother’s paintings. He had passed his fingers through them, and the jewelry box she kept on top of the bedside table. He’d noticed the hilt of a knife under a pillow, and he’d smiled. Seemed the paranoia ran in the family.

He wished he could have stayed.

It was a long walk to the City of Glass, and his legs were already sore, but that sort of pain was familiar to him. He had spent many days and nights travelling by foot with his father. Those days, now, seemed incredibly distant.

He knew he was close when he found the river. He followed it out of the woods, and towards Alicante. Eventually, out of the tree tops, he saw it; the city was inside a shallow valley, framed by the demon towers. The sun had just risen, and so the adamas they were made from glittered under its light, giving the place its name. There was a tower at each cardinal point, sustaining the wards that had bounced Clary and him outside of it. He felt them when he walked in; a disturbance in the air, a buzzing in his ears.

He made his way towards the Gard.

“They’re coming for you.”

Jace woke up to Simon’s voice. He stirred. His muscles ached as he tried to move from the awkward position he’d fallen asleep in. He stretched, groaning. “What? What do you mean?”

“I can hear them. They’re coming down the stairs.”

Right. Vampire super-hearing. “I thought they wouldn’t be here until tomorrow. Alec said he and Izzy wouldn’t be here this morning.”

“Was that through your weird supernatural friendship bond? Because I don’t remember him saying that.”

Jace snorted. “No, it was by fire message. How many times must I tell you we don’t have telepathy?” Now he could hear them himself; the heavy steps of several Nephilim coming down, and the clanking of chains. He grimaced. “They’re really pulling all the stops, huh?”

“Jace,” Simon’s voice was suddenly strained. “You really didn’t do anything wrong… right? When they question you with that freaky truth-telling sword, they won’t find anything.”

Jace rolled his eyes. “Are you worried about me, fangs? Or are you just trying to figure out how to break the news to my family?”

“I mean it,” Simon insisted, his voice going frantic as the steps got closer. “This wasn’t part of your ploy to keep Clary from coming with you, right?”

Jace couldn’t help but feel offence climbing up his chest. You find out you have demon blood, and suddenly everyone thinks you’re a psychopath. “Yes, that’s right,” he spat out sarcastically, “I created a bunch of Forsaken warriors, had them attack the Institute, nearly killing all of us, so I could keep Clary in New York. And lo and behold, my diabolical plan worked.”

“Well,” Simon muttered, though instead of accusing his tone was now irritated, “it did work, didn’t it? You didn’t even need me to tell them she changed her mind, everybody was too busy freaking out for it.”

“You’re an ass. Even for a Downworlder. I saved your life. I broke the Law to save your life. Keeping Clary from coming was always the plan, bringing you here was not. You think I wanted all this trouble? I could’ve left you to fend for yourself, and you would’ve died to the Forsaken. ‘Least you could do is thank me.”

“Thank you?” Simon stuttered out a gasp, in the way a girl would when pressing her hand against her chest. “If you hadn’t asked me to lie about Clary, I wouldn’t have been there in the first place!”

The door opened. “Jonathan Morgenstern,” one of the Nephilim said. “Stand.”

Jace gritted his teeth. “That’s not my name,” he spat. Yet still, he stood up, placing his hands through the bars so he could be shackled. Once the door was open and he was let through, he turned to Simon, who was staring at him with a mix of anger and guilt. “I am sorry about that,” he admitted. “I should’ve kept you out of it.”

He saw a flicker of surprise on Simon’s face, before he was pulled up the stairs and out of sight.

The chains were heavy as he walked. They got him all the way to the base floor, into a large chamber where several people had gathered around a circle. Many curious faces stared up at him. He tried to find a familiar one, but his heart dropped when he didn’t see any of the Lightwoods. He knew Alec wasn’t here, but why hadn’t Maryse or Robert shown up?

He was placed in front and in the middle. Two Silent Brothers placed the Mortal Sword on top of his hands. You stand accused of treason against the Clave, he heard their voices resonating in his mind. Be it innocent or guilty, may the truth set thy soul free.

It was cold when he touched it, up until the runes flashed all across the blade, and warmth irradiated from it, carried through the steel and into his palms.

Imogen Herondale stepped in front of him. Her face was as stern as ever. “Jonathan Morgenstern,” she began. “Did you bring a Downworlder into Alicante?”

Great first question, he thought. He felt the sword thrum to life, and he allowed the words to go past his lips without resisting; “yes.”

“This is against the Law,” she said. “And you knew this, correct?”

He gritted his teeth. “Yes… But I had no choice. If I hadn’t—”

“A simple yes or no suffices, Jonathan.”

“My name is Jace,” he snarled. “My name is Jace Wayland.”

The Inquisitor’s eyes narrowed. “You truly believe that when you say it,” she observed. “Yet you hold no relation to Michael Wayland. He had a real son, one who your father killed. What right do you have to steal his identity?”

It wasn’t a real question, they both knew it. Yet still, he spoke; “the father I thought I had wasn’t real. The man who calls himself Valentine now… I don’t consider him my father.”

“Yes,” she pursed her lips. “You claim you did not know of his real identity. Did you truly believe Michael Wayland was your father?”

“Yes.”

“Did you bring the Downworlder at the behest of Valentine?”

“No.”

And so went the line of questioning. She asked him if he had been in contact with Valentine at all, if he knew any of his plans, if he had any loyalty towards him. He asked incessantly for what felt like hours. Slowly the crowd around them dispersed, apparently losing interest in him once he stopped seeming like a traitor.

“I shall ask you one last thing,” she stepped closer. Her gaze was as cold as it had been at the beginning, not at all forgiving due to the answers he’d provided her. She dropped her voice to a whisper, so nobody but him could hear her; “do you love Clarissa like a brother loves his sister?”

Rage twisted inside of him. How had she known—? Had she waited this entire time, held onto the information just to use it against him?

He tried to force his mouth to stay shut; grappled with himself until his head was pounding and the sword was burning into his palms.

But it was impossible to resist it forever. “No,” he gasped. The humiliation was scalding hot. 

The Inquisitor stepped away from him, satisfaction in her face. In a way, her sick power games weren’t unlike the ones Valentine played. “Release him now. I will be watching you closely, young man.”

When he was let go, Jace walked out of the Gard stiff with fury. His hands into fists, his breathing erratic. He felt blinded by it. Valentine was right, he realised. The Clave was monstrous. They were practically as bad as he was, and yet it was precisely that kind of talk that would have people think he was on Valentine’s side. Nothing made sense.

“Hey, Wayland.”

He stopped. The voice was familiar, but it took him a moment to place it merely out of the impossibility of hearing it now. He turned.

Sebastian was leaning on the wall by the entrance, arms crossed. He had one eyebrow raised and his head cocked. “I know that’s not really your name,” he said. “But after the way you shouted it, I’m inclined to let you have it.”

“You were there,” he suddenly understood. “I didn’t see you.”

“I’m very good at hiding.”

He shook his head, scoffing. “How are you here? We left you behind.”

“I walked.”

The answer was so nonsensical he couldn’t help but laugh. “What the fuck, Verlac?”

Sebastian’s lip twitched. He seemed to be trying to contain a smile. (There was, after all, something deeply ironic about the two boys Valentine had raised, staunchly refusing to take on the name Jonathan Morgenstern , and instead stealing somebody else’s. Though this was something Jace himself didn’t know.). “I was going to ask you if you wanted to spar. I thought you could use a distraction.”

Jace stared at him. It wasn’t so different from the last time they had — if you could call a random scuffle in the middle of the hallway sparring. “That’s so weird. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were getting attached to me.”

Sebastian pushed his tongue against his cheek. There was a mix of emotions in his face. Finally, he muttered; “I suppose… you are not… that bad.”

 “A lovely sentiment,” he smirked. “Follow me. I know a place we can go.”

Chapter Text

“By the way, Clary’s here.”

It was the worst time to utter those words. Jace’s fist connected faster than he could dodge, right in the middle of his face. He felt blood spurting out from his nose, and he spat it out on the ground. “What?!” Jace shouted. “What do you mean she’s here? How is she here?”

Sebastian could still taste the iron on it. He wiped his face with his elbow, but it was still coming, relentless. “Asshole,” he sneered, before grabbing his stele and drawing a quick iratze on his forearm.

“Sebastian,” Jace’s voice turned low in warning, “how the fuck is Clary here?”

“She made a Portal, alright? Whatever she did at the Dumort, she did it again. That’s how I got here.”

“And you let her?” 

Jace’s jaw locked, and a second later he was coming at him again, though this time Sebastian was able to sidestep him. “I didn’t ‘let’ her! She did it! And if I hadn’t run after her, she might very well have died falling into Lake Lynn, so how about a little thank you?!”

For once, this made Jace pause. His eyes widened a little, and then went up and down, examining his opponent.

Sebastian cocked an eyebrow at him. “What?”

“You saved Clary?”

“I do love your confidence in me.” He emphasised the words by moving. It was a quick feint that made Jace jolt, on edge. “I helped keep her alive, she kept me alive, happy?”

There was no response. Jace seemed dumbfounded, and he took the opportunity to make his own attack. He swept his legs under him with a kick. Jace crumbled to the ground with a heavy thud. “Ouch,” he complained.

“Please. You deserved it.” He got no counter. Jace stayed like that, staring up at the ceiling. Sebastian sighed, because he already knew what he was thinking. “Look, you were right. That Inquisitor is fucking deranged. She’s—” he stopped himself. It would have been easy to say just like Valentine. “...crazy. Anyway, I’m sure if we work together we can keep Clary from doing something stupid.”

Jace scoffed. “Like Portalling to Alicante?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

He got a laugh in response. “Whatever. I guess I couldn’t have stopped her either. Nobody can stop her when she gets an idea in her head.”

“If you’re telling me I’m forgiven I’d like to note I never apologised.”

Jace sat up. “Dick,” he spat, but now his features were turning a little more serious. “You think so, too, huh?” he muttered. “I’ve never spoken ill of the Clave in front of anyone. Whenever I do, people think I’m just like my father.”

Ironic, he thought, because locking up a boy simply because he had demon blood was exactly something Valentine would do. “I don’t think you’re like your father,” he said, and he found it was true after he did.

“Because I’m not the embodiment of evil?” Jace stretched out a hand, and without thinking, Sebastian took it to help him get on his feet. “Hodge said that Valentine was charming back in the day. That he never seemed… bad, until it was too late.”

“Well, you’re not charming at all, so there you go.”

Jace pushed him on the shoulder, but it was a friendly gesture. “How would you know, anyway? You’ve never met him.”

Right. The lie.

Sebastian hesitated. It was a bitter thing now, something heavy that he was burdened with, that he didn’t want to carry anymore. And he knew, as well, that it was that lie that was making both Clary and Jace miserable. They were in love. They weren’t related. They hadn’t even grown up together.

He never thought he would be considering giving anything to Jace, of all people. He couldn’t do that. Even now, there was that anxious certainty that as soon as Clary had Jace, she would no longer have any need for him. Only one of them could win. That’s how it always had been.

“I guess you’re right,” he said. “I’ve never met him.”

Chapter Text

Clary and the Lightwoods got to the city around mid-afternoon. By then, Jace was already waiting for them in the Penhallows’ house, where they’d been graciously received; the Lightwoods didn’t have an estate in Idris, not since the Uprising. He watched them arrive from the window upstairs.

Clary dashed inside, her eyes darting back and forth. She found Sebastian first, rubbing at his eyelids as he made coffee in the kitchen. She ran towards him, and he looked up in surprise. For a moment he thought she was about to hug him, but at the last second, she pushed him hard on his chest instead, making him slam against the cabinet. “What the hell?!” she shouted. “Why did you leave in the middle of the night? I was worried about you.”

He forced out a smile. “I guess I missed home very badly.”

Her eyes narrowed. He could tell she didn’t believe him, but she didn’t push the issue. “Where’s the Gard? I want to see Jace.”

“No need, he’s here. Upstairs.”

Her shoulders dropped in relief. She was quick to run towards the stairs. Sebastian could still hear her in the hallway, when she stopped and a child’s voice piped up; “Clary! Look! I have the next volume.”

“Hi, Max, sorry, I’ll look at it later, where’s Jace?”

He tuned them out, walking out of the kitchen with the cup of coffee. He didn’t even like coffee that much, but he was drained. He hadn’t slept enough in his effort to avoid Jocelyn.

“You didn’t tell her about Simon?” he heard Isabelle yelling as a faint whisper to her brother. When he emerged, her lips sealed instantly, her face going pale.

Alec turned around and spotted him. 

“What about Simon?” Sebastian arched an eyebrow.

Alec looked ready to give up. “Great,” he sighed. “This is just great.”

It was hard to pry herself off Max, but eventually she managed. The boy didn’t leave from his spot near the window, where he’d been reading. She was almost certain he could overhear their conversation, but he seemed distracted enough with his manga volume.

Jace watched her walk in the room. He was sitting on top of the desk, his face shrouded in something she couldn’t read. She had been wanting to run into his arms, but now that she was seeing him, she remembered that they had been in a fight before.

She hesitated. “Hey.”

He pursed his lips. “Hey.”

“You know, you could at least pretend to be happy to see me,” she grumbled. “Just a little bit.”

“I’m not happy to see you. Not even a little bit.” Ouch. She gave him a hurt look, and watched as that shrouded expression got even more obscure and detached.  “I told you not to come here, Clary.”

Was this still what he was on about? She opened her mouth, ready to defend herself in the manner she knew how, but she found that she had very little fight in her left. Instead her voice came out even and monotone; “I can handle myself. So it’s dangerous, I get it. I can handle it. I’m a Shadowhunter just like you.”

Jace reached up a hand and rubbed all across his face, clearly stressed. “You don’t understand what you’re getting into. You weren’t raised in this world.”

“So tell me.”

“That’s the problem, Clary, you don’t listen.”

She thought of the way she’d endangered herself and Sebastian before, with the Portal. There was a part of her that thought Jace was right, but for some reason it wasn’t the one that took over. “No, you don’t tell me anything. If I don’t know how things really are, it is because you don’t tell me. You’re supposed to guide me. You’re supposed to be my big brother, and yet—” she hesitated. She didn’t know what she was about to say, but it wasn’t kind, and she didn’t want to implicate anybody else in their argument. “You’re fucking exhausting, Jace. I thought you’d be happy to see me. I was worried about you. I nearly had a fit when Alec told me you were in jail, and instead you’re just…” she waved a hand in his direction, wordlessly.

Jace, to her surprise, didn’t immediately yell at her. He exhaled, and as he did his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Maybe you’re right,” he admitted. “Maybe I am like my father.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“No, but it’s the truth. Instead of talking to you, I try to manipulate you into doing what I want. Just like Valentine taught me.”

“Jace…” she walked forward, shyly, and dared to sit down next to him. The desk creaked slightly, but she ignored it. “You’re nothing like him.”

“Is there any good in lying to ourselves about it, Clary? I’m his son. Of course I’m like him.”

“You’re not like him in any way that matters.” She waited a beat, and then she opened the bag she’d been carrying at her side. “I talked to mom today.” Jace made a humming sound, if only to indicate he’d heard her. “She seemed so normal, and not like when— I don’t know, but I was talking to Sebastian last night, and he made me remember this.” She took out her mother’s box. It was very small, so small that it had fit in her bag, and she’d taken it without anyone noticing it. “It’s the box she kept of you, of your baby things. Your hair… all that. You were super blond as a baby, apparently.”

Jace stared at it. His eyes were dead as he read the initials on it. J.C. “Why did you bring this here?”

“I thought— perhaps if you came to her house, and showed this to her... Maybe she’ll change her mind. I know that if she gets to know you she’ll see you’re nothing like what she imagines.”

“Clary—”

But before Jace could answer, the door swung open, and there was Max, looking annoyed. “Izzy says she wants to talk to Jace.”

Clary placed the box on top of the desk, gesturing her head at Jace to go ahead. He hopped down, his eyes a little gentler now. “Just be careful,” he asked in a soft whisper, “will you? The Clave… I don’t want them to know what you can do.”

She felt the need to kiss his forehead, but she refrained. Instead, she nodded. “Okay. I won’t say anything. I promise.”

Jace walked out, visibly relieved.

The conversation between the Lightwoods was lulling him to sleep. It really wasn’t the type to do that, but he couldn’t help it. He only caught snippets about Jace dragging Simon to Alicante to save his life, and ‘what were they going to do now?’ and it’s fine, they’ll probably just send him to New York now, and Clary doesn’t even have to find out.

“I don’t know you.”

It was that same childish voice. He stirred, rubbing one eye as he straightened up from where he was sitting. A boy was standing next to him now. He looked scrawny and thin for a Shadowhunter. He was wearing glasses, and he had gray eyes that, despite being a different colour, reminded him of Alec’s.

“I don’t know you, either,” he answered.

The boy looked taken aback by it. He’d clearly been expecting an introduction.

“Max,” he heard Isabelle say from where she was standing, only a little away, “why don’t you go read your book? We’re having an adult conversation over here.”

Max pursed his lips in anger. “You’re having one here, they’re having one there. Where am I supposed to go?”

But Isabelle was already not paying attention to him. Sebastian watched him, feeling a pang of pity go through him. He knew what it felt like to be dismissed constantly. It had been his entire experience as a kid. Hell — his father still did it.

“Why don’t you show me what you’re reading?” he offered. “We can go outside and feed the pigeons at the park.”

Immediately Max’s face lit up. “Really?”

It was strange. It was a little like looking at himself when he was younger; desperate for company. “Sure,” he said. “I don’t have anything to do. You’re going to have to keep me awake, though. I didn’t sleep well.”

“Not a problem.” With utmost confidence, Max grabbed his wrist and pulled him out of the couch. Faintly he caught Isabelle’s gaze, looking at them in wonder.

He nodded his head at her right before Max dragged him through the front door.

Chapter Text

It was mid-afternoon when Clary finally managed to find Sebastian to talk to him. She was surprised when he emerged from the front door, with Max excitedly moving up and down on his heels. Jace and Alec had gone out earlier, she wasn’t sure to do what, and Isabelle and her had been having dinner together. When Max showed up, he ran up to her sister and started a rant about what he’d gotten to do all day.

“...and then! Seb told me that he could show me the exact move in this panel, look!”

“He did, huh?” Isabelle exhaled, a stunned smile on her face. Her eyes shifted to Sebastian, who was standing awkwardly by the door and yawning.

“‘Seb’ did?” Clary smirked, arching an eyebrow at him.

Sebastian’s cheeks went a little red. He shrugged. “Well, you call me that, and he kept messing up my full name, so.”

“I like it,” Isabelle chuckled. “It suits you. What’s the move, then, Max?” Max already had the page opened, and he was thrusting it to Isabelle. Her smile waned a little. “That seems a little advanced.”

“I could do it at his age,” Sebastian argued.

“Izzyyyy…” Max whined, “come on, don’t ruin it.”

“Sorry, you’re right, Max. I won’t ruin it.”

It was then that Clary stood up. She walked up to Sebastian and leaned in to whisper. “Hey, can I talk to you?”

His eyes flickered to her. A little bit of anxiety was instantly in his expression. “Sure.”

She guided him out the kitchen and outside entirely. It was a pleasant day. The sun was setting, and orange colours were dancing through the mountains that framed the city. The demon towers barely seemed to cast any shadows, instead creating stars in the middle of the day.

Clary pushed her lips together. She had thought about how to bring this up, and at first she thought she should wait, but… The truth was that she didn’t want to. She didn’t feel the need to. “Look, I— I’ve been thinking…”

He hummed to encourage her to keep going. She could see the lines on his face harshening in worry.  She grabbed his arm, if only to let him know it wasn’t anything bad.

“I— I want—” God, how to even phrase it? “Would you ever consider… becoming my parabatai?”

There was a moment of silence. She had been too nervous to look at him directly when she asked, but after a while, she had to glance at his face to know what he was thinking. His eyes were wide with shock. “What?” he exhaled.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” she amended. “Or if you need to think about it. But— I’m sure. I know you said there’s a lot of things you haven’t told me, but I don’t mind. I already know everything I need to know. I’m… I’m stronger when I’m with you. That’s not going to change.”

He took a step back. For a moment she thought she saw the light reflect in his eyes, almost like they’d teared up, but he was quick to turn his face away, and she couldn’t see it anymore. “Clary… You could have anybody better than me. What about Isabelle?”

“Izzy and I are good friends,” she muttered. “But it’s not the same. Besides, it’s hardly a bidding matter.”

“How can you be sure? You barely know me. I mean, that night at the club—”

She stiffened. “That was— that was a mistake. Or, it felt like one. I thought you didn’t think of me that way.”

“I don’t.”

“Then what does it matter?” He shook his head. Pretty soon she could see that he didn’t really have any objections. He had just grasped for one out of habit. “Seb,” she giggled a little after saying the nickname, “I want to do it. Don’t you?” He kept shaking his head, hands on top of his face. It wasn’t a real denial, and she knew it. “We could probably get it done soon, as well. We’re kind of on the brink of war, and we’re in Idris. I asked Izzy, earlier. She said she thinks we’d only have to wait a week or two.”

“You’re stupid,” he said. His voice was tight, but when he finally lowered his hands she saw that he wasn’t crying. Instead his face was tense, but there was something vulnerable underneath it regardless. “You’re so stupid, Clary.”

She laughed. “I’m not hearing a no.”

“Okay.” He stopped. He gulped down something else, and then laughed with her. “Okay. Fucking hell. Alright. I’ll do it.”

Entreat me not to leave thee,

Or return from following after thee—

They Marked each other on their wrist. He wanted it somewhere he could see it, and Clary thought it would signal a sort of brotherly handshake. The kind you do when you’re helping someone get up, or pulling them out of danger. The moment she finished drawing it on him, he almost swayed. It was so relieving, it made the next breath he took lighter, easier.

For whither thou goest, I will go,

His entire life was a snapshot of lonely moments chasing after him; of a shadow that loomed over and forbade any true joy to take root. His earliest memories were of being inside that kitchen cupboard, holding his own knees and wishing his father would come back home.

But now… Now there was somebody to pull him out of it.

And where thou lodgest, I will lodge.

At any time, he could close his eyes, and Clary was there. He could hear her heartbeat as vividly as if he’d pressed his ear against her chest. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. He wasn’t ever alone. He didn’t have to wonder what she truly felt about him, because he had the proof staring at him on his own flesh. 

Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.

Sometimes, he woke up with a scream stuck in his throat. In his nightmares, Valentine was right. His words weaved scenarios where he hurt Clary, where her soul was lost in the void she had tethered herself to. 

Then he would wake up, and she was there. Thump, thump. In the Mark he could feel her hand gripping onto his, and all his fears would dissipate.

He knew he had to tell her the truth. He'd tried a few times, only for his tongue to twist and for nothing to come out.

Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried.

The morning after their ceremony, Clary sat next to Max in the living room. He was showing her the knife trick Sebastian had taught him how to do. It had taken a little longer that it would have taken him to learn it, but eventually he had gotten the hang of it.

Sebastian was across her, on top of the armchair. He was passing his fingers through the rune, staring at it. Every time he looked at it again, it surprised him. He never expected it to actually be there.

He looked up, and saw that Clary was smiling at him above Max’s head. There was a conspiratorial glint in her eyes, as if she knew what he was thinking. For the first time, that didn’t scare him.

The Angel do so to me, and more also,

He smiled back, disbelieving.

If aught but death part thee and me.

Chapter Text

A few days later, when he stepped through the front door, Jace intercepted him. “Where’s Clary?” he asked, frantic.

He frowned. “I don’t know, but she’s fine.” There was an edge of doubt to his words. He didn’t really know what it would feel like if she wasn’t okay, but it had to at least be different.

Jace only looked irritated. “I know she’s fine. Alec is at the Gard, he sent me a message. He said the Inquisitor—”

Right as he was saying that, the door beside them opened. Jace let go of him as if he’d burned him. Sebastian stepped to the side to let the strange woman pass through. It was then that she noticed his presence, and looked his way.

Her eyes narrowed with mistrust.

He was frozen, back against the wall. Somehow he felt like all those other times people had been able to tell something was wrong with him, but it had always been a rousing suspicion, something that occurred after he said the wrong thing, or acted the wrong way. All she had done was glance at him. He hadn’t even had a chance to say anything.

Still, she shifted her attention to Jace soon enough. “Jonathan, you’re here. Good.” She sounded bored. “I’m here to inform you that the Downworlder you brought into our city has just been returned to New York.”

Jace seemed just as tense as he was, but he also seemed glad by the news. “Great,” he said with forced cheerfulness. “You didn’t need to bother to come all this way to tell me, Inquisitor.”

She stared at him without answering. Sebastian couldn’t help but wonder if she’d done that simply because she knew it would bother Jace. It was a power play, just like everything she’d done before. He almost wanted to laugh. It was the first time he was glad they had traded places.

That didn't last for long when she, abruptly, shifted to look at Sebastian once more. “You,” she said. “Who are you?”

His mouth was dry when he replied; “Sebastian. Sebastian Verlac, Inquisitor.”

“Verlac,” she repeated. “You’re Eunice’s son, aren’t you?” At the very least, he hadn’t forgotten the names of his fake parents. He nodded his head stiffly. “It was a tragedy, what happened to them.”

She was testing him, he realised. He hadn’t been scrutinised about this in so long, he feared he wouldn’t know what he was supposed to say, or do. If she found out who he was, he knew at that moment she wouldn’t care for his age or circumstances. She would hold no mercy. She might very well kill him on the spot. 

He was familiar with these types of situations, as unpleasant as they were.

He forced a polite smile. “It was. I didn’t remember them very well, though, so you needn’t worry about me, Inquisitor.”

Whatever her test had been, it seemed he had, for the moment, passed it. She nodded to acknowledge them both before she left, leaving them in a very tense silence.

He felt his body slump once she was gone. He glanced at Jace, and saw that he was looking at him with a mix of amusement and, strangely, empathy. “Well,” he muttered, “it sure is entertaining to see that from the other side.”

“Fuck off, Wayland.”

“At least Simon is home now.” He scoffed, and it made Jace frown. “What?”

She was lying, was what. He could hear it in her heartbeat. It wasn’t an exact science, but he was fairly certain in this case it hadn’t been wrong. It wasn’t like it was out of character. “Come on, Jace,” he cocked his head at him, an eyebrow raised. “She didn’t really let him go.”

Jace stared at him with pursed lips. For a moment he thought he was about to suffer suspicions again, but instead he just said; “you think she’s lying.” He paused. “Are you sure?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

Jace cursed under his breath. “Well, Verlac, are you up for a prison break?”

Oddly enough, becoming parabatai with Clary had eased things with Jace. The day they had told him, Clary had dragged him by the arm in front of everyone and proclaimed; “we have an announcement!”

He had the inkling Alec and Isabelle already knew, but it was clear then that Jace didn’t. He turned an alarming shade of purple, his golden eyes fixated on that spot where Clary was grabbing onto his forearm. Sebastian could very well guess what he was imagining.

And when Clary said; “we’re going to be parabatai,” Jace’s relief was so evident it was almost funny. They were supposed to pretend they weren’t in love anymore.

They weren’t doing a very good job of it.

“You know we’re going to get caught, right?”

Jace looked back at him, eyes narrowing mockingly. “With that attitude, certainly.”

He scoffed, but he shut up. Following Jace around the Gard wasn’t so dissimilar from going with his father hunting, except that Jace was much more bearable —wow, what a world he lived in—. They did have stealth going for them; both their steps were silent. They were going around the building, crouching below the windows. They had waited for it to get dark, and so Jace was holding a witchlight to illuminate their paths.

Eventually they made it to a distant part of it, encased in shadows by nearby trees. Here, the windows were as low as they could be, and they were barred. They were prison cells. Anyone inside would have to stand to reach a view outside.

“He should be nearby,” Jace muttered. “We were on the left side. That way.” Sebastian followed closely by. He was surprised by how many there were; he would’ve guessed they hardly ever needed to hold anyone in Alicante. “Maybe this one…”

“Not that one,” he pressed him from behind.

“How would you know?”

Because I can hear a heartbeat. Instead he simply groaned in annoyance, “fine, if you want to waste time, let’s have some fun doing that.”

As it turned out, Sebastian was right. Jace stubbornly began whispering inside the cell; “Simon… Simon, are you there?” He watched the figure stir. “You have to stand up, loser. Come on.”

But pretty soon he saw that it was not Simon. As the face came into view, Jace recognised the familiar thin nose, and the scar on the right cheek, and the mat of graying hair on top.

“Hodge,” he managed to say, his voice strained in anger and shock. Of course Hodge was here. He was being trialed. He shouldn’t have been surprised.

“Jace,” Hodge echoed back at him. His eyes were wide and disbelieving. “I thought I heard your voice a few days ago. I figured I had dreamt it.”

It only fed the fury inside of him. He was unable to keep himself from gripping the blade at his side. He unsheathed it. “Give me a good reason not to kill you right here, right now.”

“Jace… Jace, I’m so sorry.”

An apology should have quelled him, but it pushed the anger to a breaking point. He could feel it slowly morphing into pure hatred. “You’re sorry? About what? About lying to me about who I was? About betraying us to save your own skin?”

“Jace,” it was Sebastian who spoke up. He seemed as unbothered as always; mostly just irritated at the interruption. “Who’s this? We’re wasting time.”

Hodge had only been looking at Jace, but now that he heard a new voice, his eyes shifted, struggling to focus on the boy next to him, encased in shadows. As he did, Jace saw a flicker of something pass through his face. It was quickly concealed; he only caught it because he was familiar with Hodge’s mannerisms. “Jace,” Hodge went on, his tone now taking a pleading layer, “come closer, I need to talk to you.”

Jace sneered at him. “That wasn’t a reason.”

“Well, are you going to kill him, or not?” Sebastian rushed him. “We have to go, idiot.” He didn’t answer him. He was frozen in a way he hadn’t been in a long time, like when Valentine had first told him that Clary was his sister. Hodge knew something, he could tell, and he desperately wanted to know what it was, even as he was sure he couldn’t trust him. “Tsk. You were always so soft-hearted. Whatever, I’m going on ahead. Keep up your little chat.”

Soft-hearted. Jace watched him leave with unease growing inside of him. He’d heard that before, but he couldn’t place when, or how, or why it had hung so heavily in the air.

“Jace—” Hodge started. “I have to—”

He began moving to follow after Sebastian, perhaps simply out of spite, or perhaps because he was afraid of what he would do. Either way, he didn’t get far. In a true act of desperation, Hodge leaped forward, getting one arm through the bars and catching Jace’s ankle. He swung at the grip by instinct with the seraph blade, and there was a splatter of blood.

“You have to listen,” Hodge insisted, barely bothered by the injury. Jace shifted backwards where he couldn’t be reached, still gripping the blade tightly, analysing his next move. “That boy. You have to stay away from him. He’s with Valentine.”

It certainly was not what he expected to hear. “Tsk. Why should I believe you? You lied to me. You knew what my father did to me, and you never said anything. All those years, and you never said anything. You were—” Like a father to me, he bit back. “I trusted you. You abandoned us. And now you expect me to just take you at your word?”

“I— I wasn’t sure. I’d only ever seen his son when he was a baby. When you showed up in New York all grown up, as Michael’s son, I had no reason to believe you were anybody else.”

“You knew Valentine was alive.”

Hodge hesitated. “There was a note. Hugin came with a note. It said, ‘the boy is my son.’ That’s all it said. But I didn’t know—”

“You knew,” Jace snarled. “You knew about the experiments. You knew he used demon blood on me. The least you could have done is say something, so I could— I could have ended it early. Killed myself, maybe, before I grew attached to people.”

“I wasn’t sure,” Hodge gripped at the bars with both hands. Under the witchlight, Jace could see all the dirt and grime he’d picked up by being imprisoned. It made him look even more despairing. “There were two. I wasn’t sure which one you were, if you were either of them at all.”

Now that was new. “What? What are you talking about?”

“Valentine did have a son with Jocelyn; Jonathan Morgenstern. He was his first experiment, the one he used demon blood on. But he always planned to do a second one — the ‘opposite’ experiment, he called it. He wanted to use angel blood on another baby, and he did. When Celine was pregnant, Valentine gave her concoctions. Then her husband died, and she slit her wrists. She was far along. Valentine didn’t want to lose the baby, not when he’d invested so much on it. I helped him take it out of her belly.”

Jace stared at him. His muscles were locked up. He couldn’t even force his mouth to move, to ask Celine? Who’s Celine?

“I wasn’t sure which one you were,” Hodge kept going. “But… I thought… Even if you were Jonathan, perhaps nurture mattered more than blood. Perhaps you could be taught—”

Finally, Jace managed to unearth his voice. “Taught? Taught what? Not to be a monster?”

“But now I know,” Hodge pressed his face forward. His gaze was wild, all hints of sanity clearly eroding. “It’s not you. It’s him. That boy, he’s Jonathan. Can’t you see? Can’t you see how much they look alike? He’s here to kill you, Jace. Valentine never forgives a betrayal, you know this.”

When Jace reached Sebastian, he’d already found Simon. His hands were made into fists, one of them still hanging onto the seraph blade. It wasn’t true, was it? Hodge had lied before, had betrayed them all before. He shouldn’t believe him.

And yet, as he approached, he couldn’t help but at least look. Really look. Sebastian was dark-haired, a trait that neither Valentine nor Jocelyn had, but if he focused past it, he could see in his features something familiar. He looked like those old photographs of his father, when he’d barely become an adult.

His… father. Or not his father?

“Finally, you’re here,” Sebastian rolled his eyes at him. Jace honed in on them an uncomfortable amount. They were brown, not as dark as Valentine’s. “Took you long enough.”

“Jace?” Simon’s voice came from inside the cell. “Is that you?”

Jace took a deep breath, forcing himself to push the matter aside. “Yep, it’s me, fangs. Are you ready to cry of joy?” He took out the flask he’d been carrying on his belt, and passed it through the bars. “I brought you some food.”

He heard Simon uncork it, gulp it down, and then the sigh of relief. “Thanks.”

“Alright, are you at full strength now? Because really my only plan is to push these bars apart.”

He felt Sebastian glaring at him. “Really?”

Simon’s face came into view. He was standing now, leaning over so they could all see each other. “Are you breaking me out?” he asked, surprise etched in his features.

“You’re a little slow with the program, bud.”

Simon seemed unimpressed. “And then what, genius? Where are you going to hide me?”

“There’s a Portal,” Jace began, “we can—”

“No, no way. Everyone will know you helped me, Jace, think about it. Who else would break me out, if not you, or the Lightwoods? And I know you’d be happy to martyr yourself and play hero, but it isn’t just you they’re after. They’ve been asking me questions, I think they’re going after them, after the Lightwoods. They want to prove that they’re working for Valentine, that they never left the Circle.”

Jace blinked at him. “That’s absurd. They fought him when he came for the Mortal Cup.”

“It doesn’t matter. If they can find somebody to blame, they get out scott-free. Nobody will question them, or point out how badly they’ve fared against Valentine. It’s all a political game straight out of A Game of Thrones.”

Sometimes Simon really irked him with his mundane references. “I can’t just leave you here—”

“I’ll be fine. They’re not torturing me or anything. Just keep bringing me blood so they can’t starve me.”

Jace bit back the need to say that’s torture, that counts as torture. Instead he rubbed his eyes with one palm, groaning. It was all too much. Everything was crumbling. The ground beneath him was shifting. “I have to tell Clary…”

“Clary? Why would you tell her? She’s in New York.” Right, Simon didn’t know, and at the moment he didn’t seem to catch onto the fact that Sebastian hadn’t been in the party that went through the Portal. “I’m glad she is, by the way. You were right — and I don’t say that often. The Clave is fucking insane. You were right to keep her away from them.”

Sebastian grimaced. Jace ignored him, forcing himself to focus on one problem at a time. “I’m sorry, Simon.”

“Don’t sweat it, dude. You’re forgiven.”

Chapter Text

They were quiet as they headed back. Sebastian half-wanted to complain that it had all been a waste of time, but he couldn’t. Not when he’d watched a Downworlder, once more, risk it all for a bunch of Nephilim. He was beginning to wonder how his father could be so blind, how he had never noticed all the evidence in front of him. 

Jace didn’t have to guide him anymore. Once they were away from the Gard, they walked side by side. He could feel Jace’s eyes on him. He’d been watching him more than usual. He didn’t like it. He was far too used to being scrutinised. “What are you staring at me for?” he said, pushing him lightly to the side to make him snap out of him. “Is this about your friend back there? Did you kill him?”

Unsurprisingly, Jace exhaled out a “no.”

Of course he didn’t. Soft-hearted, like Valentine said.

He pushed his tongue against his cheek. Jace was still staring. Something about the moment was pushing him beyond his normal limits. There was guilt stirring inside of him. He passed a hand through his wrist absent-mindedly, and the bond came into his awareness, like suddenly paying attention to your breathing.

Clary was his parabatai. Was that not proof enough that she wouldn’t leave him? Even if she had Jace?

He grappled with himself. He hadn’t told her the truth, he was too afraid, but… this… perhaps he could at least give them this. “Look,” he started, stopping for a moment in the middle of the street. “I’ve been thinking, you lived here with Valentine, right? In Idris.”

Jace’s face was unreadable. He nodded.

“Maybe you should go there, to your old house. Maybe you could find out something.” Find out who you really are. He knew his father kept journals. He was hoping he had left them behind — there were many of them; surely he couldn’t carry all of them. And Valentine was sentimental, he didn’t tend to destroy things he cared about.

There was a pause. Jace let out a breath he’d been holding, and the tension in the air dissipated. “Yeah,” he said, with a more normal tone of voice. “Maybe you’re right.”

When they got back to the Penhallows’, Clary was sitting on one of the living room couches, arms crossed. They both froze at the entrance. It was definitely past the point she would naturally be awake — Jace hadn't checked the time, but he estimated it was a good bit past midnight.

“Well,” she said, her voice clipped. Jace could tell even without a parabatai bond that she was mad. “Did you both have fun?”

“Clary—”

“Max was talking to me today. He mentioned something about a vampire Jace brought here illegally?”

Ah.

Sebastian stepped to the side. “I’m going to bed.”

Jace couldn’t help but watch him with a lingering sense of betrayal. Clary let him go without a peep, her eyes fixated on Jace, unflinching. “Clary,” he started. “I was going to tell you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Were you?”

“Yes. I mean, unless I didn’t have to, but I was going to tell you tomorrow, since I do have to.”

Clary let out a choked scream. She was on her feet in seconds, and then her fist was over his chest. She’d let it down in an arch. He felt a thud. It stole his air for a second. “You’re so infuriating. You keep treating me like a kid that can’t be trusted with information. How could you not tell me Simon is in jail?”

Jace sighed. He hated to admit it, but she was right. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m sorry. I keep thinking if I can play my cards right, I can keep you safe. But the truth is I’m lost without you.”

A little of her anger seemed to ease off. She might’ve not been expecting him to agree. “I want to see him. I want to see Simon.”

“Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll take you next time we go.”

“Is that where you were?”

“I was bringing him blood. Well, I was planning to straight up break him out and get him through the Portal, but he wouldn’t let me.”

Clary blinked in confusion. “He wanted to stay in jail?”

“He said the Lightwoods are under suspicion, that the Clave has been asking him questions about them. He said they’d know it was them, or me, that helped him. He wanted to protect them.”

“That’s noble and all, but what’s his long-term plan? A life sentence?”

Jace shrugged, helplessly. “I don’t know. I just got back. I haven’t figured any of it out.”

Clarry exhaled out her mouth, clearly exasperated. “Boys,” she said. “What we need is for you all to have an alibi, while somebody else breaks him out.”

“Yeah, sure, and who exactly is going to do that?”

He watched her eyes go towards the stairs where Sebastian had gone, but then doubt filtered in her expression. She knows something, Jace realised, and the knowledge filled him with relief. That meant she hadn’t walked into being his parabatai completely blind. It meant Hodge was most likely wrong, and Sebastian was on their side. He was even more convinced now that what he’d suggested earlier was an admission of sorts, a lifeline. Jace wanted to trust him. If he went to Valentine’s house, maybe he’d see that he could trust him. 

“We can figure that out later,” he told her. “There’s something else that happened. I saw Hodge.”

Clary immediately perked up, curiosity in her gaze. “Oh. What happened?”

He hesitated. “He told me things. That I'm not who Valentine—”

There was a thud. Jace looked away from Clary, his body tense. For a moment he was sure it had happened, and Sebastian was there to backstab them.

Instead he saw Max standing in his pajamas at the bottom of the stairs. “Jace?” he asked, rubbing his eyes. “Did you say Hodge?”

“Max,” he exhaled, half in relief and half disapproving. “What are you doing up?”

“I'm thirsty.”

“I'll get you water, buddy,” said Clary, stepping away from him and going to the kitchen.

She came back after a little bit. Max was yawning when he took the glass and grumbled a “thanks.” Jace watched him leave with his heart in his mouth.

Clary grabbed his arm gently. “You were saying?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know if it's true. I don’t want to tell you yet. I don’t want you worrying about it. I think— I think we could confirm it in some other way, and once we’re there, you’ll see if it's true or not.”

She hummed. He thought she might object, but she just rested her head on his chest, her lip pulled down sadly. “Okay. That’s fine.”

“Do you want me to take you to bed? You look exhausted.”

He felt her chest shake a little as she laughed humorlessly. “No. It’s okay, Jace.”

Chapter Text

That night, before he went to bed, Sebastian sat up on his bed, staring at the mirror on the wall. He’d done this many times before, when he was practicing the glamour. Now, he let it fade away, and looked at his eyes as they really were — black and monstrous.

He passed his fingers through the parabatai Mark. He could faintly hear Clary and Jace talking downstairs, though beyond that, she was here, with him.

He had to tell her.

He didn’t sleep for a while. He went through a thousand scenarios in his head. Blindly, he tried to write a script, tried to look at himself and find a way to speak that wouldn’t make him look like a traitor. It was after an hour of frustration, when he was lying down and looking at the ceiling instead, that he got an idea.

Maybe the words would come… if he finally pulled this thorn out of his heart. The one that had started everything. Why did she go away?

Because of you. Because there’s something wrong with you.

Sudden determination spurred him forward. For the second time in the last couple of weeks, he renounced sleep. Instead he grabbed his seraph blade, his stele, and climbed out of the window. It was about two in the morning, but by the time he was at Jocelyn's house, he would only have to wait some two to three hours for sunrise. Somehow, he was sure his mother was as much an early riser as he was.

He walked through the deserted streets of Alicante. At first, it was the same path Jace and him had taken, but when he reached the river, he followed it out of the wards entirely. His heart was hammering inside his chest, but he didn’t let it stop him. He was done lying. He was done hiding. He didn’t want to, anymore. If things were going to fall apart, let them.

He kept going for about thirty minutes. He was vaguely aware that the cabin where Valentine and he had once lived was not so far away. He wondered how closeby Jace’s was, how likely it had been that they’d run into each other.

Then he heard something faint behind him.

Someone was there. No steps crunching on leaves or twigs, but he recognised the sound of breathing. He turned around, unsheathing the blade. “Abrariel.” His eyes searched wildly in between the shadows of the trees. 

“It’s good to see you haven’t lost your touch.”

He froze.

He would recognise that voice anywhere, and its low, warning edge. Out from the left emerged a tall figure. He was also armed, the soft glow of a seraph blade illuminating his features.

Sebastian’s mouth was dry. He could feel himself slipping somewhere familiar, somewhere he didn’t want to go to. His back had automatically straightened, his eyes had dropped downwards in respect. Even his mouth moved involuntarily, uttering that singular word in greeting; “father.”

Valentine walked forward, until he was only a few feet away. For some reason, there was this horrible certainty pulling at him. He knows, he thought. He’s going to kill me. But he fought to keep his head on straight, not to give himself away so easily. “How— how did you find me?”

Valentine raised his right hand — the one that wasn’t holding the blade. Sebastian stared in shock at his old sketchbook. He’d left it underneath the floorboards of their safehouse. He didn’t know his father had found it. He didn’t know his father had anything that belonged to him at all, anything that he could use to track him.

“I’m surprised,” Valentine tossed the sketchbook to the side carelessly, “a few days ago, everyone was at the Gard… and yet, you didn’t come to meet me where we discussed.”

Sebastian gripped the blade tighter, willing himself not to tremble. “I couldn’t. Jace was in jail, everyone was freaking out over it. If I’d left, they would’ve noticed.”

It was the wrong thing to say. He knew as soon as Valentine’s gaze narrowed. “You’re lying,” he observed. The accusation wasn’t harsh, simply matter-of-factly. “Jace has been free for some time. You didn’t think you were the only eyes I had on the city, did you?” Fuck. “Why are you lying to me, Jonathan? You’re not getting ideas again, are you?”

He stared at him, unwilling to make the first move. Should he run? Should he attack? “No.” Talking is what he did, trying desperately to sound at all convincing. “Of course not.”

Valentine sighed. He didn’t look angry. He looked disappointed. He looked like he had expected this the entire time. “I should have known better than to make you. But no matter; I’ll make sure you serve your purpose, at the very least.”

Then he moved. Sebastian barely had time to react, to raise his blade in time to block the attack. His ears rang with the clanking of adamas striking each other. He felt like he was twelve again, standing in the middle of the forest, looking at a young girl with her leg stuck in a bear trap. He had been sure then that if he didn’t shoot her, Valentine would kill him.

That same feeling was here now, robbing him of oxygen. He stumbled back, panicked. Not now. He didn’t want to die. Not when he wasn’t alone anymore. Not when he could make things right.

He felt a cut pierce through his bicep. It was shallow, but the sharpness of it woke him up from his trance. Valentine’s impassive face was inches away from him. Sebastian clenched his teeth, and kicked with all the strength he had in him. His father was launched back, his back hitting a tree behind him. Valentine didn’t lose his footing, but he almost did. There was a flicker of surprise in his face, as if he was shocked Sebastian had fought back at all.

He stared forward, panting. Right. He was strong, he was stronger than his father. Valentine had made sure of it, he had enhanced him beyond what a normal Nephilim was. The blood, the demon blood that had plagued him for so long, was now the very thing that could save him. His father had taught him everything he knew; he was more experienced, he was a better trained fighter.

But he was just a normal man.

His lips twitched. A crazed smile slowly formed over his face. Valentine had quickly concealed any emotion from his expression once more, but it was too late. Sebastian knew, now, that he could win.

He dashed to the side, faster than the eye could catch. Valentine launched himself away from the tree. The blade made a gash on the tree bark, right where his head had been a second ago. Sebastian felt a second cut pierce through his neck, but he’d dodged just in time to avoid it getting to the jugular. He struck forward with his elbow. Valentine stumbled back, blood spurting out of his nose, his gaze blazing with fury. “How dare you?” he hissed out. “After everything I sacrificed for you.”

He laughed. He sounded just as hysterical as he had many other times, being whipped by his father. “You can’t beat me,” he grinned. “I’m stronger than you. Nobody can beat me.”

There was another clash of blades. He shifted his footwork to the left, until his father was against another tree; cornered. Both of their weapons met in the middle. It was a pure competition of force, and, easily, Sebastian spun his wrist. Valentine’s blade clattered to the side.

He felt high. He pressed the tip of his blade on his father’s throat. It was the first time the thought of killing didn’t make him feel sick. His body was tingling with adrenaline, something sadistic inside of him thrumming with satisfaction. Finally, it would all be over.

Valentine stared at him. There was no fear in his face.

“Any last words?” Sebastian pressed a palm over the hilt, ready to drive it forward.

Then, inexplicably, Valentine smiled. “You were always too arrogant for your own good,” he said. “If you’d killed me already, you would’ve won, but you had to make sure you enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

He frowned, a little rattled by the assuredness in his father’s words. Whatever, it didn’t matter; it was over. He pushed on the hilt, only to find that his muscle was too weak. The blade made a shallow gash over Valentine’s collarbones, before falling on the grass between them. Sebastian stumbled backwards. The ground beneath his feet didn’t feel so steady anymore. He made a choked noise of confusion. His vision swirled, the edges of it turning black.

“I know you too well, son.”

He felt himself begin to sway. Valentine caught him by gripping onto the fabric of his shirt. He parted his lips. His chest was suddenly seizing, and he couldn’t take in enough air. “Wh’t— what’d y’do?” he slurred.

“I coated my blade in venom,” Valentine said simply. “Don’t worry. It won’t kill you. You still have work to do.”

No…

But it was too late. Swiftly, those black edges converged in the middle, and everything went dark.

Chapter Text

Clary woke up with a sudden start. She couldn't remember having had a nightmare, and yet her heart was strained; afflicted. 

It was dark out. It wasn't morning yet. A faint drizzle had begun to pour, hitting the windows of her room. The sound would be lulling, if it wasn't because her stomach was twisted into knots. Something is off, she thought.

She reached for the Mark on her wrist. It was uncharacteristically silent. As much as the boy himself was reserved, having him tethered to her had been anything but. He was constantly there; constantly reaching out,  constantly grabbing her attention. It wasn't so much that he transmitted any particular feeling. It was habitual, like he was checking that he hadn't forgotten his keys. She had come to appreciate it. It seemed an open question, in a way; an “are you okay?” And she liked knowing there was somebody who would ask her.

But now… Nothing.

Perhaps she'd simply woken up, and things felt different when your parabatai was sleeping. She shifted until she was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. She willed herself to go back to sleep. She shut her eyes and listened to the rain. 

Perhaps she should just check on him.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, she came out of her room and crossed the hallway to where Sebastian stayed. She didn't knock, she simply opened his door slowly, and felt a jolt of distress when she saw that his bed was empty. The window was open, and the rain had begun to pour inside. She went over to close it. Her feet were wet now, and she had to tiptoe to the bathroom to dry them.

“Clary?” It was Jace. He was standing outside, his face shrouded in worry. She grimaced at him from where she was, sitting on top of the toilet. His shoulders dropped in relief. “What are you doing up?”

Wasn't that a great question? She shrugged, helplessly. “Seb's not in his room,” is what she said. “What time is it?”

A shadow crossed through Jace's face. “Four in the morning.” She pursed her lips. Sebastian was an early riser. Maybe he had just woken up extra early today. She rubbed on the Mark anxiously. Jace watched her. She didn't like the way he was looking at her. He didn't seem worried as much as… something else. “Is it bothering you? The rune.”

She sighed in defeat. She wasn't sure. She didn't know what it was supposed to be like. It was a little like trying to figure out if a random pain on your side was your muscle or your kidneys; she wasn't a doctor, she didn't know. “What would I feel? If— if he wasn't okay?”

“You would know,” said Jace. “But it's not an exact science. He could be unharmed, just having a bad morning.” She nodded her head, numbly. “Come on, let me get you back into bed.”

She let Jace guide her towards her room. She sat on her bed and he tucked her in silently. The rain started to drizzle out. Jace pulled away. “Wait,” she called. He stopped a few feet away from her. Her hand was tight around the Mark. Maybe it wasn't Sebastian at all that had her like this. There was this horrible sense of doom looming over her. Tomorrow, she remembered, was a Clave session. Everyone was supposed to go to the Gard. Every time a Clave session happened, she couldn't help but think that it was an opportunity for Valentine to do something. “I'm scared, Jace,” is what she said, her voice fragile, like a child admitting that to their mother.

Jace's face, which so far had remained distantly tense, softened. “I—” he hesitated. “Me too.” He didn't ask her what she was scared of. He didn't need to, apparently. “Every night I have dreams… nightmares, in which I lose you. I fail. I can't do anything to stop it from happening.”

Her chest was tight. “You should've told me.”

He shook his head. “What's the point? Every night… Every night feels like it'll be the last, like at any moment my father will march an army to the gates of the city, and we'll be at war. Every night I want to spend it with you.” She looked up at him in shock, and he corrected himself; “That's not what I meant. I wouldn’t touch you. I know it's wrong, it's— Fuck, Clary. I want it not to be true. Is it horrible of me, that I want you not to be a part of me, only so that I may have you?”

“No.” She wanted to cry suddenly. “It's not horrible.”

There was a pause. Jace walked towards the window, peering out. She was startled to notice that there wasn't any humour in his expression — nothing sarcastic, or distant. He was there with her, completely, vulnerably. “I've been thinking about what you said,” he murmured, barely louder than the few raindrops that still fell. “About whether or not I'd love you if I wasn't a monster.”

“Jace—”

“I realised… demons want, Clary, but they don't love. I must have… at least a little bit of human in me.”

She had thought that day in the Institute, that Jace saying he only loved her because he was a monster was as bad as it would get. She had been wrong; this was worse. “It'll fade with time,” she whispered, though she sounded unconvincing even to herself. “One day you'll fall in love with another girl. If we just pretend for long enough—”

“There is no pretending. I love you, and I'll love you until the day I die, and if there is a life after that, I'll love you then.” She caught her breath. She teared up. When he noticed, he took a step back. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I shouldn't burden you with it. Tomorrow — I'll take you somewhere tomorrow. I want to show you something. It'll take our minds off everything, at the very least.”

This was the signal that the conversation was over, that they could go back to reality. The reality of being unable to express one another.

She didn't want to do that. “Can you shut the curtains?” she asked him. “I can't sleep when it's bright.” He pulled at one, coating the room in darkness. When he walked towards the door, Clary, arming herself of courage, said; “Jace… stay.” She watched the muscles of his back freezing. “You said you wanted to spend the night with me. Come to bed, then.”

His voice was hoarse. “We shouldn't. It'll be— harder, after.”

“Will it?” Could it really be any harder, if that is how he felt? If she felt the same way? There was no making it worse, or making it better. “Just one night. One night won't matter, in the grand-scheme of things. I want to wake up next to you, at least once.”

When he turned, his face was filled with incredulity. He hadn't expected her to reciprocate him, she thought. But still, he nodded, and shut the door, and climbed into bed. He was wearing a black shirt and shorts. He lay down next to her with his hands carefully tucked close to his chest. She reached forward to grab one, and when she did she noticed her parabatai rune again, as quiet as before.

She fell asleep to Jace’s breathing. 

And then woke up again. This time… She was certain. Something was wrong. In her daze she barely registered that outside was still dark. She stumbled out of bed, gripping her wrist, feeling like she was about to puke. The distress that it was signaling to her was unmistakable. Desperately, she tried to reach out to him, to at least tell him he wasn’t alone.

She went into Sebastian’s room. It was still deserted. She squinted in the dark, her eyes skirting through. He had to have some belongings, right? Something to track him with.

But there was nothing. He’d come to Alicante without a suitcase, without anything. All he had were his clothes, and they hardly belonged to him. His stele and his blade were gone.

She twisted her hands close to her chest. She went back to her room, to take out paper and a pen. Jace was sitting up, frowning; blinking away the light. “Clary?”

She scribbled hastily on it, and sent it through with her stele. Are you okay?  Where are you?

She waited for what felt like forever. Jace didn’t speak, possibly guessing what she was doing. Then — a paper appeared in front of her. She opened it with her heart in her mouth.  

I’m fine. I had to take care of some things.

She should have felt relief, but there was none. She stared numbly at the words.

“Clary,” Jace placed a hand on her shoulder. “He’s okay.”

“He’s not,” she shook her head. “I can feel it.”

“I told you, it isn’t an exact science. He’s probably upset, and that’s what you’re feeling.”

It seemed difficult to believe that such a thing would be so unbearable, but she guessed Jace knew better than she did. She let him pull her back into bed. She was still clutching her wrist. The anxiety was too great to fall back asleep — all she did was lie there, with her eyes wide open, staring at the rune and praying her presence was at least some form of comfort.

Chapter Text

The first thing he felt was an ache all around his body. His limbs were stiff and uncooperative. He struggled to open his eyes — they flickered open weakly, and he was able to get a blurry view of grass and of the roots of trees, all whizzing by beneath him. Valentine was carrying him, he realised. He was draped over his shoulder, his arms limp in front of him. He tried to move, but all he could manage was for his fingers to twitch.

The familiar panic rose up in his chest, the certainty that his life was about to end. But that wasn’t true, was it? If his father wanted to kill him, he would’ve done it already. You still have work to do, he’d said. And how exactly was he planning to force him to do anything?

If only he had been faster. If only he had slit his throat when he had the chance. He could still do it, if he could will his hand to reach for his blade and stab Valentine in the back.

The idea fizzled out when they stopped. He was hoisted up from his position and then propped up against a wall. He could barely lift his head. He heard a door opening beside him, and then the steps of his father walking inside whatever cabin he’d brought them into.

Their cabin, he realised, not without humour. He could tell when he managed to focus his eyes, to see the trees around them. They were in the back of the house. Upfront, there was that old road that nobody used anymore. He knew how to get to Alicante from here — if he could only move.

He grit his teeth. He felt a spasm in his leg when he tried to lift it. Come on… If he was awake already, perhaps the venom was wearing off.

Something else came into his awareness, other than the ache of his own body. That something stirred, reached out for him with worry. Clary. He clinged to the feeling with desperation, begging the bond to give him a semblance of strength, if only enough to get away, to get his useless limbs to respond to him.

His leg shifted up, his knee shook as he put force on it. It was ungraceful, and he was sure he was going to tip over at any second, but with the wall behind him, he managed to stand. Valentine wouldn’t expect him to move yet. If he was just fast enough, he could get away.

Blindly he stumbled forward. He couldn’t walk in a straight line — he couldn’t stay on his feet at all. Pretty soon he was on his hands and knees, cursing under his breath, clawing at the dirt to try to propel himself further. 

There was a grip on the back of his head, grabbing at the strands of his hair. Valentine pulled him back. He let out a growl of frustration. His nails bled as he fruitlessly attempted to resist him.

“Jonathan.” Rather than forceful, Valentine’s voice was tired; exasperated. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

Fuck you, but he couldn’t speak. He watched the prospect of freedom evaporate in front of him, as Valentine dragged him inside the cabin and shut the door.

“I’m very disappointed in you. I’ve asked very little of you, and now that I depended on you, you let me down.” As he talked, he was shifting Sebastian across the floor by his ankle. They didn’t pass through any more doors or walls, which was at least a good thing. He knew they were in the living room when he saw the familiar couches beside him. His father left him on top of the carpet, beside the small table in the middle, and then crouched in front of him. “But… I suppose it is my fault. I didn’t discipline you enough. It is no wonder you let them fill you with ideas. You have always been too weak of character.”

Sebastian watched him from where he was. His head was tilted slightly to the left. He’d always harboured resentment for his father, but right now, it was brimming hot inside of him. He glared at him with all the hatred he could muster. Valentine arched an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. He grabbed Sebastian’s wrist — he had rope in one hand, he noticed, and he began fastening it to one of the table’s legs, so it would be elevated. He was attempting to struggle, but the tugs he could manage were more an annoyance than an impediment.

The sleeve of his jacket fell, and there was the parabatai rune, plain for his father to see.

For just a moment, Valentine stopped his motions. His eyes fixated on the Mark. “Ah,” he said. “I see. You did not stay away from her as I advised you, did you?”

He parted his lips. His tongue was tingly and numb. “Yo’w’re…” he slurred, “wr’ng…”

“I was wrong?” Valentine scoffed. He’d finished fastening his hand to the leg, and now he was standing, walking across him to retrieve something. “I am sure it’s more convenient for you to think that.”

Sebastian tried to pull himself free. The table creaked as it shifted maybe one inch across the carpet. It was useless, he knew, but he was doing it out of spite. When Valentine came back, he kicked the table back to where it was. 

“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to resort to this,” he kept going. He kneeled now, beside him, and he started tapping on Sebastian’s wrist the way you would if you were looking for a vein. “I imagine it will be painful for you.”

He couldn’t speak — but he could, with difficulty, produce a sound that was similar to laughter. When has that ever stopped you?

“You wound me, Jonathan.” Valentine produced a needle. Expertly, he pierced the vein on Sebastian’s wrist. Pretty soon he realised it was attached to a small tube, like an IV. “I have always tried to spare you suffering as much as possible.”

He attached the tube to a bag and a drip, just like normal, except of course it wasn’t attached to a steel post with wheels so he could walk around. The liquid inside of it was clear, but he guessed it wasn’t meant to help keep him hydrated.

No sooner was he done with that before he was grabbing Sebastian’s other hand. This time he wasn’t injecting something in, but taking it instead. “I had long decided…” he muttered as he worked. He filled four small vials. He wondered how much he had taken in any precise measurements — if he felt dizzy because of it, or simply because of the venom. “...that it will be your blood that breaks the wards in Alicante.”

He made another sound between his teeth, angry and spiteful. Valentine ignored him. He was then attaching his other arm to the leg of one of the couches, much like he’d done with the other one. Ah, two drips then. Two substances. One of them, he ventured to think, was that same venom — it was meant to keep him still. “This might hurt,” he said, as he attached the tube to the next drip.

Sebastian watched detachedly as the liquid made its way down. This one was pure black. Eventually, it reached the needle on his wrist, and sure enough, it immediately produced an intense burning sensation. Despite the warning, he wasn’t prepared for it. He couldn’t contain the gutural groan he let out. He watched the veins in his right arm turning the same colour as the liquid as it travelled through him.

It was agonizing. It only got worse the longer it went on. He tugged at his wrists again, kicked his legs, squirmed uselessly on the floor, gasped and gasped until he was out of breath. His father watched it all with a neutral expression, like he was assessing the results more than he was concerned over them. “This was one of the first experiments I tried,” he said dispassionately. “I tried it on myself, so I’m familiar with what you’re feeling right now. For me it did nothing, of course, it only made me sick. But —you probably don’t remember, you were only four years old, or so— I tried it on you later, since the demon blood was already part of your physiology. I wanted to see if I could add any more to it.”

Oh God, is that what this was? More demon blood? He pressed his head against the carpet. The venom was working again, and it made it harder and harder to move, made the room spin endlessly in front of him. It wasn’t knocking him out, it might have been a very low dosage. Or perhaps his father wanted him awake for it; didn’t want to ‘spare him’ that suffering. It was only the agony that still made it possible to struggle. It wasn’t even voluntary now. He was tossing in pain without being able to control it.

“Some of the effects were temporary. I had the misfortune of them occurring while your mother was watching you. You caught a pigeon, do you remember? You squished it until it died.”

He didn’t remember, and it was hard to even attempt to. At the edges of his vision, the shadows were rising. He blinked, and he saw the shape of a face on the ceiling, staring at him menacingly. He blinked again, and it was gone, but when he twisted his head he saw the same expression on his father’s face — a wide smile twisting up, farther than it was natural.

He shut his eyes tight. “Some effects are long-lasting, which is why I never did it again,” his father kept saying. His voice was warped now, skittering through his ears. Too loud and then too quiet. “I did not want to irreparably change you, disturb the balance inside of you. I was afraid I would consume all the humanity you had left. I needed you to have some, if only to understand your purpose and to carry it out.”

You’re making me worse, he realised. The prospect of it made his stomach turn. He was sure he would vomit right there and then, all over the floor and over himself, but he didn’t. He was starting to think he would have preferred death. At least then, he couldn’t hurt Clary.

It was as if he’d summoned her. There was a noise like sizzling fire. He wasn’t sure it was real until Valentine spoke, with faint surprise; “ah, Clarissa is worried about you.”

Clary—

He clinged to the other end of the bond, with such force he might very well be attempting to escape his own body and enter hers. He pleaded with it, for it to save him from whatever Valentine was doing, to prevent him from breaking him.

“We shouldn’t let her dwell on you. Don’t worry, son, I’ll take care of it.” He was vaguely aware that his father had stood up, and walked away somewhere else. “What would you write back…? Something simple, I presume. ‘I’m fine. I had to take care of some things.’ How about that?”

His eyes had become teary. The room wouldn’t stop spinning now, it was entirely out of control. He felt like he was convulsing, but he was barely twitching anymore. It was a silent kind of suffering. He couldn’t even scream, all that left his lips were faint, weak gasps.

“As for me, I do have things to take care of. I’ll be back to check on you in an hour.”

He tried to speak. He’d done a pretty good job at not giving Valentine the satisfaction of pleading, but that one whimper of pain betrayed him. Don’t leave me, it said. Please don’t do this.

He was ignored.

Chapter Text

He lost track of time pretty soon. He’d attempted to keep a semblance of it, if only to know when his father would come back, but he was too dizzied, too out of it, to really do so.

He wondered when he was supposed to feel any different. Was he going to stop caring about Clary? Was he going to get angry, resentful? All he felt at the moment was despair. His head had become stuck watching the door, and the venom dripping into his wrist, and his parabatai Mark staring at him.

He’d been so close… So close to changing everything…

His eyelids flickered. He felt a shiver like spiders were crawling up his spine. The cabin itself felt alive. He could feel its eyes, watching him, mocking him. Everything had come to an end in the same place where it started. It was like he’d been shoved back in that kitchen cabinet, back in that storm, with no lifelines, no way out.

No.

The refusal began in his throat, making it harder to breathe. He grit his teeth. Valentine hadn’t won yet. He couldn’t just hand it to him without fighting. He focused his gaze on his own wrist, attached to the venom. He noticed, then, that his elbow didn’t touch the floor. If he could just… dislodge his arm, move it down until the needle was out of his vein… then it would eventually wear off, and he could move.

He took a deep, stuttering breath. He concentrated on moving this one limb, just this once. His fingers twitched uselessly. Come on… Move. Move… He had to be able to do it. He wasn’t a normal person. He was a supersoldier. It was only an inch or so. Move. Move.

The table creaked, as the rope slid on top of the wooden surface slightly. Sebastian bit his lip with such force he produced blood. He kept pulling, and pulling. His muscles were weak. This would have been an easy feat at any other time.

And then— Snap. A stream of blood poured down his forearm, yet he didn’t even care. His wrist caught on the loosened rope, and his arm dangled limply, but the needle was out, the venom dripping on the carpet instead of inside of him.

He shut his eyes, panting in exertion. How long had it been? If it was close to the hour, Valentine would be back soon, and it wouldn’t wear off in time. He prayed silently, with a desperation he’d never felt before. Please. I’ve never asked for anything. Please give me enough time.

It seemed to take forever. It started as that familiar ache all around his body. It made the pain of the other drip spike and worsen. He could hardly believe his father had actually given him something of a painkiller. Pretty soon he was gasping, and twitching. He turned his head to the other side. His free arm dragged across the carpet, and it took an inordinate amount of strength to pull it above himself so he could twist to the side and try to free the other one. Clumsily he grabbed at the rope and tugged. Thankfully, he was left-handed, like his father, though it hardly mattered at the moment. His fingers kept sliding off, but that was okay. It wasn’t very tight. He wasn’t supposed to be able to tug on them much.

The rope came undone. The veins on his right arm were all blackened, and it felt far heavier than the other one. It hurt just by itself, throbbing, bringing the agony into his chest and the rest of his body. He cried out in frustration, pushing at the needle on his wrist until it came off. It was a little cleaner this time, though not by much.

He was free. He was free.

He twisted further, onto his stomach. He reached up onto the couch, trying to use it to get himself up. His legs were jittery and uncooperative. He groaned as he pushed, and pushed, until his torso was up on it, and his knees were on the carpet. The room kept spinning. The shadows kept laughing.

He forced himself to keep going. He managed to stand, but the moment he took one step, he crumbled to the ground with a heavy thud all over again. Fuck, fuck. He was sure he was running out of time.

The adrenaline made it easier. He got on his feet again. He stumbled forward towards the door. My stele, he thought just as he’d reached the knob. He’ll be able to track me again, if I don’t block it with a rune.

He looked back. He could hardly see anything in the dark; only faces, and insects crawling up the walls. He could feel them on himself, as well, but everything hurt so much it all just became part of the same thing. Had Valentine taken his stele? He struggled to remember. Surely, he had. He could find another one in Alicante. Perhaps he had enough time to walk a good bit without Valentine knowing he was missing.

Indecision twisted his stomach. Finally he resolved to leave, too afraid that he wouldn’t even get past the door. He went out into the woods in a haze. He’d thought he knew the right way, but the landscape was wrong, and twisted. The trees were not the ones he knew, and it was too dark to see anything. If he wasn’t so close to the wards, he would have been sure they were all demons.

He wasn’t silent, either. He was moving clumsily, stumbling every so often on roots and having to drag himself up by clawing up a tree trunk. His only solace was the Compass rune. Surely, it wasn’t lying to him, and he was moving in the right direction, even if he didn’t recognise anything.

And sure enough — his body hit water. The river. He stopped on his hands and knees, on top of some rocks, with relief so overwhelming he could cry. The city couldn’t be too far off. He could make it.

He knew the hour was long gone because, as he emerged from a bundle of trees, he saw an orange glow past the mountains, and the demon towers casting sparkles overhead. The sun had already risen.

He ran into the City of Glass.

Chapter Text

Jace and her left early, before the sun rose — though, given it was winter, that would happen way past eight. As they walked through the streets, she saw people going towards the Gard. It was strange to move against the general flow. “Are we allowed to skip?” she muttered.

“Technically, yes, because we're minors. Practically, anyone over sixteen not going gets told off. Honestly, most parents bring their kids, too.”

She hummed, absent-mindedly. Her hand was holding onto her wrist. The distress had diminished, but not entirely. She was glad to be out. She had asked everyone she could think of if they'd seen Sebastian, to no avail. Alicante was big, and the outside even bigger. Without a tracking rune, searching for him blindly would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. It was pointless. She could only uselessly wait.

So, she was glad to be distracted. “Where are you taking me, anyway?” 

“You'll see.”

They kept on for a good while. Clary was half expecting them to go into the woods, but they didn't. They got to the outskirts of Alicante, near where the river roared. Grass fields stretched beside it, and on them stood a big manor. Had the marks of age not affected it, she would think it straight of a fairy tale, but the building was awfully quiet. There were no servants, no people; no life in it. As they approached, she saw that the door was covered in a layer of dust.

“Jace,” she muttered, “where are we?”

As she turned to look at him, he saw that his face was shrouded with something sorrowful. “Wayland manor,” he said.

“You mean… you lived here?”

He nodded, then crouched down and searched underneath the carpet. He produced a key. “It's still here,” he noted with surprise.

The door creaked as they pushed it open. Inside was completely dark, and Jace held up a witchlight to illuminate the interior. Clary held her breath. 

The space didn't feel as open as it should — the big, white curtains were shut. The tall ceiling was cut short by being unable to see its end. 

She talked up into the vastness, hearing it echo. “Why are we here, Jace?”

“I'm breaking a rule from my childhood. Follow me.”

They went through a hallway, past some stairs, towards the back of the manor. They came into a library about as big as the Institute's, with shelves so high they needed those moving stairs to get to the top books. Green curtains hung over windows of alternating colours; more green, and blue. Jace pointed towards a little nook that overlooked the outside. “I used to sit there and read whatever my father had assigned to me that day. French was on Saturday, English was Sunday. I can't remember which day Latin was.”

She pursed her lips. “I had no idea you'd grown up so…” she struggled to find the word.

“Rich?” He scoffed. “Yeah, I know. He wasn't here all the time, though. I had servants looking after me. One day, he postponed a trip because I fell off those stairs.”

She frowned. She couldn't imagine Valentine doing something like that for his son. He was always cold and uncaring to her.

“Anyway,” he shook his head to push away the past. “I was only allowed to read what he said. There were books here… on this shelf. I picked up one once, when I was about seven, just to see what all the fuss was about. It was a journal my father was keeping. When he found out I'd read it, he whipped me with a belt. He was furious.”

She felt a flare of hatred go through her. She took a deep breath to move past it. “Is that what we're doing?”

“Yes. We're going through old secrets.”

“How come the Clave has never gone through them?”

He shrugged. He was already moving one stair to reach them. “They barely believe me when I say I thought he was Michael Wayland. I imagine they haven't even thought of the possibility he actually lived here.”

“Didn't people see him?”

“He was a bit of a recluse.”

She frowned. “I thought you said he went out a lot.”

Jace was climbing up, but at her words she watched him pause for a moment. “Yeah…” he muttered, though it appeared to be more to himself. “I suppose that is curious.”

Finally he came down with a good stack of journals. She was a little marveled at his ability to carry them all. He placed them down on the floor and sat down, witchlight in one hand. Clary crouched, too, and scanned the titles. They were mostly letters and numbers; some kind of sequence with two many classifications to keep track of. Jace picked up one with the letter ‘J’ and opened it. He read out loud; “I have decided to conduct these experiments separately. I am concerned at the prospect that one might cannibalise the other. Both of them have already shown tremendous promise. #1 is remarkably independant for his age, though he tries to pretend otherwise to have me prioritise him. He is readily prone to manipulation, though human nature appears to be too distant to him to do so seamlessly. I imagine he will fare well once he has grown…”

Clary blinked in shock. “Is he talking about you?”

Jace's shoulders were tense, his mouth set into a thin line. “I don't think so.”

“Jace, what's going on?”

He read further as reply; “#2, at first, seemed to me completely normal. I can see the effects of the angel's essence—” And he stopped. His eyes stared ahead, past the words.

“Jace.”

“He did use an angel. He used angel blood.” He placed that journal aside, and began flipping through others in a frantic haze. “Here. It says here. He used— chains. It says, ‘chains I procured from #1's benefactor.’”

Her throat was tight. She was barely following along, but she could connect the dots of angel and chains well enough. “Why does he talk about two experiments? He didn't know about me.”

“It's not you,” his voice was hoarse and disbelieving. “Hodge said… He said there were two of us.”

“Two… sons? That makes no sense. My mom would have known—”

“One… one of them, the one he used the angel on, Hodge said, wasn't…” he seemed to be fighting past a barrier to speak it out loud, “...his. It was a baby he took… from a woman named Celine.”

Ah. She understood now, what he was implying. “You're saying that's you. You're not his real son.”

“I don't know. These are numbers. How am I supposed to be able to tell with numbers?”

She sat down now, and grabbed a journal. “We'll find a way to tell.”

“Clary, there's something else I haven't told you.”

She looked across at him. This seemed plenty enough already. “What is it?”

“Hodge saw Sebastian. He said… that was him. That was Jonathan.” For a moment she couldn't understand his words. Then it clicked. She made a deadened sound; an attempt to say she was following, but too shocked to deliver real feeling. “And… Sebastian suggested I came here. I thought, perhaps, he was admitting to something.”

There is still so much you don't know about me, he had said. I lied to you. I've lied to everyone. I'm— I'm not who I said I was. 

“I don't understand,” she exhaled. She was surprised by how monotone she sounded. She thought she ought to react in some way; feel something, though she wasn't sure what. “Why wouldn't he tell me?”

“Maybe he was afraid you would be angry.”

Was she angry? No, she didn't think so. Why would she be angry? Angry at her father, perhaps, for how he'd lied, for how he'd splintered her family and hurt everyone in the process.

Angry at Sebastian? For what, exactly? For no doubt having been abused and manipulated the same way Jace had? For having a change of heart?

Her hands tightened on the journal. She opened it.

“Clary,” Jace called, concerned. “Are you alright?”

“I need to know,” she said. “I need to be sure.”

They read for what must have been three or so hours. The witchlight became obsolete when the sun filtered through the window. Two passages were marked upon, the pages ripped out from their places. I'm happy to see Celine's unfortunate death did not affect #2’s wellbeing. I am told he is a healthy baby, with no signs of distress other than the normal amount of crying. And— I have decided to send #2 away. It has become too risky to remain in Idris. He is not old enough to do the kind of work that needs doing. I have seen heavy signs of stress in him. I suspect his nature is too soft-hearted for our times. I hope he may one day harden enough to reunite with us. I'll have to take #1 on the road with me; though I fear he will be too problematic, I know any Nephilim other than me would kill him for what he is.

It was proof. It was a link that connected Celine and Jace. Jace had been sent to New York, while Jonathan had not. Clary finished reading the second one out loud, and she felt Jace pulling at her arm. He grasped at her like she'd disintegrate at any second. “You're not my brother,” she exhaled.

Jace's chin rested on top of her head. She could feel his breathing behind her, uneven. “I'm not your brother.”

“But… What about him? Jonathan? How can we know if he's— I mean we don't know anything about him. This stuff he writes could be about anyone. It doesn't sound like Seb at all, either.”

“A manipulative, evil twelve year old? Honestly it sounds impeccably accurate to me.”

She laughed. She hated that she laughed. “Be serious. All it says is this stuff about him withering flowers and killing animals when he was four, and something about training Hugin to steal people's hats.”

“That's honestly very funny. Props to him for that.”

“Valentine makes him sound like… like some monster that could drain people with just touching them. Hell, what was it he wrote? I theorise if I could enhance this ability, he would have no need of a weapon to dispose of a target. That's literally what he's saying, isn't it? That he could touch someone and they'd wither up the same as the flowers.”

Jace sighed. “I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think I got the preferential treatment.”

“You were abused.”

“Oh, yeah, I know, I'm scarred for life. But even I can read this and see a little bit of a disparity.”

Clary hesitated. “Do you think there's any chance he could be… right? That the demon blood really made him that inhuman?”

“You were so sure with me that it didn't mean anything.”

“Because I know you.”

“You know Sebastian.”

She huffed in offense. “Duh, I'm not talking about him. I mean on the off-chance this is a total stranger… It's not like there's any precedent. What if it's true? What if that dosage, at such an early age, from a powerful enough source would just… overcome any semblance of personhood? What if this really is some demon child with no feelings? I guess what I'm asking is, how would you ever be able to tell the difference?”

“Well,” Jace pursed his lips. “I suppose you could never truly be sure, but you could infer. You'd infer by the level of cruelty he showed.”

She hummed. She stared at the words on the page. Valentine hadn't inferred anything at all, he had just assumed.

She found herself wishing that it really was him. It would at least mean that the boy in these stories was safe now.

Like some great act of cosmic irony, right as she thought that, she felt a familiar jolt from the parabatai bond. She stilled. It wasn't the same as before, but she couldn't pinpoint exactly what was different. It was… less desperate, and more defeated.

That didn't fare well. She got up with shaky legs. “We have to go. I can't stand this anymore. I have to find him.”

Chapter Text

Sebastian knocked on several doors, loud and unabashed. He was confused at first at the lack of response, until he remembered there was a Clave session this morning; part of the trial taking place. Attendance was mandatory. The streets were deserted.

He cursed under his breath. Valentine would already be tracking him. Getting to Alicante wasn't useful if he couldn't stay there.

He searched for a door with only one lock. Once he found it, he walked up to it and kicked. It only took two strikes for it to splinter inwards, and for it to come off the hinges. He walked in, hoping by some miracle somebody had left a stele behind. There had to be one. Shadowhunters always had more than one; there had to be one.

He stumbled through the broken door, his eyes scanning the place, grateful to have some light now. He saw a seraph blade hanging on the wall. He took it, though it was not what he needed. Perhaps over there where he could see a desk—

“What are you doing?”

He turned around with his blade raised, adrenaline pumping through his haggard body. It was clear this wasn't his father, though. His eyes immediately had to drop down to a much smaller figure. He exhaled in astonishment; “Max?”

Max was standing by the entrance, frowning. His gaze was narrowed with suspicion, his tiny body tense with unease. 

“What are you doing here?” he tried to school his voice, not to betray the panic taking over. If Valentine found them— “Why aren't you at the Gard?”

Max took a hesitant step inside the room, crunching on pieces of the broken door. “You're him,” he said, as if he was just realising this. “You're Jonathan.”

A knot formed in his throat. He stared at him incomprehensibly. “What?”

“Jace said Hodge told him he wasn't it.” Max lifted a hand, and Sebastian saw that he was holding a small bundle of blond hair. “I was making sure. I tracked you.” There was pride in his voice, as if he'd figured out some really difficult puzzle; found the twist in one of his books before it was revealed. Sebastian could feel all the colour leave his face, and this only seemed to further encourage the boy. “I'm going to tell Jace, and he's going to kill you.”

He shook his head in horror. “I can explain—”

But before he could, Max was turning around and bolting out the door. He couldn't help himself; he ran after, his mind already filled with scenarios of Valentine waiting by some corner, ready to slit the young boy's throat. He'd proven not to be above slaying children. 

An eight year old could not have moved faster than him, even if he wasn't a supersoldier. He grabbed the boy by his forearm, who immediately wailed and tried to pry himself off. “Max,” he pleaded, “it's not safe here. Do you have a stele? I need it. Give me your stele.”

He looked down at Max's belt, but he found none. He cursed, looking around. He could see shadows everywhere, slowly getting closer. The sun shining overhead hadn't done enough to quell them. Out of the corner of his eye there was always the figure of a man; Valentine, ready to take him back.

He dragged a screaming Max back to the house. He searched in a blind haze, knocking books out of bookshelves, opening random drawers. Right, that desk. He headed over there, but right as he got to the threshold of the room, there was a thud.

He turned around. Valentine, Valentine was—

It was not Valentine. It was Max. Max, who was now limp on the floor behind him, only sustained by his grip on his arm.

“Max?” His voice rose in panic, in confusion. The blade clattered to the ground. He lowered him entirely, kneeling down to check on him. Those gray eyes were wide and full of fear, and he coughed. A black liquid poured out of his mouth, and he choked on it, too weak to tilt his head. Sebastian was quick to turn it for him, but as soon as his hand made contact with the boy's cheek, Max flinched and whimpered. The veins around where he'd touched flared black.

Sebastian froze. He looked over at where he had grabbed Max before, and felt an awful wave of nausea. Sure enough, it was blackened, and it had clearly spread up towards his torso.

The air swiftly left his lungs, and he couldn't grasp it again. His vision began to blur. He looked down at his own, trembling hands. They looked normal. His right one had that blackened texture fading, it was barely noticeable now. 

And yet.

Max coughed again. Sebastian stumbled away, up to his feet. He wasn't so much panting from exertion anymore as much as he was gasping, making ugly sounds in the process. A stele. An iratze had to help. He ran backwards to that room with the desk and opened the drawers with desperation. Unbidden relief came forth when he found one. He gripped it tightly, running towards the boy and kneeling. “I'm sorry,” he choked out. “It's okay, it's okay, Max, just stay still—”

But when he pressed the tip of the stele on his neck, nothing happened. There was no glow on it, he realised. The stele was dead in his grip, as if he was just a normal mundane.

No…

He made a noise of pure incredulity. The boy was still looking at him in the same way, the liquid pouring out to the side. “It's not working,” he managed to say. “Why isn't it working?”

Max was still staring at him. He was just a kid, expecting him to find the answer to this. Except he had none. He didn't know what to do.

“Oh, Jonathan,” there was a voice by the door, full of pity. “What have you done?”

Valentine.

Sebastian shook his head, slow and numb, like a patient denying reality. He didn't even know if his father was really here, or if he was just seeing things. “It… it was…” he struggled to speak, “it was an accident…” There were steps. A figure loomed behind him. Max's eyes began to flicker. “No— No, Max, stay awake. Stay with me, please—”

He reached forward, and stopped halfway with his hands made fists in helplessness. He shouldn't touch him. With utmost hesitancy he grabbed where there was a barrier of clothing, and shook him. 

It didn't seem to hurt him. Okay, okay, that meant— He took one of his jacket sleeves and pulled it up, and then he grabbed Max's hand, forcing it to grip the stele. “Max,” he choked out, only now realising that his voice was broken, interrupted with shallow sobs, “you have to do it. I can't do it. Come on.”

He guided Max's hand. The relief of watching a line appear on his flesh was temporary — pretty soon something gripped his covered wrist and the stele clattered to the ground.

He shrieked in protest. Valentine dragged him back, unfazed. “Do you see now?” he asked. “Do you see what you are, Jonathan?”

He shook his head. He couldn't speak, and it had nothing to do with venom now. His chest was falling and rising in desperate gulps of air. 

Valentine pulled him up, but he couldn't manage to make him stand. His legs wouldn't cooperate. “You can't escape it,” he went on. “You're a murderer.”

He didn't answer him. He swung his other arm backwards, to get himself free. Valentine reached down and grabbed the stele on the ground. After he had it, he let Sebastian go without complaint.

“Give—” he stammered in between breathless pants, “give it back—”

“What for? Neither of you can use it anymore.”

It was true. Max's eyes were half-lidded; empty. There was no colour in his cheeks.

He dug in his nails onto the hardwood floor. They still had dried blood on them. A sinking realisation was beginning to reach him. 

There was one person in this room who could still do something.

“Father—” Valentine was walking away, apparently intent on leaving. He forced himself to crawl towards him. He grabbed onto the fabric of his pants, like a child would. “You can still— please.”

Valentine stopped, tilting his head down to look at him. He said nothing.

“Please.” Uncaring of how pathetic he looked, he pressed his head on his father's knees, aiming his face down towards the floor. “I'll do… whatever you want. I'll be good now, I swear. I won't ever betray you again. Please… please…”

“Jonathan, he's dead. You killed him. There isn't anything I can do.”

The words pierced him as swift as a lance. “You don't know that,” he insisted. “You can still try. He's… he's just a kid.” 

He gripped the fabric more forcefully, pulling towards him. Valentine wasted no time, and unabashedly kicked him away, hitting him directly on the face. He swayed to the side, spitting blood on the floor.

“This…” Valentine hissed out, and for once, there was an actual edge to him, his features twisted with rage. He realised numbly that his stunt of defiance, of escaping him, had legitimately rattled his father. “...is a lesson for you. This is what happens when you stray from me. You want my help? You want me to go clean up your messes? You have to earn my good will back. Go do what you’re supposed to do. Go deal with Jace, and I will consider it.”

Sebastian was staring down, to the blood that poured down his nose onto the floor, but he heard Valentine’s steps walking away… just like that. He hardly had it in him to be confused. It was only now starting to sink in that he couldn’t save Max. There wasn’t anyone around, and he couldn’t touch him — couldn’t carry him. He was likely already dead.

He sunk lower, hands over his face. His cheeks were wet with tears. He looked back at the far-too-small body, eventually moving back within reach with very stiff limbs. His throat was so tight it took him a full minute to be able to speak. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. He grabbed a fistful of Max’s shirt, trembling, as if it was still possible to stir him awake. He hadn’t cried in so long, but no matter how much he tried to push back against it, it kept pouring out of him in contained bursts. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

He reached up to close his eyes, but stopped, thinking better of it. He didn’t want to harm him anymore. His voice was barely audible when he pronounced his name, and those awful, awful words. Ave atque vale. 

Hail and farewell.

Chapter Text

The Clave session had ended by the time he made it to the Gard. He was walking in a sort of trance. His chest felt heavier than it ever had before. Why was he here? Why was he doing anything at all?

He pushed the despairing thoughts down. He had to find Clary. Clary— Clary would help him, Clary would understand—

It wasn't an easy task. People were flowing out of the building all at once, many eager to get home, but many others remaining to converse. He was too overwhelmed by the noise to easily recognise anyone's voice, and sight wasn't that much more useful either.

It might have been a whole hour before he actually found her — his sense of time was warped. It was Isabelle's voice that he caught on first. He was walking at the edge of the atrium when he heard her; “wait, wait, so Jace isn't Valentine's real son?”

He froze behind a column. Ah, they must've followed his advice. He hardly even remembered having said it anymore. His throat tightened painfully, anxiously waiting for what Clary would respond.

“No,” said Jace. “I'm not.”

“But what about the real one?” Alec pressed. “He's alive?” There was no reply, but in the silence somebody must've given an affirmative. “You're saying there is a rogue Shadowhunter enhanced with demon blood somewhere out there?”

Finally, he heard her; “Alec, it's not like that.”

“How would you know?” A dangerous edge was on his voice, sharp like a blade. “He could be anywhere. He could be here, spying on us. We need to inform the Clave.”

There was movement. “Hang on,” Clary protested, “if we inform the Clave they'll kill on sight. They won't ask any questions.”

“Clary, I get it, the idea of finding your lost brother is appealing, but if he has been with Valentine for sixteen years, you really think he's going to be some kind of perfect victim? This could be a serious threat, we can't just wait on the information because he might have a change of heart.” 

Sebastian pressed his back against the pillar, to keep himself steady. He should have known this would be the reaction, why was he surprised? Why did it feel like his world was crumbling?

“Alec,” it was Jace who spoke up now, “I know first-hand what it's like to be manipulated by Valentine. This could have been me, you understand that, right?”

There was a tense pause. “I can't have this conversation right now,” said Clary. Her voice was dripping in distress, moving through the space as she walked. “I need to find—” She stopped a few feet away from the edge of the atrium, where she had spotted him behind the columns.

He didn't react, even when he watched her face fill with relief. Then she ran up towards him, seemingly with the full intention of embracing him, and he stumbled away until his back hit the wall. She couldn't touch him, she shouldn’t. 

She stopped with only a small distance between them, her relief now mixed with confusion. “Seb?” He tried to unearth his voice to answer her. He just stood there, with his stomach in knots and his chest heavy with guilt. “I'm sorry, I just haven't seen you all day. I was really worried about you, what happened?”

Was she? He could hardly wrap his mind around the idea that somebody had worried for him. Nobody ever did.

“I'm fine,” he finally managed. He sounded hoarse and insincere. “Clary… could I talk to you?”

“Of course,” she looked back for a second. He saw her have an unspoken conversation with Jace. She then trailed off, walking with him back towards the entrance chamber. “What’s wrong? Where were you?”

He fixed his eyes on the wall behind her. It had several paintings in rows, of all the Consuls. Staring at Malachi’s regal face, suddenly, he was mute. He struggled with himself. He had sworn he would tell her the truth next time he saw her, but that was when he thought that she might forgive him. Was she ever going to, now, after what he did? Would she ever believe him if he said that it was an accident? Did that even matter? “I—” he managed, “I need your help.” Her brow was creased in worry. She nodded encouragingly. He parted his lips. I did something horrible. I thought I could change, I thought I could be better. I don’t know if I can anymore. Is it too late for me, Clary? You need to tell me. I need you to tell me.

But he never got to say it. From their right, where the main hall was, there was commotion. Cries of confusion and horror. He froze up, his tongue twisting. Clary turned her head, disoriented, right as the Lightwoods moved in front of her to see what was going on.

And then there was Maryse. He hadn’t seen where she was before, but she made her way past a crowd of people, and he heard her scream pierce the air. His ears began to ring. He was vaguely aware that she was shouting Max’s name — but he couldn’t quite process it. Alec shoved his way through right after, when he heard her scream. Isabelle and Jace had stopped a little bit behind, looking stricken.

“Make space for them!” somebody shouted. At a grinding pace, the crowd parted. He already knew what he would find there, but he still wasn’t ready to see it. Maryse had taken the boy in her arms, clutching him to her chest and sobbing. Alec fell to his knees in front of her, and reached up to grip Max’s hand.

Isabelle cried out. “No! No…” she ran up to her mother, collapsing on the ground next to her and reaching with both her hands to embrace them both. Robert had just appeared from the atrium, with a Nephilim that was pointing him to where his wife was. His face lost all colour.

Clary brought her hand to her mouth in a muffled gasp, her eyes instantly filling with tears.

He took a singular step back. He couldn’t breathe anymore, just like before, but he felt no urgency to rectify it. His body didn’t feel quite his own; it was just a conduit for delivering guilt and pain. He deserved it. There was hardly any need to fight something that he deserved.

He saw Jace’s hand tighten into fists. He couldn’t see his face from his angle, much less when he began striding off, down the steps of the Gard. He watched him run off one street and then go out of view.

Clary was standing right outside the room where the Lightwoods were. It was one of the small chambers around the atrium, to the left, with the doors shut to give them privacy. It was the same reason she was here now, after that excruciating conversation when the Inquisitor showed up. Alec had told her everything. She couldn’t bring herself to oppose him, not when the proof was staring at her in the face. Nobody else could have killed Max; his injuries were clearly described in Valentine’s journal. Her brother had killed him.

There was a general tension now. Shadowhunters took up arms and walked around where directed. Everyone was convinced an attack was coming any second. Jace had disappeared — she hadn’t even noticed when he’d left. The Inquisitor had interrogated her for what felt like hours; she wasn’t satisfied until she thought she had a way of finding the traitor. Isabelle had offered the tip of her whip, coated in electrum, and now she had that small piece clutched between her fingers, and an order to ‘find him, whatever it takes.’

All throughout, Sebastian had been silent. He stood at the corner of the room. Nobody approached him; she and Jace were the only ones who had believed it could have been him. She didn’t believe that, anymore. He would never have killed Max.

She felt grief-stricken, for far too many reasons.

She walked with heavy steps. She could still hear a hushed conversation inside, and faint sobbing coming from Isabelle. Izzy never cried. She hated hearing it.

The hallway where she was was wide. The windows to the right were in an alternating order with the columns outside. On the other side, there were various different decorations. She stood next to a vase, looking at it detachedly. She didn’t know what to do with herself. She didn’t feel the right to be there, watching the Lightwoods grieve, but she also didn’t want to leave them.

Sebastian had left before her, and she’d just reached the space in front of him. His face was shrouded, hair falling over it to obscure it. She was suddenly struck with guilt, remembering their interrupted conversation. “Hey,” she whispered. Any sound now, felt too loud. The building was too quiet. In only a few minutes, everything had changed. “I’m sorry. You were going to tell me something.” He didn’t react. His arms were crossed. She saw, then, that he was wearing gloves. She frowned. “Are you cold?”

To this, he shifted. She couldn’t blame him; it was an easier question to tackle. His eyes stared forward, past the wall. “No,” he muttered. “I’m fine.”

She knew he was hiding something — she could feel it. There was this layer of pain underneath the bond, heavy, but dull. “Seb,” she reached, hesitant, and watched him recoil away slightly. She dropped her hand. “Talk to me?”

A faint, deadened smile appeared on his lips. “It’s nothing, Clary. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

She didn’t have the energy to argue with him. She let out a defeated breath. “Okay. You don’t have to tell me now.”

There was a long pause. 

She couldn’t stand this silence, this inability to speak of what had happened. “Did you… did you hear? What I told Alec and Izzy before?” Again, no response. “Jace isn’t really my brother. My real one… he’s still out there.”

“I heard.” His voice was hoarse. “You told the Inquisitor… that he did this.”

She stared down at the ground. “I wish he hadn’t. I wish I could have said differently, but it was… identical to the journal. It couldn’t have been anyone else.” She tried to keep it contained, but now that she’d started, she couldn’t stop. She felt tears begin to stream down her cheeks. She fought to keep speaking through it; “Alec was right. I was naive. I thought— But he’s right. Somebody who would do this to a child… He’s too far gone. I can’t help him.”

There was a shift, almost imperceptible. She glanced back at him. She couldn’t read his expression, but there was a darkness around his eyes that wasn’t there before; something haunting. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, with no inflection. Numbly she realised that she couldn’t feel him at all; that pain, from before, had retreated back suddenly, and now there was only a desolate nothingness.

For the first time, she felt suspicion.

She cleared her throat. Her fingers tightened over the small piece of electrum. “The Inquisitor… She told me I have to find him. You won’t mind being the first test subject, would you? This is electrum… the journal, it said it burned Jonathan’s skin. It doesn’t do anything to us, though, you just have to hold it. I’d feel better if I could tell her it’s not any of my friends.” She extended her hand, opening her fingers to reveal what she had. He stared down at it. She thought, with her heart in her mouth, that he wouldn’t take it, but slowly his hand reached and he picked it up.

He took one glove off with slow motions. He placed it on his naked palm and closed it into a fist. There wasn’t any sign of pain in him at all.

Then he placed it atop the gloved hand, and handed it back to her. “Feel better?” he asked. His voice was dead. She’d never heard him like this before. It was almost cruel.

She didn’t say anything. She took it back, not knowing if she felt relieved. He pushed himself off the wall, beginning to walk off.

Her throat was tightened into a knot. She ran after him. “Wait, Sebastian—”

She grabbed him by his wrist, over the sleeve of his jacket. She turned his hand, and there… there was a bright red spot, sunk into the skin, right where the electrum had been.

She stopped. Horror coursed through her so strongly she couldn’t breathe. “You?” she exhaled. She stared up at him, and at that mask of indifference in his face. “You did this?”

For a moment, she thought he parted his lips. Then something happened that neither of them fully realised: Clary’s hand shifted an inch down, where his exposed skin was. It was such a faint brush Sebastian didn’t even notice it, but it was enough to send a sharp wave of pain up her arm. Her instincts kicked in and, having just seen Max dead from this, they jumped to the worst possible conclusion. He was going to kill her, now that she knew. It wasn’t so much a rational thought as it was action, moving her. It was a rock, tipping, creating a ripple that in such a tense moment was enough to kick start something. Guns firing in a standstill. She unsheathed her seraph blade at her belt, and struck forward.

Sebastian was fast to react — unnaturally fast. His head tilted to the side just in time. Her blade cut across the side of his neck, not too deep, and yet enough to produce a quick spray of blood. His eyes were wide. She barely had time to register the shock in his expression, before he had kicked her right in the middle of her torso and launched her back. She hit the vase behind them both. Glass shattered.

The door behind her opened. She heard hurried steps coming her way. When she looked up, he was already gone, but not without people following after him. She saw Alec disappear behind the corner.

“Clary?” Izzy shook her. “Clary, are you okay?”

She didn’t answer her.

Chapter Text

Sebastian barrelled through a group of five Nephilim. He heard a slash through the air, and then stumbled forward with a piercing pain on his shoulder. Alec had fired an arrow at him.

He knew he was bleeding badly. The spray could only mean it had been an artery, though if he was still awake, it meant it was a shallow cut. Shadowhunters could live through a wound like this for longer, but not that much longer. He ran down the main steps out of the Gard. There were shouts behind him — pretty soon he was going to have the full cavalry going after him.

His vision blurred. He was grasping at the side of neck, applying as much pressure as he could when he was still fleeing. He turned to the left before he reached Angel Square. There’d be too many people. He had to get out of the city entirely.

He went through narrow streets. He could only hear his own rapid breath and the force of his steps going at full speed. He was too quick for most Shadowhunters to catch, but it wouldn’t matter if they surrounded him, and he could hear the encroaching force all around him. He wasn’t going to make it; not like this. He was losing blood too quickly — and Valentine had taken some already. He couldn’t use a stele. He didn’t even have a blade with him.

He slid through a nearby window, as quietly as possible. He had semblances of a plan; of weaving through a building to make the trail of blood harder to follow. He walked all the way to the other side of the house — thankfully there wasn’t anyone around. He didn’t have anything sharp, except the little gift Alec had given him.

He took the arrow out with a grunt of pain. He glanced down, ready to cut a stripe of his shirt, but then he saw the blood on the hand he’d been using to cover his neck.

He wavered. For a moment everything blinked out. It was so much blood. It wasn’t simply staining him, but dripping down in excess. Clary had— Clary had really just tried to kill him. She had slashed through his carotid like it was nothing, like it wasn’t even a question.

His hands trembled. His next inhale burned through his entire body, even with the numbing effect that the blood loss was producing. Maybe she was right. Why was he running? What was the point, anymore?

But he didn’t want to die. Cold terror clutched him tightly, all-encompassing. If he didn’t have a soul, all that was on the other side for him was oblivion. Clary was going to forget about him, like a bad dream, and his life would amount to nothing except the hurt he had caused.

Every living creature fears death, but the passive thought of it is for the most part tolerable. This was immediate. He could feel its presence looming over him, waiting at the door. It was this primal instinct that kept him moving. He discarded the glove he hadn't dropped earlier, now soaked in blood. He cut through the fabric of his shirt with the tip of the arrow, and tied it around his neck. He walked out to the street and kept running. He was almost sure he had managed to get out of their circle, before a Shadowhunter appeared in front, cutting him off.

He grinded to a stop, looking back to two more behind him. Fuck. He was going to die. They weren’t going to apprehend him; they were going to kill him.

He exhaled, and when he did, just like before — the world blinked out. He opened his eyes two seconds later to one of the Nephilim running in his direction, blade out. He was barely able to dodge out of the way. 

Desperate, he reached up a hand and grabbed the man’s face. There was a shout of pain and a splatter of black. His blade clattered to the ground. The man stumbled back. Sebastian didn’t even bother to pick up the weapon — he was afraid he wouldn’t stand up again. He just ran past him, hearing coughing behind him.

He ran past the river, into the forest. By some miracle, he was able to climb up a tree a little deeper in. He pressed his back against the bark, hand over his mouth to cover his panting, as Shadowhunters passed through below him, searching. His heart was beating so fast, it could be the thing that killed him; pumping more precious blood out of him. 

The cold grew around him. It seized him by the shoulders and began climbing up his back. Why had he bothered to come all this way here? He wasn’t going to live, anyway. He couldn’t heal, and no one was coming to save him. He didn’t have anyone to save him. He had pushed everybody away, even his father.

For a moment, the prospect stopped being so terrifying. He was vaguely aware this was because his brain couldn’t function properly anymore; because he was passing out. Still, his last thought, as his body slumped to the side of the tree dangerously, was that maybe dying wasn’t such a bad thing. The world was probably going to be better for it.

He woke up with a pounding headache behind his eyes. He couldn't open them at first, they flickered open slowly. Above him he saw a canopy of trees. The light filtered through branches, sparkling much like the demon towers did.

He sat up, groaning. For a moment he couldn't remember what had happened, but when he did he shot his hand up to his neck. There was no blood anymore — instead he felt like he was crushing dried leaves under his hand. “You're awake,” he heard a familiar voice behind him. “Good. I took the liberty of sealing your injury. I know it probably isn't as seamless as your kind does it, but I'm afraid I cannot use Nephilim Marks.”

He turned around. He could hardly process that she was here — the Seelie Queen walked around him casually, and sat down on a chair in front of him. He noticed now that he was lying on top of a bed of flowers. “How did you find me?”

She waved a hand with some reluctance. “I couldn't keep as much of an eye on you in Idris, but… well, recent developments had me worried. And when you stumbled into the woods… the situation seemed pressing.”

He shook his head, mostly because he didn't know what to say. He had thought he'd die. He should feel relieved. Instead, for some inexplicable reason, he was angry. “Why did you do it?” He tried to keep his voice levelled, but even then it sounded defensive. “Why did you save me?”

Her face became slightly more guarded. “I'm not sure I understand your question.”

And now he couldn't contain it. He snarled; “you should have left me. You should have let me die.”

He hated her for her reaction. Instead of answering him back in the same breath, her features fell into something kind and compassionate. “Sebastian…” she started.

God, he hated her. Why was she so fucking perfect? “That's not my name,” he said out of spite. “You know very well that's not my name.”

She hesitated. “I thought you preferred to be called that.”

“What does it matter, what I prefer? I could prefer to have another father. I could prefer to be a normal fucking person, but it doesn't make me so, does it?” It was completely unwarranted, and he knew it. And yet he couldn't stop himself. The barrage of words left his lips in relentless bursts, each more vicious than the last. “I can't escape what I am.” He smiled humorlessly, having quoted Valentine's own words. “I’m Valentine’s son. I’ll always be Valentine’s son.”

He wasn't Sebastian Verlac, much as he'd tried to be. The mask fell on the ground and shattered forever.

Jonathan sneered, glaring at her, goading her into saying anything.

She didn't take his bait. “Jonathan, then,” she acquiesced. “I don’t know what happened to you exactly. I wish it hadn't caused you that much pain.”

Her kindness only made him more bitter. It only served to confirm the very thing that had resentment boiling inside of him. He wished then, that she would hurt him back. Why couldn’t she be as awful as he was? Why did she have to be so beautiful and unreachable? It was cruel, the way she had cared for him and made him feel things that could never have amounted to anything.

“What would you know about pain?” he went on. There wasn’t any rational thought to it. He didn’t even know what he was going to say until it was out. “You think you’re so perfect, don’t you?” For a moment something else crossed her expression — something sad, and perhaps wounded. He took satisfaction in it, in knowing that, as good as she was, she wasn’t above being hurt by his words. “You’d do better if you didn’t lie to yourself. You’re just as rotten as me, you and all your lot; Downworlders. You like to pretend that you can rise above it and be good, and loving, and kind,” he spat out the words mockingly, “but we’re all made from the same shit. The world would be better if all the parasites just died.”

It wasn’t true. He knew, even while he was saying it, that he didn’t believe it, and there was a part of him horrified that he was saying it. It wasn’t true of her, that is. It wasn’t true of any of them. But what did that matter? What did it matter if he hurt her? She’d be better off for it in the long run. As involuntary as it had been coming out of him, he couldn’t find the strength to try to rectify it.

The truth was that it was just himself he was talking about, and it was lonely, being the only parasite. That was the nature of it, wasn’t it? To try to bring others down with him. To punish them for being better than he was.

She rose from her chair. Her face was carefully neutral, her voice even; “you may leave whenever you have the strength. Walk to the right. You’ll find your way back to Idris.”

And she left. He watched her with a detached expression. There was a knot in his throat. It’s better this way, he thought, and yet still his heart was aching again. Every emotion he’d been carrying from the last day and a half was burrowing deeper in, taking root.

He got up, and he walked to the right in quick strides. It wasn’t until he recognised the landscape, that regret began to climb up from his insides. He turned around, with half a mind to go back, to tell her he was sorry, that he hadn’t meant it.

But it was too late. All that greeted him were the trees of the Brocelind Forest.

Chapter Text

Jonathan’s steps creaked on the wooden floors of the Penhallows’ residence. There was no one else around; they were all mourning their recent loss. He was searching for that pesky box — if he couldn’t block their tracking, he’d have to get rid of the things they owned that belonged to him.

He found it on top of Clary’s bed. He wasn’t going to look at it, but after he’d picked it up, he couldn’t help himself. Inside there was a pair of blue, baby shoes, and an old picture of him in Jocelyn’s arms.

He stared at himself. Even then, he couldn’t deny, he looked wrong. His eyes were that blackened hue, and there was no expression there. Babies usually always looked curious, or upset, or something. He was empty of all of that. 

No wonder she didn’t want me.

Bitterly, he took the box outside and threw it on top of the concrete. He’d stolen Isabelle’s lighter, and her pack of cigarettes that she definitely shouldn’t have. He lit it on fire.

He went back in the house, with one cigarette between his lips —this time, he was managing not to cough for most of it—. There was another reason he was here. He hadn’t given it much thought —what was the point?—, it was simply the next logical step. The only possible thing he could do that might in any way help his situation. Stopping to consider it only made the guilt grow until it became unbearable; even now, even when he knew it was wrong, all he wanted was not to be alone.

He went inside Jace’s room, and he took the swiss knife he kept on his bedside table. He grabbed a seraph blade, but he didn’t bother picking up a stele — thankfully, his father had taught him to draw some runes in advance, before activating them. He had a tracking rune ready; all he needed was the object.

He went over to the stables. Better than going on foot.

He tracked Jace all the way to the southeast of Alicante. It wasn’t long before he realised where he was heading; the Armory. It was where the Iron Sisters kept the Soul Sword. It seemed Jace had caught on to the plan after all.

But he wouldn’t get there in time, even with the time advantage he had. The Armory was further protected with wards; it took longer to reach it even if the distance wasn’t that long. It was why his father was pressed for time.

He spotted Jace a little up ahead, near the bridge that crossed the river. He remembered it from before they’d finished building it; it was made from steel beams, with a roof similar to the Institute’s elevator —like a gilded cage— and low, to the waist railing. The stairs leading up to it, at the bottom, had one made of chains interlocking with short columns, instead.

He guided Wayfarer down the street, with a light gallop. He took the seraph blade out. It wasn’t a lance, but it would do. He numbly realised this would be easy. He could take him down with one swing if he was riding above him.

But then, as he was approaching, he hesitated. He gripped the hilt of the blade forcefully, cursing. Too easy, it was too easy. Instead of attacking him from the back, he simply cut off Jace’s path, who by now had begun to run, hearing the approaching opponent.

Jace grinded to a halt. Jonathan pulled at the reins once, before he jumped down, blade still out. He patted Wayfarer once to make him run off.

There was confusion in Jace’s expression. It should have made him feel good, but it didn’t. “Seems father was right,” Jonathan said as a greeting. “You really did figure out what he was after.”

Slowly, comprehension was beginning to cross through those golden eyes. “It’s you.” And yet, his voice was disbelieving. “Hodge was telling the truth.”

“Hodge…” he repeated. “Ah. Hodge Starkweather. I should have realised. He told you, huh? And you didn’t believe him?”

Jace’s jaw locked. The shock was swiftly becoming anger. “I wanted to trust you.” There was no hint of hurt when he said it. It was less reproaching as it was a condemnation. “I thought you were my friend.”

Jonathan tightened his hold on his blade. He hated that he cared, that hearing such a thing made his chest constrict. There was a voice in the back of his mind, saying stop. Maybe he’ll understand. Maybe you can explain.

He squashed it. It was too late. He was too far gone. If Clary believed that, it was the truth.

“Figures,” he was amazed at how indifferent he could sound. He had learned from the best. “You were always soft-hearted.”

“That’s what Valentine said,” Jace’s lip twitched in a dry smile. “He said I was too weak. And yet, here’s his prodigy; a callous monster going after innocent children. Is ‘prodigy’ accurate, by the way? Did he treat you better after he took you out of Idris, or were you still second best to me?”

In a way, Jonathan was grateful. The biting words made it easier to ignore the pain, and focus on that deep, seething resentment. He grit his teeth. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Jace took a step forward. The blade in his hand ignited as he muttered its name. “I probably know more than anyone else. Valentine treated me like shit, but he still treated me better than you. I suppose he was right about you, though. Despite it all, here you are, doing his bidding like a lapdog.”

He smiled. There was nothing funny about it. “I suppose he was.”

Then he struck. He moved forward and to the left, feinting an attack before he actually swung the other way. Jace hissed, having blocked in the wrong direction. A spray of blood came when his blade cut through Jace’s side.

He wasn’t that far behind, though. Jace's free elbow barrelled into his throat, and he stumbled back, gasping for air. Jace took the opportunity to swing again. Jonathan barely could tilt backwards to avoid the slash. The blade instead cut through his shirt and produced a red line across his chest. There was the clanking of their weapons meeting and parrying each other. Jace twisted one hand, and Jonathan felt his blade slip from his fingers and fall towards the river. He hadn’t realised, until now, that they’d gotten all the way to the foot of the bridge.

Jace kicked his legs under him. Jonathan felt a pounding pain on the back of his head when he hit the ground. “You know,” he said. “For a second I actually felt sorry for you.”

The tip of a blade was placed on his throat. He stared up at Jace. He wasn’t afraid. He knew he could get out of this. Instead, he took the opportunity to ask; “really? Does that mean you’ll spare me, little brother?”

Jace’s grip on the blade tightened. No, the gesture said.

With blinding speed, he erupted out of the ground, dodging the blow that would’ve killed him. It was only when he was standing in front of Jace that Jonathan noticed the bastard had managed to knick him on his collarbone.

He sneered. “Enough.” He didn’t even look when he grabbed one of the chains at the railing, and snapped it free. 

He swung the chain in an arch. Jace’s eyes were wide. He tried to block it, but it only served to make the chain twist around his weapon. Easily he pulled it away. Jace had half a second to try to reach for a dagger by his belt —which was much smaller by comparison—, but he wasn’t fast enough. Jonathan swung the chain again, this time higher up, and hit him straight to the side of the head.

Jace hit the ground.

He should have felt good. It was, once more, a realisation of how strong he really was. But this time he wasn’t elated. He could hardly care.

Jace groaned, attempting to sit up. Jonathan twisted the chain around his neck, and pulled him up towards the bridge. He picked up his seraph blade at the foot of the river, and then began making his way up the stairs. He could hear Jace gasping behind him, kicking his legs uselessly. Jonathan didn’t stop until they were on top of the bridge. He threw the chain until it caught on the roof and he could hoist Jace up by his neck.

Jace grabbed at the chain, fighting to take in enough air. 

Jonathan stared at him detachedly. “I have wanted to kill you my whole life,” he told him. “I wanted to kill you more than anyone else. You took everything from me. Everything I ever wanted, you got. And why? Because of luck? Because you got the good blood, and I got the bad one?” He laughed. “It must’ve stung when you thought you were me, huh? But unlike you, I don’t get to find out it’s all a big elaborate lie. You’re right. I am exactly what Valentine said. I’m only made for this, brother. He made sure of it. When I was nine, my only present was a lesson. He taught me that there's a place on a man's back where, if you sink a blade in, you can pierce his heart and sever his spine, all at once. What did you get for your ninth birthday, Jace? A cookie?” 

He dropped the chain. Jace crumbled to the ground, gasping. Jonathan placed his boot on top of his chest, to keep him there, and he brought his blade up, to finally end it all.

Except… he didn’t.

He found that his arm holding it was trembling slightly. He looked at Jace’s pale face, underneath him. His eyes were half-lidded — he was probably skirting consciousness. It would be easy. It probably wouldn’t even be too painful for Jace. He’d won. He’d finally proven he was stronger.

So… so why couldn’t his arm move?

I can’t do it, he realised numbly. I can’t kill him.

He lowered the weapon slightly, but he didn’t have time to decide to do anything else. Something wrapped around his wrist — something that burned him. He made a surprised grunt of pain, and then that something pulled him back. The blade slipped from his grasp. He fell onto his back, and when he did, he saw his attacker behind him.

Isabelle flourished the whip a second time. “Get away from him!”

Jonathan rolled out of the way and up to his feet, barely dodging the second lash. The third one, he caught with one hand. It burned, and he hissed. Of course; electrum.

“I welcomed you into my home,” she shouted at him, fury dripping from every word. “Into my family. And you betrayed me. This is for Max, you bastard.”

She pulled him closer. He heard movement behind him.

Jace.

“Wait—” he started to say, but it was too late.

The blade pierced him on his back, straight through his chest. He choked out a weak gasp. Jace was holding him by the shoulder, keeping him still for when he had sunk it in.

He had thought he’d known pain before. He was wrong. He couldn’t even cry out. His mouth filled in blood and the air was sucked out of his lungs. It felt as if he’d been severed in two, and he had. Jace’s blow had been just as he had described. It was ironic; poetic. He had thought he knew what a broken heart felt like, but no; now it was actually real. 

Jace’s hand was shaking behind him. It was as if he was talking without speaking. Jonathan turned his eyes towards him. He wanted to say something. Goodbye, perhaps.

But his knees buckled. Jace let go of him. He swayed to the side, over the railing, and then he was falling.

Chapter Text

“Jace!”

Jace felt Isabelle tugging on his shirt. He hadn’t realised when he’d moved. His torso was dangling off the railing, his hand outstretched. He hadn’t been fast enough to catch him. He watched in horror Sebastian’s— Jonathan’s body hit the water. 

“Jace,” Isabelle repeated. She was holding him from his waist, pulling him back. There was a hint of irritation in how she spoke. “Come on, it’s over.”

“I killed him,”  he managed to say. His voice was still raspy from before.

“He was going to kill you.”

Was he? It was the obvious answer. I have wanted to kill you my whole life, he had said. And yet, the seconds he spent on the floor, staring at his blurry figure holding the blade had seemed to last forever.

It didn’t matter anymore. It wasn’t about that. He was grieving, he realised. Was he grieving the friend he thought he had? The brother he’d never gotten to know? He wasn’t sure. He only knew that the feeling in his chest was all too familiar. He parted his lips, and he whispered the words low enough Isabelle wouldn’t hear him. Ave atque vale, my brother.

“We have to go,” Isabelle said as she drew an iratze on him. “There was an attack on the Gard. Clary went to get Simon. I came to get you.”

He shook his head. “No. I have to get to the Armory.”

“Jace—”

“He’ll be there.” He wasn’t certain before, but now, Jonathan had confirmed it. “I have to stop him.”

He didn’t wait for Isabelle. He turned and ran. He heard her behind him, protesting. There was no time; he was faster, and he certainly didn’t want her to go against Valentine.

As he approached, he saw that a battle had already commenced. Circle members and Iron Sisters went toe to toe. Some of their bodies were on the ground, unmoving. He ran through their ranks — it was obvious to him they had carved a path for Valentine to get in, and he simply followed it. Inside was a large chamber, with tall ceilings and stained glass, like a church. 

Iron Sisters lay slaughtered on the marble floors, and in the centre was his father. He was holding the Mortal Sword.

He stopped by the entrance, gripping his blade tightly. There was a hint of surprise on his father’s features. He was just now letting go of a body he had just slain, and it crumbled to the ground. “Jace,” he said. “So both my sons have betrayed me today. That is a grave shame.”

He realised then that Valentine wasn’t surprised to see him; he was surprised because he thought Jonathan had not shown up to stop him. “Betrayed you?” he scoffed. “Jonathan didn’t betray you. He followed you to the bitter end, despite all you did to him. He murdered our brother. He did the distraction you wanted, and he came to stop me. I killed him.”

For all the years he’d known his father, he had never seen him look so stunned. “Killed him?” he repeated. “How could you have?”

He felt something ugly stir in his heart. “He was going to kill me,” he said, repeating Isabelle’s reassurances. “I had no choice.”

Valentine’s eyes were wider than normal, but there was no real grief in his face — not even after hearing about Jonathan’s unwavering loyalty. No, this was something different. This was — fear, he suddenly recognised. “No, that isn’t what I meant. You couldn’t have. No one holds more power than Jonathan, not even me. He is the heir of the Mother of Demons. He is stronger, faster, more resilient, than any Nephilim has ever been in existence.”

Jace frowned. He knew first-hand that Jonathan was really fucking strong, but he wasn’t sure he would go that far. “Well, apparently not strong enough.”

“No,” Valentine shook his head slowly, “he isn’t dead. I would have known. Her claim would have felled me.” He took a deep breath in, and just like that, all those foreign emotions Jace was so unused to seeing in him faded away into frigid indifference. “Step aside, Jace. I have to retrieve him.”

Jace’s jaw locked. His eyes went through the broken bodies of his fellow Shadowhunters. He couldn’t let them die for nothing. “You’re not taking the Sword.” He readied himself. “Over my dead body.”

And he darted forward.

It wasn’t an easy feat to go against a weapon with so much more reach than his. He had to strike and then step away. It was only his speed that kept his head on his shoulders. Valentine responded with the same ferocity, slowly advancing through him. Jace had to keep stepping back — otherwise his father would take the opportunity to move past him. Their blades met in the middle. Valentine pushed him into the wall by the entrance, with the sword dangerously close to his throat.

Swiftly, he took the dagger he kept on his belt out and stabbed his father on his side. It was enough of a distraction to kick him off. He struck forward with the seraph blade. Valentine dodged the first slash, but the second motion had the tip of the blade to his neck.

“You won’t kill me,” his father said. His eyes were cold. “You couldn’t do it at Renwick’s, and you won’t do it now.”

Jace narrowed his eyes. He could see it now, the memory of being in this same position. His hand had been trembling then, and Valentine had taunted him. Do it, then, he had said, drive it in. It’s only one inch or two. I taught you to close the distance.

“You’re wrong,” he spat. Soft-hearted, Valentine had called him, because he loved too much, even the smallest things. He recalled the falcon his father had slaughtered, simply because he had grown too attached to it. To love is to destroy. But that wasn’t true. Clary loved fiercely, without limit, without reproach, and she was stronger for it. Jonathan could be as strong as an army, but without love, he had been too weak to stand up to him. That compassion that Valentine had admonished him for was the very thing that kept his hand steady now, because he knew not to kill him meant the deaths of thousands. “I don’t want to kill you, father, but I will.”

There was a glint of comprehension in Valentine’s face. Jace began to drive the blade in. Blood poured out of Valentine’s neck, and then there was a blast. Jace saw flashes of light, of pure fire streaking through the air; the Mortal Sword, going in an arch. He was launched back, out the door of the Armory, falling to the ground with bone-crushing strength.

He saw his father’s boots coming closer. His vision blurred. “You’re strong, my son,” Valentine said, “but you have the same flaw as your brother. You are too arrogant. Had you not come here alone, maybe you would have beat me.”

Then he twisted the sword, and hit Jace directly on his forehead with the blunt end of the hilt. The world went black.

Chapter Text

Jonathan was barely conscious.

He was staring up at the sky. The sunlight was too bright and blinding to see anything clearly. He was vaguely aware that he’d fallen into the river; every so often a current would submerge him slightly, and his chest would seize as he weakly coughed the water out. Mostly, though, he tasted blood.

Everything hurt. He could hardly string a thought together. Why wasn’t he dead yet? Why was it taking so long? The fall — the blow itself should have killed him. He wished, at least, that his body would shut down, so that it wouldn’t be this torturous anymore. He wished that he had been granted a quicker end, but he supposed he didn’t really deserve that mercy. It wasn’t something he had ever granted.

He felt a pressure on his back, and he barely had the strength to shiver. He’d gotten stuck somewhere. The river washed through him, tinting red. He shut his eyes. A deep coldness returned to him like an embrace. For a moment, it was like he was falling asleep.

And then he jerked awake. Fear gripped his heart. I don’t want to die, he thought hopelessly. I don’t want to die alone.

In the darkness, he looked for the one lifeline he had once had. He searched for Clary — her presence was muted. It was not the steady heartbeat he had once known. It felt, in a way, like coming back to an old childhood home and finding all the furniture moved, finding a new family where yours had once lived. She retreated back from him like he’d burned her. With desperation he clawed at her, pleading without words. Just this once, he thought . Just so it wouldn’t be so terrifying. He was like a child asking for his mother to stay until he fell asleep, to keep the light on, to chase off the monsters, reaching blindly for a hand that no longer had the willingness to hold his.

For a moment something shifted, but he was too weak to hold onto it. He passed out, up until the moment something —someone— moved him. He felt the familiar tip of a stele on his skin, and then the pressure of the blade stuck to his chest became agony. He tried to scream, but all that came out were gurgles and choking sounds. The motion was slow and careful, dragging out every second of pain. 

No…

And then it was out of him. He heard the thud of it behind him. There was the wave of an iratze drawn on him.

No… Please, just let me die…

His shoulders were pulled back. He hadn’t realised he was in a sitting position before, until he was looking up again. A face came into view, blurry and obscured by his fading consciousness. There was a voice, but he could barely hear it. Then tapping on his cheek, more and more insistent. He blinked twice, and the face took the shape of someone familiar.

Valentine was tilting his head sideways, and he felt all the blood erupt from him. His entire torso shook as he coughed involuntarily. Then there was the stele again, on his neck, giving him another iratze, and another…

Why was Valentine here? Why had he come for him? For a second the only explanation he could find was that he cared, that he had come to save him because he had forgiven his earlier transgressions. His entire life, he thought something like this, some proof that his father loved him, would be the most relieving thing in the world.

Instead, there was nothing. He felt emptier than he did before. This is what he had attacked Jace for? This is why he had killed, and suffered, and pushed himself endlessly past his limits? It wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t.

“Jonathan,” Valentine said. He could hear him clearer now. His body was healing against his consent. “Stay awake. There is one last thing you must do.”

He would have laughed if he could. Of course. Of course it had nothing to do with love. This was just another demand placed on him.

Valentine held him against his chest, cradling him as he stood up. He was limp in his grasp, unable to refuse. He wished that he had been braver before, that he had sliced his own throat rather than attempting to gain his father’s favour back. Death came so much easier when she wasn’t invited.

For all that Valentine had insisted, it wasn’t long before he couldn’t stay awake anymore. His eyes flickered shut as he was carried off.

When he woke up, he thought perhaps he had died after all. The prospect was quick to evaporate — this wasn’t where he would end up if that had happened, and the way his mind sharpened into a lucid state confirmed he was alive. He felt like all his bones had been crushed and reshaped, but his consciousness wasn't fading anymore. He was no longer dying.

In front of him was what, at first, appeared to him only as the figure of a man. The next thing he noticed —what made him doubt if he had survived with Valentine’s efforts— were the wings. White and gleaming, they unfurled slightly as if the figure was stretching. Jonathan’s breath caught in his throat. He blinked, and his brain was then able to process the rest of the details.

The angel was shaped like a person, but that was where the similarities ended. His skin was paper white, not caucasian. His eyes were two golden stars, glowing as hot as the sun, and yet they were etched in hollow sockets. A bright halo was around his head, forming streaks of light that danced all around the room. Jonathan was so awestruck for a moment, he at first didn’t notice the shackles. They connected to the angel’s feets and hands, with the chains stretching in different directions. One of those chains —the one attached to his right ankle— was within reach, only a few inches from Jonathan’s head. He could see it out of the corner of his eye.

The next thing he noticed was the movement. He shifted his head weakly, and was able to glimpse Valentine — he was kneeled down near him, tracing lines over the floor. These lines formed a circle all around where he was lying, with runes etched all throughout. It wasn’t dissimilar from the type of warlock summoning circles in the books his father had made him read when he was younger.

He had a more pressing concern, however. He reached blindly for the angel, with horrible pity that rose from somewhere deep inside of him. He was too weak to do anything. His limbs were too heavy. His fingers stretched towards him uselessly, a few inches away from the angel’s skin.

Then — sharp pain. His broken voice produced a wailing sound. “Don’t touch him,” Valentine snarled. He had a dagger in one hand, and he had pierced Jonathan’s palm with it, affixing it to the ground. Blood poured out of the wound like a fountain. “I knew I should not have done this here. I didn’t want Ithuriel to see you. But you left me little choice with the stunt you pulled.”

It took him a second to realise his father was talking to him still. He didn’t want the angel to see Jonathan, as if he was ashamed. As if he could show shame to a prisoner. 

Jonathan didn’t answer him; he only had eyes for one thing.  Ithuriel had lifted his head, and though they had no pupils, he could see that those beaming flares of light were staring back at him. The angel opened his mouth, and spoke. It wasn’t words. It was a single note, perfect music held in the same volume. Jonathan felt the sound pierce his heart, and a million emotions resurfaced out from it. He saw himself as a baby, cradled by his mother as she hummed a lullaby. He saw Clary as she had been in that vision, pulling him out of the kitchen cabinet. He saw Jace reaching a hand to him from the ground, as if it was a given Jonathan would help him get up.

His eyes filled with tears. Somehow he knew the angel had meant to comfort him, even if he didn't deserve it. It was utterly disarming.

He parted his lips, wishing he could somehow contain his thoughts and feelings in the same way and give them up, to be able to communicate. How do I help you? I want to help you.

The note shifted into a melody. Jonathan saw a woman with impossibly long, raven hair obscuring her face. She had bright red lips, and a knowing smile so sinister he shivered. Her hand was outstretched, blood poured out from her wrist and into a cup. His father was before her, taking it. He heard Valentine’s voice as if from a dream. “Your blood…” he was saying, “I wish to use it. For my son.” 

He saw the chains at her feet — the same ones that now held Ithuriel. “It will hold anything in existence,” she said, “so long as the seal isn’t broken. This one is mine. It will only release upon touching my blood.”

Abruptly, it all ended. “Be silent,” Valentine snapped, and the angel’s jaw clicked shut. His father stood up. He had the Soul Sword in one hand, he saw. He loomed over Jonathan with it held up in the air, and he understood then what was about to happen. He remembered very well what the plan had been; to use the Sword to summon an army of demons.

It couldn’t do that now. The Ritual of Infernal Conversion hadn’t been performed, but it could very well open a door to send something through, rather than receive it.

He grit his teeth. With the little strength he had in his body he pushed his hand up and against the dagger that affixed it. The pain spread up his arm like needles, but compared to everything else he had felt, it was negligible. The dagger clattered as he twisted his hand, reaching in one swift motion for that chain. His fingers tightened around it. 

There was a red flash, and the piercing sound of metal breaking apart. He saw Valentine’s wrathful face, right before the Sword swung downwards, and the circle around him erupted in flames. For a moment he feared he had been wrong, and he was about to die — but that didn't happen. The weapon did not harm him. Instead he felt himself lurch away, just like it would if he had stepped through a Portal.

Chapter Text

For the first time in many years, Clary had very familiar dreams. She dreamt of that castle that grew impossibly from a charred tree. She dreamt of the prince that was trapped inside.

Now, she knew who he really was. She wondered what the dreams meant — they didn’t feel very prophetic, because they started to change. One day she dreamt of that apartment her mom and her had shared for many years, in New York City. She had been sitting by the balcony, painting, when a boy came to hug her from behind. He had green eyes.

Whenever she looked at him, she couldn’t place him with who he really was. She still thought of him as ‘Seb,’ her parabatai, and not Jonathan, her lost brother that had killed Max Lightwood. But that is who he was. In the dream she pushed him away angrily, and he only seemed bemused by her actions. He rolled his eyes at her like a brother would, one that had lived there with them their entire lives.

She woke up with her eyes teary.

That morning, her mother made her chai and covered her with a blanket in the living room. She had been staying with her for the last few weeks. There was this general tension in Alicante, ever since the attack. The Clave had ordered almost all Shadowhunters to remain in Idris, possibly because they feared that more Circle members and Forsaken would spring upon their gates.

She wondered, even as she wished she didn’t, if the dream could have ever been true. If Jonathan would have been different; would have been a loving big brother, had her mother been able to take him along with them, and had they escaped Valentine together.

She knew that wasn’t what Jocelyn believed, but she couldn’t put the thought to rest. If it was true, then, wouldn’t it mean that there was still hope? 

When is it too late for a person to change?

“Clary,” Jocelyn said, her voice sad and despondent. She was taking hair out of her daughter's face like she had many times before when she was younger. “You need to put him out of your mind. Is the Mark still bothering you?”

Clary didn’t answer her at first. She was tired of talking about him, and yet every minute she spent in silence felt like she needed to extract something from deep within her. She should be happy; should be enjoying the fact that Jace and her could finally love each other like they had longed for. But the chaos around them didn’t allow for a moment to breathe, and she was overcome with a deep sadness that wouldn’t lift off her bones.

The night the attack ended, she went to her mom’s place. When Jocelyn opened the door, Clary didn’t say anything; she just burst out crying. Her mother held her, her features twisted in confusion, but she did so tenderly, gently, and waited for Clary to tell her what had happened.

And as she had told her the story of how her parabatai turned out to be the long lost Jonathan Morgenstern, she saw a darkness overcome those green eyes. Jocelyn’s jaw set. “I’m so sorry, Clary,” she said. “I wish I could have protected you from his deceit. Valentine made a fool of me, too. I’m so sorry you have to bear this loss, as well.”

Between sniffles, she asked; “what do you mean?”

“The boy that you knew isn’t real, Clary. What you are grieving is the brother you could’ve had, the one he pretended to be, and I’m sorry. I wish you hadn’t met him, that you could have been spared from even knowing about him. I wish I could have grieved him alone.”

Clary didn’t know what to say. A part of her, the spiteful part of her, thought that her mother was right, and wished, too, that she had never met Jonathan. And yet still, it was such a cruel thing to say, to speak of him as if he was gone when he wasn’t. “But he’s alive, mom,” she whispered, her voice as fragile as a thin string, “I know that he is. Jace said that he killed him, but he’s wrong. I can feel him.”

“The thing that is alive isn’t your brother.” The thing, she said. Clary thought of Jonathan as he was when they took their oath. She thought of that expression in his face; happy, and with that permanent tint of disbelief. Jocelyn was talking about him, about that same boy. “I know it’s hard to believe it. I’m sure he put on a very good performance, but that’s what it was; an act. When Valentine captured me, when we were at Renwick’s, he used to talk to me. I had hoped, when I took that potion, that he would leave me for death, but he didn’t. He sat next to me many nights and talked to me. I don’t even think he knew I could hear him.”

» He talked a lot about Jonathan, about his progress. He told me all about the kind of training he gave him, Clary, how he taught him to use glamours to conceal his eyes, how he taught him to smile and laugh like a person. He told me he was sorry for what he’d done to him, that he knew it was what drove me away. He said he wished he’d done it to a baby I didn’t carry, but that he felt he had to sacrifice his own blood to prove his devotion to the cause.

“That’s horrible,” Clary choked out. “He wished he had done it to Jace?”

“He never said that. He never talked about the fact there were two.” Jocelyn faltered. “I must admit, when you told me about Jace… I couldn’t understand it. I had heard so many things about this boy, about how he didn’t feel anything. Valentine used to say it all the time. I think he was sad, in a way, that his son couldn’t really love him. Valentine was always very self-centered. If his son didn’t love him, then Valentine couldn’t find it within himself to love him either.”

» But when you told me about Jace, it was so much different than all of that. I couldn’t bear it. I didn’t want to see him. I was afraid that I would feel the same thing I felt when I held Jonathan in my arms for the first time, after I gave birth to him. They say all mothers recognise their children, so I suppose the opposite is also true. I knew he wasn’t my baby. Something deep within me knew that it wasn’t him. I was afraid, if I met Jace now, knowing how much you cared about him, that I would be certain of the same thing, and it would make you despise me.

“That wouldn’t have happened,” Clary murmured. She wished, then, that she had taken Jace to see her mother much earlier, so they could have all been spared so much confusion.

“No,” Jocelyn echoed back to her. “Most likely not. I am telling you all this, Clary, so that you can be as certain as I am; that boy is not like us. He isn’t a person like us. I know it to be true because I gazed upon his eyes after he came out of me, and I saw nothing. I know it to be true because Valentine himself told me that he had to teach him to appear human. Everything you saw in him that made you love him was fake. You have no need to extend him any sympathy.”

It was a comforting idea. It meant that she had done nothing wrong when she had attacked him and sliced through the artery in his neck. And yet still, she found herself arguing; “Valentine lies about everything. I read those journals he wrote about Jonathan. All the stories in them were so… mundane, and yet Valentine always projected the worst intentions onto him, even as a kid. Jonathan broke his foot once, and Valentine thought he had done it on purpose, to manipulate him. I mean, mom, isn’t that a crazy thing to believe about your own son?”

“This is an extraordinary case.”

“But— What if he was just weird because he was isolated from everyone? I mean, that is how he acted. He was…” Awkward. Reserved. Quiet. “He wasn’t some psychopath, he was just lonely.”

“Don’t you see Clary, that he would pretend to be whatever he needed to be in order to gain your pity?”

Was that what she had felt for him; pity? No. She remembered feeling protected, and understood. Could somebody empty really mimic that?

“You could have been in shock,” Clary muttered, but she sounded unconvinced even to herself. “You told me before the pregnancy was traumatic, that you had nightmares and visions. What if it was just that? Don’t women get postpartum depression?”

“That’s what Valentine said,” Jocelyn looked away from her, out the window. Her hand was resting on top of Clary’s head, gently stroking her red curls. “That I just needed time. And there were moments when I doubted myself, when I looked at the child and convinced myself that I loved him, that there was a hint of real humanity behind his black eyes. He followed me around the house a lot, quietly, like he couldn’t bear to be away from me — I think, now, that he was just able to recognise that I kept him alive, and there wasn’t anything more to it. I felt so guilty, but it was all the way Valentine intended. He wanted to use my guilt to blind me. I wasn’t wrong, Clary; there was a reason I felt the way I did, and it was the demon blood, it wasn’t postpartum depression. The pregnancy, all those visions I had… I was being poisoned, yes, but it was Jonathan who was suffering the most,” her voice broke. “Through those pains and those nightmares he was calling me, he was asking for my help, and I failed him. I lost him.”

She couldn’t really argue with that. It felt wrong to look at her mother and repeat the things Valentine had said to abuse her.

Now, as she sipped her tea, she gripped onto her wrist, tracing the delicate lines that Jonathan had once drawn on her. “Yeah,” she answered her mother’s question, her voice dead. “It’s still bothering me.”

It was a constant thing now. The worst of it had happened during the attack, when she was breaking Simon out of the Gard. The desperation that irradiated from it had been so intense, Clary hadn’t been able to tune it out. And yet, when she had reached out back to him, there was only silence.

She knew what her mother would say about it; that he had just meant to taunt her, to distract her, and that is why attempting to help had been fruitless.

It wasn’t so blinding now. It was a never ending dull ache, not dissimilar to what she herself felt; like nothing mattered anymore, like he was suffering, but he had resigned himself to it.

Jocelyn placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not real, Clary. He’s just hurting you, punishing you, because he can.”

She nodded. She didn’t want to argue as she had before. How can it not be real? She had screamed on one of those nights where it had gotten really bad, so bad that she couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop crying and trying desperately to soothe the pain the bond was conveying. I can feel it, mom. I know it’s real!

It’s a fake, her mother had said, her conviction unwavering. He’s mimicking distress so well that he has convinced you it’s real, but it isn’t, Clary. You just need to look past the act and realise it.

She didn’t know how to do that. She didn’t know if she even believed it. Was it really possible? How could he be pretending to be in pain so well that he could transmit the feeling to her? Wouldn’t that mean that he did feel it? Jocelyn spoke of it as if he fabricated the pain out of thin air just so spite Clary.

Maybe it was true. She didn’t know. She couldn’t understand how a person could be cruel enough to murder a child, and then turn around and live in this misery. If he was so miserable, why had he done it?

She wished she could be certain of something. The only semblance of comfort she could find was in the idea that, eventually, they would grow apart so thoroughly that she wouldn’t notice anything wrong at all.

She had a similar dream later that day. She dreamt of a red throne overlooking an army that stretched as far as the eye could see; demons of all shapes and sizes, all bowing down to the one who sat in front of them. She saw Jonathan’s face, carved into stone; expressionless. His skin was unnaturally smooth, inhuman. He didn't look sixteen anymore, but he didn't look older either; he looked ageless. On his back there were black, skeletal wings. He no longer had eyes; just empty sockets that swallowed you whole if you gazed upon them.

Chapter Text

“You should have told me. I never would've said that if I'd known it was an accident.” Jonathan watched Clary speak with empty eyes. Her face was twisted in concern, her lip pulled down sadly. It was the perfect picture of compassion. She reached out her hands and grabbed his. “I don't think you're too far gone, Seb.”

He parted his lips, perhaps to say that's not my name, but instead what came out was; “stop.”

And she vanished like smoke. He was back in the wide chamber of Lilith’s palace. Black, twisting columns rose up to support the ceiling like tree branches. Everything was coated in a red hue, the windows tinted with it. Lilith herself was standing, he knew, behind him. He could feel her presence instinctively.

Her voice travelled through the air like silk draping over it; she always spoke with sweetness when talking to him. “It won’t work if you don’t give into it,” she said.

“You said I’d eventually not want to do this anymore. I don’t want to, now. I’m done.”

She hummed in acknowledgement, though he doubted she was going to take him at his word. “If that were true, you’d feel nothing anymore. But you still do, don’t you?” The smoke reformed. Clary stood in front of him. He looked away, but it was hard to pretend she wasn’t there. She wasn’t a still image; she moved and breathed just like the real one. “You feel sad whenever you look at her.”

“Because it isn’t true,” he spat. “She doesn’t believe that. She hates me.” And I deserve it went unspoken.

“It doesn’t matter.” Lilith smiled. He wasn’t looking at her, but he could hear it in the way she talked. It was almost exasperated, except it wasn’t, because she was never angry at him. At least, she never seemed to be. “You are allowing a mortal desire to consume you. If you continue to do that, you will never Ascend. Don’t you see? Your sister will fade off in only a few years. She will go on, and she will forget you, and she will die, just like all other mortals on Earth. What does it matter, if she hates you? She will be dead, and you will be here, ruling over the legions of Hell.”

He didn’t answer her. Often he couldn’t quite grasp the things Lilith told him. She spoke in too grand terms, of succession and of a never-ending war against Heaven. Whenever he thought he understood her perspective —the same perspective he was supposed to adopt—, she would say something more, and he would lose track of it entirely. I will give you everything you want, she had told him on that first day he showed up at her door, injured and in shock, and then you will understand how insignificant those wants were.

“If I’m not supposed to let it consume me, why are you showing it to me?”

She sighed. Again, it was a gesture of impatience, but there was hardly any feeling in it, if at all. “It isn’t about the thing you want, child. It’s about you. Revel in it. Enjoy it. Like all the children of Adam, you have learned to suppress what you really want, to deny it for the sake of civility. Give into it. Don’t fight it.”

He looked at Clary’s face, and at the love and affection that was plainly written in her gaze. This isn’t what I want, he thought. I want it to be real.

“Perhaps this is too close to the recent past. How about I bring you back further?”

He had no chance to object. The palace blinked out of existence. He felt somebody reach and shake his shoulder. It was a young boy, couldn’t be older than twelve, with blond hair and golden eyes. Jace, he realised numbly. He had never seen him when they were that age, he had only imagined him.

“Hey, hey, J,” he was saying in a whining tone, as if to get his attention. “Race me again. To that tree over there, come on.”

He blinked at him, at first in confusion. It was then that he noticed they were about the same height. He had never changed in any of the previous visions.

“Boys!” he heard a yell to their right. He turned. They were standing in a green, open field, and the calling had come from the big house a little bit ahead. It seemed familiar to him, though he couldn’t find it in any of his real memories. 

“Loser makes breakfast tomorrow!” Jace declared, darting ahead without so much as a warning.

Jonathan felt his legs move involuntarily. “Hey!” he protested. In no time at all he had caught up to him, and they were both going at full speed towards the front door, so fast that, when they reached the porch, they stumbled forward and slammed against one of the house columns in order to fully stop.

“I won.”

“Nuh-uh, I got here first.”

It was easy to slip into the fantasy. He felt childish glee rise up from his chest. He pulled down on his eyelid and stuck out his tongue at Jace, who responded with a laugh. It echoed out inside the living room, and it mixed in with a little girl’s delighted giggle. A bundle of red hair popped from behind one of the couches. It was Clary. “If you two don’t get here, I’m going to eat all the cookies!” she declared smugly.

Jace’s face fell, but before he could protest, a taller figure walked in front of them both. “Relax, there. I put some aside for you boys.” Jace dug into the salad bowl where they had been thrown in, without so much as a thank you, and then slipped off and away, but the woman just chuckled good-heartedly. Then she turned to Jonathan. “Here you go, J,” she said. Her voice was sweet, and kind. Jonathan stared up at her with wide eyes.

“Mom?”

She looked taken aback. “Yes. What’s gotten into you, silly?” She reached out, ruffling his hair affectionately like this was a natural thing that she’d done a hundred times.

There was a knot in his throat. He didn’t know why it suddenly hurt, why he felt like crying. Something wasn’t right, and yet everything was perfect.

“Why don’t you go up to the studio and bring some to your father, champ?”

He took the bowl obediently with two hands. He made his way up the stairs without thinking about where he was going, without thinking that he had never been in this place, and by all accounts should not know the right way. He arrived at a door, and knocked on it twice. It creaked as it opened.

And there was his father.

Jonathan froze by the doorway. Valentine looked younger, more relaxed. His features were still as serious as they usually were, but they lacked a certain edge to them. That gaze that he knew so well fixated on him. He felt a lurch of nausea.

No.

And it all crumbled away. He gasped in a mix of fear and confusion, stumbling into one of the columns inside Lilith’s palace. Hot, red humiliation was rising up his cheeks. He could feel her eyes on him, analysing. “Interesting,” she noted, in a tone that did not at all indicate interest. “You wanted him there, and yet the moment you saw him, you were afraid.”

“Shut up!” he snarled, shouting in a louder volume than he’d meant to, pressurised out of him like a kettle hissing out air. He didn’t care anymore that he was speaking to a Greater Demon. He was tired of these games, he was tired of repeating these scenarios over and over and over again, of spending his nights with his chest constricted, with the heavy absences of what he couldn’t have weighing him down. “I’m done! I don’t want to do this anymore! You said it was supposed to make me feel good, but it’s torture. You’re just torturing me, because you’re a fucking demon, and I’m in Hell. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

Lilith stared at him. He backed away from her instinctively. She had never shown any anger towards him, but that could change at any second — and her lack of anger didn't mean a lack of reprisal. She had burnt him more than once already.

There wasn’t any indication in her face to tell him if he was safe. Her eyes were as empty as ever, that same void that reflected in his own. “You wound me,” she finally spoke. “I would not torture you. I’m trying to rid you of your suffering. Mortals suffer, Jonathan. We do not.”

“Then maybe I’m not like you,” he hissed out. “I’m not what you think I am.”

“You are. You can be anything, my Morning Star. There never has been anyone like you. You simply need to give into it.”

He was already shaking his head, even before she was done speaking. “I can’t.”

“I see…” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “You don’t think you deserve it. That is why you fight it.”

His throat tightened. Shut up, he wanted to say again, but he didn’t have the strength. His earlier outburst had taken everything in him. 

She had said it like it was an opinion, as if it was a matter of self-esteem, but it was the truth. He didn’t deserve it. If he had, he would have gotten it. If he had, his mother would have tried to find him when she knew he was alive, and Clary would have asked him what happened and forgiven him, and Jace wouldn’t have driven the blade through his chest. Perhaps Valentine wouldn’t have treated him like that, would have loved him the same way he loved his other son — a son that wasn’t even his own flesh and blood, and yet he clearly favoured. 

It had all been because he deserved it, because he was born wrong. The idea that— that in some other life, in some other universe, everything was okay simply by chance was more painful than believing his suffering was at least some kind of cosmic justice, that it was what was meant to happen, what God willed.

It was why this last vision had cut him so deeply. Would it have really been that way? If he grew up differently, if he grew up with a loving mother and a father that didn’t give him up to his great war, would he have turned out good? Would he have become the kind of person that Clary would accept now, the kind of person that could love and feel things the way he was supposed to?

‘Too far gone’ implied that, at some point, it hadn’t been too late. He had just missed the window of opportunity.

His eyes were stinging. He pushed down the grief into the spikes of resentment that lived inside of him. “If that’s the case,” Lilith kept going, “I have something I think you’ll enjoy better.”

Chapter Text

Jace sat on the steps of the Accords Hall, gazing upon the statue of Raziel. The angel had the Mortal Cup in one hand, and his other wrist over it. There was no blood coming from the statue. Jace wondered if angels bled the same as him, or if they produced a golden ichor like the stories of the greek gods.

He was turning his seraph blade. It was the same blade —Jahoel— that he had used to stab his brother through the chest.

“Jace, what are you doing here?”

He looked up, unable to help the surprise in his features. It was Luke. He was currently flanked by two Shadowhunters on both sides. “I could ask you that same question,” he said. “A Downworlder in Alicante? You must know I got arrested for this last time.”

Luke scoffed at him, but without any real irritation to it. “The Inquisitor asked to see me. You two, could you not give us some privacy?”

The two Nephilim hesitated, looking at each other. “I promise I’ll keep an eye on him,” Jace said. Finally they stepped back, still within reach, but enough so they could converse without being eavesdropped on. “The Clave must be getting desperate to ask for your help.”

Luke sat next to him with a deep sigh. “Indeed they are. I had thought I would never see the Accords Hall again.”

Jace tried to imagine what that would be like; not being able to go back to the City of Glass, simply because, in a fight, he'd gotten infected with lycanthropy. It was a fate he was afraid of when he found out he had demon blood. Jonathan’s words resonated in his mind. It must’ve stung when you thought you were me, huh? But unlike you, I don’t get to find out it’s all a big elaborate lie.

That foreign feeling that had become all too familiar spread from his chest once more. He couldn’t pinpoint what it was. It wasn’t guilt, but it wasn’t devoid of it. It wasn’t anger and it wasn’t grief. It was a strange in-between. 

“Jace,” Luke said. “Have you spoken to Imogen?”

For a moment he was confused as to who he was referring to, until he caught on to the name. “The Inquisitor? No. Why should I?” As soon as he said it, he caught on to the fact Luke knew something he didn’t, simply by the way he was staring at him. “What?”

“Clary told me… that your mother was Celine.”

Ah. Jace huffed out a breath. It was one more thing in an ocean of new discoveries that only seemed to be drowning him. “You know who that is, I presume.”

Luke hesitated. “She was… She was Stephen’s second wife. Stephen Herondale.”

He felt a lurch of nausea. “You’re telling me that horrid woman… is my grandmother?”

“Jace,” Luke’s voice was uncharacteristically soft. “You must understand. Stephen was Valentine’s second in command after I was gone. He followed him everywhere. When he died, Imogen blamed Valentine. That is why she hates him so much. She believes he killed her son. And… Well, given the way Valentine got rid of me, I don’t doubt he did the same thing to Stephen.”

“That doesn’t excuse the way she treated me,” Jace snarled. “The Clave’s Inquisitor, bullying a teenager. Truly a mark of a great woman.”

“She hated you because you reminded her of Valentine,” Luke insisted. “You’re…” he took an uncertain pause, “you’re very charming, Jace, just like Valentine used to be.”

Somehow that didn’t feel like a compliment. “I don’t want to talk to her.” He knew, on some level, that he was being petty; that the Inquisitor was the only family he had left, and now that he had seen what losing Max had done to Maryse, he could imagine that that amount of pain would make a person deeply hateful. 

But there was so much in his mind. There was Max’s fragile body at the entrance of the Gard, with those eyes, half-lidded, looking up into the sky. There was Jonathan falling into the river, and the look that he gave Jace right before did. There had been no resentment in his eyes, nor fear; it was all sorrow. It almost had seemed apologetic.

“I understand,” said Luke. “If… if you ever wish to do something a little easier, my sister lives here, in Alicante. Her name is Amatis, Amatis Herondale. She married Stephen before Celine. I imagine she’ll be able to tell you about him, if you ever wanted to know.”

Jace looked down at Jahoel, twisting it once more. “Thanks, Luke. And good luck; you’ll need it.”

Jonathan’s boots stepped on fresh blood. The floors were a perfect, black marble, which meant the liquid didn’t absorb, and simply spread out endlessly, splashing when he walked. His hand holding his blade was trembling slightly, but it wasn’t from horror. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. Valentine was on the ground now, creating the puddle of red around him, bleeding out from where he’d stabbed him in the neck. At first, he had thought Lilith really meant to torture him, because as soon as his father appeared, he had attacked him.

But it had been easy. The blade had sunk through the delicate flesh of his throat, spraying him on the face. He could taste the iron on his tongue. It should have been revolting to him, but it wasn’t. It felt good.

He’s the reason I’m here, he thought spitefully. He sent me here. He left me here to rot.

“There,” Lilith said. There was pride in her voice. “That’s much easier to indulge in, isn’t it?” Suddenly her hands were on both his shoulders. He hissed in pain. Anywhere she touched him, it created an unbearable heat, burning the upper layer of his skin. He tried to step away by instinct, but her grip was much stronger than he would’ve imagined. She dug in her nails, and breathed out next to his ear; “shhh, child. Remember what I taught you.”

He grit his teeth, closing his eyes and focusing on uttering the words; “pain… pain is just a reflection… of the fire within.”

“Good.” She did not let go. She kept on talking; “but this isn’t all that you wanted, is it? You didn’t want him to just die. You wanted him to suffer for what he did to you. For poisoning you, for never loving you, for abandoning you here with me.”

There was a voice in the back of his mind telling him this was wrong, that this was beyond fucked up. She wanted him to torture his own father, and to enjoy it. Yet still, that burning sensation on his flesh was taking away his ability to think clearly. She reached up a hand, travelling through the side of his neck and upwards, over his cheeks.

His breath caught in his throat. Stop, he wanted to plead, but he was mute. Her fingers finally stopped around his right eye. He could feel it singing the flesh, and, for some inexplicable reason, his first concern was that the Seelie Queen had said she liked his eyes — and she wouldn’t think that anymore once Lilith was done with his face.

“Tell me,” she insisted. “Tell me what you want.”

He struggled to think. How long was she going to burn him now? What if he couldn’t answer her questions? But, after a few seconds of breathing in deeply, something clicked. Pain is just a reflection of the fire within. He could see it now, could understand how her power emanated out of her hands, and how this was the same power that was inside of him. That is what he was feeling. How much it hurt — it only served to remind him how strong he was.

A strange sense of calm washed over him. The fog inside his own mind lifted. He couldn’t feel distress anymore, though neither did he feel good. It was an overwhelming nothingness, that in itself did not produce acceptance or rejection.

He wondered if this is how demons felt all the time.

“I want him to beg,” he said. “I want him to beg for my forgiveness.”

She let go of him. He swayed, all the accumulated tension leaving him. And yet, there was no relief. “Make him beg.”

And there was Valentine standing there again.

It was easier said than done. Valentine was a proud man, and whatever magic Lilith was using, it knew that. He killed his father over and over again. He grabbed him by the back of his neck and pierced with the blade, tip first, over the throat until it came out his mouth. 

Look at what you have turned me into . 

He pushed him into the ground and used both hands to choke him, while his father clawed at his face and at the fresh burns that still sizzled over his skin. He watched his face turn white and then purple while he pressed his full weight on him. 

You made me this way.  

He stuck his fingers inside his eyes, making them pop like an egg yolk does when it’s stabbed with a fork. He broke the bones of his legs and of his hands. 

You abandoned me here. I gave you everything. I loved you. 

He beat him bloody until his knuckles split. He kicked on his skull until it splintered inwards. 

I did everything you asked, and you discarded me like I meant nothing.  

His ears rang. He was barely able to process his father’s screams. He never begged — he vaguely wondered if he ever would, if there was any universe in which he would get that satisfaction.

Lilith didn’t seem to mind it. When he was done, he was kneeling on the ground, covered in gore and panting heavily. His hands shook with the effort it had taken. She stepped in front of him. She reached for him again and he flinched back, his breath catching, leaving her hand outstretched, inches away from him. “Please,” he choked out, already feeling the phantom hurt that would come. Cold, childish terror was gripping him, the same kind he would get when his father took out his belt. He was so tired. Every muscle in his body felt impossible to lift. His heart was strained, ripped apart by his own senseless actions. He didn't want any more pain, he didn't want to have to break it apart, to dismantle himself, in order to endure it. “Don't.”

“Morning Star,” she whispered disapprovingly. “Why do you resist your destiny?”

He shook his head. He had thought this is what he wanted, but he had been wrong. After every kill, there was a momentary feeling of accomplishment, of pleasure, but it was a hollow one. It seemed to be eating him out from the inside, and each subsequent one was less enjoyable than the last. He felt like he was on the edge of a precipice, on the edge of never feeling anything at all. The only relief on recourse was to do it again, even if he knew it was what was draining him in the first place.

He would have kept going, he knew. He would have kept going forever, if his body had allowed it. The thought of it terrified him.

“I don’t want this,” he exhaled weakly. “Let me go… let me go back home. I don’t belong here.” He saw her expression harden into steel. He felt his stomach twisting in fear. It was the first time he had dared to try to plead with her. Yet still, he pushed his luck further, whispering out the words meekly; “there must be a way… there must be something you want in return—”

For the first time, her voice turned stern. “Enough.” She grabbed his face, pinching both his cheeks. He screamed through his teeth, his vision going white from the pain. “There is no place for you on Earth. Nobody is coming to save you, because nobody loves you. When are you going to accept this? This is what you are. You are a Prince of Hell. You are nothing but destruction.”

His heart shuddered, bleeding out even more severely than before. He reached blindly for Clary through the bond, without being able to help himself.

He got nothing but silence.

Lilith was right. No matter how badly he wanted it; nobody was ever going to love him. He was never getting out of here.

Chapter Text

Some nights later, Jonathan dreamt of that bed of flowers he had laid on. He dreamt of the Seelie Queen’s hair falling on the side like a curtain as she leaned over to look at him. Her eyes had that underlayer of kindness. She kissed him on his forehead, and he could smell that sweet scent that emanated from her neck.

He woke up with regret piling on his bones. He wondered then if the dream was another one of the tricks of this place, trying to make him… what? Indulge?

His mind wandered. It felt safer when it was in the privacy of his own thoughts, when he knew the visions weren’t going to turn on him or push him beyond his boundaries. He thought of how her lips had tasted, and of the kisses she had trailed down the side of his neck. He passed his hand through that spot, digging the nails in and hissing out in frustration. There was only pain — he was scratching through the itching burnt marks Lilith had left there. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been touched without it hurting. Thinking about that night, when she had so freely taken him into her arms, made him ache for it as vividly as one feels thirst after days without drinking any water.

He recalled the conversation they’d had. I care that the forest lives because… it’s better when it does, isn’t it? She had said. To see the trees become tall, to feel the fresh air, to hear the birds chirping. He realised that, in some sense, she thought of him the same way she thought about the forest. She thought of him like she thought about everything. She looked at things, and she imagined how they would be like if they were watered and tended to. He had never met anyone like that in his entire life. Valentine only ever thought of how things could be broken and ripped apart, how they could be bent to his will.

He wished then that he could be like her, but he suspected he was most like his father.

He got out of bed, now trying to outrun everything he missed about Earth, and walked over to the bathroom that connected to his room. As much as he hated this place, it was far bigger and more accommodating than anything he’d ever had. After all, apparently he was a ‘prince.’

He splashed cold water on his face. He always tried not to look at himself, but he couldn’t help it. There were burns, of varying degrees and stages of healing, all throughout his cheeks and his neck, spreading to his shoulders. Lilith seemed to favour the right side — that had sustained the biggest damage by far. He felt stupid, looking at himself and wondering if the Seelie Queen would not find him attractive anymore; it wasn’t like it mattered. It wasn’t like he’d ever see her again, and even if he did, she was no doubt still angry with him.

His roots had grown in, now that he couldn’t dye his hair anymore. The black strands only started a few inches afterwards, creating this strange blend of dark and light. It was the biggest marker of time that he had. He didn’t have a calendar. He wasn’t entirely sure of how long it had been, he had started counting the days at first, but after a while it became a torture in it of itself. He was almost sure a whole month had gone by.

Some hours later, Lilith called him. “There is something I want you to see,” she said. “Come with me.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so much like a Shadowhunter as he did now, overlooking the landscape of Hell. Everything was barren and lifeless. Jagged rocks protruded out from the ground. The air smelled of sulfur, the clouds were made of ash. There was no sunlight, only the burning heat from below the ground that occasionally erupted into fires.

And all across from him — demons. He was instantly overwhelmed by their numbers. They flew in packs, and slithered across the ground, and climbed atop each other. Some were as small as imps, and some were bigger than any he had ever killed; hulking figures that would pulverise any living creature in their wake.

Inside Lilith’s castle, it was easy to forget where he really was; in the middle of enemy territory. If it was not for her protection, he would be ripped open in a matter of seconds, feasted upon by mindless beasts. There was no escape in any direction; no hope for survival.

For a moment he imagined the army his father planned to summon. He wondered how close he was to completing the ritual, to breaking the wards in Alicante and bringing the Clave to heel. An army of even a quarter of this size… they would all be slaughtered; Clary, and Jace, and the Lightwoods. And if Valentine succeeded, who, then, would stand against the demons in the first place?

“These are your legions,” she said, apparently oblivious to his horror. “These, you will command.”

Command?

He took a step back, his eyes darting back and forth from one figure to the next. Some of these creatures were disgusting and pitiful to him, and he knew he would slay them without breaking a sweat — but some others made him grip the blade at his hip simply for its cold reassurance. He could hardly imagine defeating them, let alone telling them what to do.

“My son…” Lilith grabbed his chin. He tensed up immediately, hissing when his flesh sizzled, but she only did it for half a second to make him look at her. “My Morning Star. Can you even imagine why I was forbidden to have children made of flesh and blood like you? A child created in the image of God… you cannot fathom what you can do. You will herald a new age. Not even Raziel’s chosen will be able to stand against you. You will carve out our kingdom into the Earth, and then, finally… my beloved shall be returned to me.”

If her words were not so deeply revolting, he might have found this funny. His father, in his quest to create a master race of Nephilim, had handed the enemy the winning piece. He imagined a future in which Valentine succeeded, only to be defeated by the son he had discarded. It would have been poetic, if it wasn't because it implied the destruction of humanity. If it wasn’t because he would be the one responsible.

“You forget,” he muttered, his heart hammering inside his chest simply because of what he was about to say; “that I, too, bear Raziel’s Marks and his blessing.”

Lilith smiled. Her lips stretched far beyond the normal limits, like a snake. “Not for long. One day, you will allow me to harness the fire within you. It will burn his claim off you. You will become what you were always meant to be.”

Something inside of him stirred. Her phrasing implied that she needed his compliance. “Never,” he declared, hissing it out with hatred. “I’ll never be what you want. You can’t make me.”

She looked amused, like he was an unruly kitten, and not like he was threatening her future plans of conquering the world. “I know why you believe so. You don’t want harm to pass to your sister, and to your brother. But one day they will die, Jonathan, and you’ll still be here. How long do you think you’ll be able to cope with your own pain? One day, you will beg me to do it. You will beg me to take it away. And I will, Morning Star. You shan’t ever suffer, not ever again.”

He faltered. He remembered himself, standing over his dead father, unable to stop himself from attacking him again, and again, only to feel a remnant of relief. Doubt settled in his insides. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was inevitable.

He passed his fingers through the parabatai rune. It was comforting, even if he couldn’t feel Clary like he used to. One day, she would be gone for good. He would have nothing, not even the shadows of the past.

He looked over the desolation across from him. It seemed fitting this would be his kingdom.

Chapter Text

The next dream he had was lucid. For a moment he thought it was a vision of the armies that Lilith had shown him, but upon a closer inspection, he realised he was looking at Idris. The green fields that he knew so well were stained with the blood of Nephilim — the beautiful streets of the City of Glass; overrun by demons.

He felt a presence behind him. He turned, and he saw the bright fire of a halo, the pure white wings. The angel wasn’t bound now, the filth that had soiled his perfect skin was gone. 

“Ithuriel,” he exhaled in disbelief. “It… worked? You are free?”

Incredibly, the angel tilted his head down. It seemed a gesture of gratitude.

“Why are you showing me this?” He looked around, his heart heavy. He had to step in between the bodies of his fallen brothers. “I know what he means to do.”

Ithuriel lifted a hand. Out through the air, as if the past had sliced through, came the voice of his father; “tell me where the Mirror is, Ithuriel.” There was a pause. Valentine’s words turned spiteful with anger; “why? Why are the Heavens so ungenerous with their gifts? You and your kind have abandoned us, left us naked but for these runes in the battle for humanity’s fate. No more. When I have the three Mortal Instruments —and I will find them, Ithuriel—, I shall set things right. Raziel will see sense. He will condemn all these traitors to a swift death at the hands of my army.”

Jonathan felt a deep dread crawling up his spine. “He means to summon Raziel,” he said, and as he did he knew that it was true. “But— he won’t ever agree, would he? Raziel would never side with Valentine.”

For the first time, Ithuriel’s spoke. His voice echoed from every direction, and yet it was the kindest whisper, one he didn’t need to exert himself to hear clearly; “long ago my brother placed his trust on his chosen. The Mortal Instruments were left as a final prayer for them — one who summons Raziel and inscribes their name on the ritual circle, shall compel from him one wish. One favour.”

All the colour left his face. His mind was instantly filled with possibilities, with the kinds of things Valentine would demand. The death of all Downworlders, perhaps. But from the previous memory, he had a better guess. He will condemn all these traitors.

Without the blessing of Raziel, Shadowhunters would become Forsaken. 

Valentine planned to kill all but his most loyal followers.

And then… there truly would be nobody to oppose Lilith, and… himself.

“Why… why me? Why would you show me this?” his voice shook. “I can’t stop him. I’m trapped here. I might very well be the very thing that destroys this world.”

Ithuriel descended. His wings furled up as his feet touched the ground, joining Jonathan in the wasteland where they stood. “Lilith believes you would be the most powerful by emptying your spirit and wielding it. She is wrong. You are a son of Adam. You are a chosen of Raziel. Your power lies as it lies in every mortal on Earth; in the freedom that God has granted you. Choose wisely, Morning Star. You shall either herald the dawn of a new day, or descend in the sky towards an endless night.”

And he woke up with a start, breath leaving him in faint gasps. He could feel cold sweat dripping down his back. He made fists of the sheets around him. If an angel had spoken to him, it had to mean there was a way out; he only had to find it.

He stumbled out of bed, rubbing at the one eye that wasn’t a burnt mess. He vaguely remembered there was a library inside the castle. He stepped out into the hallway. Perhaps he could go there, and find—

He heard a skittering noise. He stopped, focusing in order to make it out. It had been a while since he had worried about picking up heartbeats. Nothing in Hell had one.

“...think he saw us?”

“Nah. He’s as weak as a human. I bet we can mess with him.”

“We can’t. Mother will have our heads.”

Jonathan scoffed in annoyance. “I can hear you,” he said, crossing his arms. “Come out. I know you’re there.”

Out from the corner, it emerged. It was hovering by the ceiling; a tiny demon with a forked tail and a pair of horns. An imp, he realised. “Highness,” it said, its voice high with some mockery of respect. “We were just patrolling your room. Making sure you’re safe.”

“Right,” he arched an eyebrow at it, half considering if Lilith would be angry if he brazenly killed one of her subjects. “Say, I’m her son, aren’t I? Don’t you have to do what I tell you?”

The imp seemed to hesitate. From beside it, another one came, flying forward until it was right in front of Jonathan’s face. “Not yet!” it hissed out proudly. “You’re weak now.”

“Yeah,” the other agreed. “You’re squishy like a baby chick.”

“You haven’t hatched from your egg.”

“You’re made of tasty, tasty flesh.”

“But I will be your prince later,” he ventured to say. “Won’t I? And then I could have you crushed into dust for your disrespect.” The imps glanced at each other, faltering. He took the opportunity to press; “tell me what you know about Li— about my mother. What does she like?”

One of them stayed silent. The other spoke in a doubtful whisper; “mother’s like all demons. She likes making mortals suffer. She likes playing with them.”

Right. Of course. Demons liked bargains. “She likes games,” he said. “Doesn’t she?”

“Yes. Games.” The imp flew a little higher, as if in excitement. “We love games. Do you like games, little Highness?”

He started to walk past them, no longer interested in going to any library. “I hate games,” he spat out, “but I can’t seem to stop playing them.”

He found Lilith in one of the balconies that overlooked her realm. She was leaning on the railing, gazing out with what almost appeared to be wistfulness, if it wasn’t because he knew she couldn’t feel anything at all.

“Jonathan,” she murmured without turning to look at him. “You’re up early.”

He still felt cold with fear. His stomach was twisted in knots. He turned his hands into fists, willing himself to be brave. “I wanted to speak with you.”

Now, she shifted. She rested her lower back on the railing. The red curtains were blowing slightly by the wind, framing her figure. “Is that so?”

His mouth felt dry. He forced himself to keep going. “I want… I want to make a deal with you.” Immediately her eyes sparkled with interest. “I know you like games.”

“I do.” Her voice was as sweet as the first time she had referred to him. “What kind of game do you want to play?”

“A betting game. A gamble.” God, was this stupid? He wasn’t sure, but it was the last resort he could think of. If it was true that she could burn the angel’s touch off him… then it stood to reason that the opposite could also happen, didn’t it?

If he pulled it off… What he had done in the past, it wouldn’t matter anymore. He would be a different person. He wouldn’t be broken anymore. Clary would believe him. She would forgive him. He would be like them, he would be a whole person, one capable of love and of goodness. If he wasn’t empty inside, if he was fixed, everything could change.

All he had to do was beat Valentine at his own game. “You’ll let me out of here,” he kept talking. “And if I can’t make Raziel burn your blood off me before the battle in Alicante ends, then… I’ll let you do it. I’ll be who you want me to be. I’ll be your prince of destruction.”

Cold laughter slipped out of her lips, coated in delight. “Oh, child…”

“But,” he added. “If I succeed, you’ll leave me alone. You’ll let me live my life as a mortal.”

She grinned. This time, her jaw unhinged when she did. He had never seen a demon look so happy. And yet still, those eyes were as hollow as ever. “Deal.”

Chapter Text

It had snowed while he was away. The harshest point in the winter had come and gone, and now there were the remnants of it still, crunching under his boots. He only had a jacket on him, and not a full coat. He had to walk through the Brocelind Forest with the cold biting at his flesh.

Still, it was oddly comforting. In Lilith’s realm, everything was unbearably hot. The burns on his face still hurt with the wind, but it at least seemed to be unearthing that layer beneath that seemed to have stored up the heat and refused to let it go. 

He walked up to the old cabin him and Valentine had once lived in. Littered across the living room were the half emptied IV drips and the ropes that had once held his wrists. Apparently his father hadn’t bothered to clean it up. It at least told him one thing; he wasn’t planning on coming back any time soon.

With the wind firmly shut behind him, he pulled out the packet of cigarettes he had stolen out of a store in the outskirts of Alicante. He lit one and let the warmth of nicotine spread through his chest. He wasn’t coughing anymore — at least not because of the smoking. Pretty soon, as he reached the bathroom and began mixing the powder and the liquid, the smell of bleach was making him wince. With both hands and without bothering to use gloves, he grabbed the mixture and plastered it all over his hair, where the black still rested on it.

Half an hour later, he rinsed it out. There were red strips at the tips and in strands, where the colour hadn’t entirely lifted. He was startled to find that it made him look a little bit like Clary.

Looking away, he uncapped the toner. Some twenty minutes later, he stood with his hair over the sink, squishing with a towel all the excess water. When he looked up, it was sticking to his forehead. Drops of water fell down his cheeks. He put the towel away.

It wasn’t a perfect match of his natural colour, but it was close enough. Valentine’s signature platinum hair framed his features and his black eyes. He’d always known he looked like him, but it hadn’t been as obvious until now that it contrasted with how he’d attempted to hide it.

He hated it. He wondered then, if Clary would ever be able to look at him and not think of her horrid father, even if the demon blood was out of his system.

He wondered what his eyes would be like. The glamour was gone — he wasn’t bothering to keep it up anymore. Those pits of darkness did not help cloak his appearance; and that was the point. If he was going to beat Valentine, he couldn’t do that by hiding, and lying. He was going to have to be worse than him. He was going to have to be Jonathan Morgenstern, with everything that implied.

He then walked down to the basement where he had once spent hours upon hours training. He was after the weapons arsenal — Valentine had taken one of the rifles with him when they’d left this place behind, but there should still be supplies. He knew his father liked to have them scattered around in safehouses where they could be found and used.

Right now, that was working to his advantage. He found five daggers, two seraph blades, two rifles, one handgun and one shotgun. Shadowhunters usually didn’t carry firearms; since they couldn’t be made from pure adamas, they didn’t take runes very well, but that only made them ineffective against demons. Valentine used them plenty against Downworlders.

And now, Jonathan was going to use them against the Nephilim.

Ammunition was a different problem. He found three magazines for the pistol, each with 10 rounds. One of the rifles was essentially useless; he only found one magazine with 20 rounds in it. The shotgun was the one that suffered the most; it only had two shotshells.

He’d sat down on the training floor mats to count everything, and now he meticulously began loading the weapons. He had done this many times before; he didn’t even need to look down as he worked. He grabbed his father’s old hunting belt. He placed the remaining ammo on it. One of the magazine bags was ripped at the bottom, but it didn’t matter; it went unused. He placed the two seraph blades at both hips, the rifle and the shotgun over his shoulders, the pistol and the daggers on the spot at his lower back.

He grabbed a pair of Valentine’s leather gloves. He had noticed when walking through the woods that things didn’t die anymore when he touched them, but he wasn’t sure if it was ever going to happen again, or how to keep it in line. It was better to be safe.

When he took them out of a dresser, he noticed on top of it was his father’s old Bible. It had dust on the top that he had to wipe off. This volume wasn’t just in English, it also had the original Hebrew and Greek. He searched through it, looking for the Acts of the Apostles. As his eyes were scanning the pages, a few words stood out to him from John 15.

Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.

Sometimes, he forgot this book had lines like that. All his father ever seemed to remember was the wrathful God of the Old Testament. If he ever quoted Christ to him, he would no doubt call him weak.

The thought of it humoured him — which is why he wasn’t looking in the previous section. Finally, he found the passage he had been searching for. He ripped out the page and put it in his pocket.

Before he left, he grabbed a stele, pushing his tongue against his cheek. He pressed it over his skin, hoping that his inability to use it had gone away by now. He would really appreciate an iratze for those burns…

But no. It was still dead.

With a heavy sigh he discarded it, letting it clatter to the ground. It seemed getting injured was going to become a much bigger problem from here on out.

He snuck inside the Gard through a side window. It was remarkably easy, considering the hell he had gone through to get out. He made his way down the steps that led to the jail cells underneath. He had to clobber a man on the back of his head, but there wasn’t any further incident.

Simon was gone. He wondered if Clary had managed to Portal him to New York, or if he was still somewhere with her. He kept walking for a good while, up to that cell where Jace and him had stopped before.

A man was sitting on the corner. Jonathan hadn’t paid much mind to him before, but now he examined him a little more closely. He was scrawny, but he guessed that was more a consequence of being stuck here. He had graying hair and dirt staining his skin. 

Jonathan stepped forward, out of the shadows. Hodge Starkweather stood up with his back against the wall and his eyes wide.

“You know who I am,” Jonathan said, not as a question. “I’m surprised. I know my father didn’t particularly like to blabber about me, not after I told him one of his lap dogs had almost murdered me.”

The man said nothing at first, then his voice came in a hoarse whisper; “are you here to kill me?”

Jonathan scoffed. He couldn’t fault him for thinking that; he was wearing a full armory on him. “I don’t know. I haven’t decided. My brother wanted you dead, so I assume you’ve done some pretty nasty things.”

“Jace,” Hodge said. “What did you do to Jace?”

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. A lot of assumptions were being thrown his way all at once. “How about I ask the questions? That’s why I’m here, after all. You must have a lot of dirt on my father, right? That’s why they haven’t killed you. They’re hoping you’ll rat him out, but you won’t, will you? You haven’t yet, because you’re a coward.” He saw Hodge’s face go pale. His jaw was clenched, as if he was fighting with himself. Jonathan kept going; “but you will now. You owe me. You knew what he was doing to me, to my mother, and you did nothing. You owe me this.”

And then that horror turned into confusion. “What?”

“Tell me,” Jonathan took another step, until his forehead was pressing against the bars, “tell me their names. Who else is a spy? You must know. I know you do.”

There was a long pause. Hodge seemed to be staring past him, simply with the force of his gaze. “You’re…” he stammered. “Are you trying to test me? Are you just here to see if I’ll talk, to see if you have to kill me?”

Jonathan made a sound of frustration from the back of his throat. “Of course, of course you don't believe me,” he hissed out to himself. “Jace is alive, alright, old man? He’s fine. I didn’t kill him. Now tell me what I need to know, so I can go take care of the problem. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“You’ve… turned on him?” Disbelief dripped out of every word. Honestly, Jonathan didn’t think it was that difficult to grasp. It wasn’t like his father was a ray of sunshine. “You’ve turned on Valentine?” Then Hodge hesitated. His hands were clenched into fists. “How do I know you’re not lying to me?”

“You don’t,” his voice was flat. “Are you going to keep being a coward?”

The man took a deep breath. He was still pale, trembling slightly. “...fine. Fuck it. Fine. Do you have a pen?”

Chapter Text

It was early in the morning when Jonathan got to the Consul’s office. He strolled in without a care in the world. There was hardly any security in Alicante, given the wards, and, of course, this man had nothing to fear from Valentine. They were on the same side.

He sat down on top of the desk, lightning a cigarette. He noticed there was a cup of coffee next to him, and he picked it up to check if it was still hot.

The door opened. At the entrance was a middle-aged man with black hair and severe features. He stopped when he saw Jonathan, his back straightening. But he didn’t immediately scream for help, or attack him. Jonathan’s vague affiliations were working wonders for him today.

He extended the cup of coffee to him. “It’s cold now,” he noted. “Maybe that’s the way you like it, though, Consul.”

Malachi didn’t take it. He stared at the boy on his desk with a mix of bafflement and offense. “You,” he said, his voice incredibly tense. “Why did he send you here?”

“Do you know who I am?” There was a hint of surprise there. He wondered how many people knew. He wondered how ashamed his father was of him. He swirled the cup on his hand and nonchalantly took a sip. He grimaced. “Eugh. You don’t put any sugar in it? What, is it bad for your cholesterol?”

“It isn’t hard to guess,” the Consul snarled, snatching the drink from his fingers. “What are you doing here? I told Valentine I didn’t want any direct associations. He stays out of my business and I stay out of his.”

“Right,” Jonathan took a long drag and let the smoke out his nose. “Like, say, experimenting on his children? Is that the business you stay out of?” Malachi’s expression twisted. It went from this mask of annoyance, to confusion, and then to fear. He took a step back, his hand reaching for the doorknob, but before he could do anything else Jonathan was on him, pinning him to the door with one fist over his clothing and a dagger to his throat. The coffee cup fell with a dull thud. “You didn’t answer my question, Consul.”

“It’s not possible,” Malachi said. His face was pale, and his voice was strained by the pressure of the blade. “He said… He said you had no emotions.”

“So you did know about me?”

The man shook his head very, very slowly. “N— Not until recently. I didn’t— Listen, kid. You’ll have your share. I’ll speak to your father. I’m sure any disagreements can be mended.”

“My share?” 

“When he takes over the Clave. We’ll split it all up. I’ll make sure you get your piece.”

Ah. He understood now. This man wasn’t a true believer — he didn’t care about Valentine’s war against Downworlders. He only wanted, what? Properties and money? He was the fucking Consul and even that hadn’t been enough for him.

Jonathan couldn’t help the dark chuckle that escaped him. “You realise Valentine won’t give you shit, don’t you? He hates you. He hates people like you. Weak, and driven by insignificant things like money or status. My father only seeks the glory of Heaven.”

Malachi’s eyes went wide like saucers. For a moment Jonathan feared he was about to have a stroke. “You’re wrong,” he argued, but he sounded unconvinced. “He promised me— He’s a very reasonable man, your father.”

The laughter only got louder. Malachi went red in the face. It seemed some of his dignity had returned to him. “I am sorry about this, you know,” Jonathan said. “I don’t enjoy it. But it has to be done. I’m the only one who can do it.”

There was a gurgling sound. Blood poured out of the Consul’s throat, bubbling out and then spraying. Malachi looked stunned, like he couldn’t believe that it had actually happened. Powerful men never realise they, too, can be killed.

Jonathan watched him die quietly. Only once it was over did he move him, placing him on the ground, careful not to make a ruckus, and grabbing the hand where he had the signet ring of the Clave.

He cut in one single, powerful blow. He reached forward to close the man’s eyes and then stood up. “You don’t deserve the words,” he told him. “But I will give them to you anyway. Ave atque vale, Consul.”

He grabbed his forgotten cigarette from where it had fallen on the desk, and stepped out.

Alec never thought these meetings would be so boring.

He wasn’t technically supposed to be here, but lately his parents had gotten sentimental. Robert wanted to show him around the Gard —You’ll be eighteen soon, after all—, perhaps in some vain effort to feel like he hadn’t lost two of his children. Alec couldn’t bear to say no to them, even if he’d rather be at home where he’d have the company of Jace and Isabelle.

They were sitting in a large conference room. It was one of many that were adjacent to each other, though the windows to the sides had reflective glass and didn’t allow you to see through unless you were standing at a very particular angle. Alec was currently between Robert and some other man he had never met nor cared to. His eyes were trained up towards the ceiling. It was a tall room, with wooden rafters that at least absorbed some of the echo. Inquisitor Herondale was at the head of the table. Jace had just told him the news, and he still couldn’t wrap his head around the idea they were related.

“Where the hell is the Consul?” he heard somebody dejectedly whisper beside him. Is that why this was taking so long?

“I’ll go check,” someone else said and stood up. Alec had about two seconds to recognise him; it was Anson Pangborn. Then his ears were ringing with the blast of gunpowder and glass shattering, and Anson’s brains splattered to the right side of him.

There were screams. Immediate chaos. Before he could get his bearings, his father was pulling him down, under the table. He heard more gunshots, more screams, more bodies dropping to the ground. It must have been around five before they stopped. He peaked out from where he was. The window was no more, and behind it, in the room next to them, stood someone. At first, Alec thought it was Valentine himself, and he felt dread settling on his stomach.

But it wasn’t Valentine.

The figure was staggering back, with one blade stuck to his shoulder. He had platinum hair and he was holding a rifle. 

It was Jonathan Morgenstern.

Alec saw a group of Nephilim rushing towards him, taking advantage of the distraction. Then something impossible happened; Jonathan leaped, higher than it should be possible for any human, and he was gone. There were gasps of confusion, people turning their heads up. Alec shook his father’s hand off him stubbornly. He had barely managed to stand when, as fast as the bullets, Jonathan dropped from the ceiling on top of a man in front of him. He was stabbing into his neck with a dagger. His target crumbled to the ground. Two Nephilim rushed towards him. Jonathan reached for his back, and produced a pistol. He fired four bullets to the floor, seemingly in a blind haze, only to create space for himself. Only the fifth connected. It was Charles Freeman, one of his father’s old friends. He was dead now.

Alec was about to jump across the table to stop him, but his father pushed him back. He watched in horror as Robert rushed at the threat in the room with nothing in his hands. Jonathan kicked him square in the chest, sending him flying back across the room. He switched back to the rifle, pointing in a different direction, but before he could fire, there were more on top of him.

Alec ran to one of the entrances, where he had left his bow. Most everyone here was unarmed. There were others that had had the same idea. Probably one of them had been the one to get him on the shoulder earlier.

He knocked one arrow in, and turned. How is he so fast? He marvelled. It was impossible to keep his eyes trained on him. He had knocked out two people with the blunt end of the rifle, and then he had let go of it with a loud curse, having been unable to use it. He took out the pistol again. Alec fired in that millisecond when he was distracted. Jonathan’s head shifted to the right at the last moment. The arrow sunk on the wall behind him.

But even as good as he was, he couldn’t keep up with everyone in the room. Somebody tackled him from behind, onto the table. Jonathan grunted, his fingers sliding off the pistol slightly, barely managing to point it somewhere and pull the trigger. He saw Pontmercy hiding behind a chair from the barrage of bullets. One, two, three. One of the Nephilim managed to grip the wrist he was using to fire, but it wasn’t for long. Jonathan elbowed him and managed to shake him off. He jumped on the table, laser focused on Pontmercy. He fired again, it went through the wood and pierced the man’s chest cleanly.

He has targets, Alec realised, dumbfounded. He could have fired at everyone, could have aimed to slaughter the entire room. Instead, he was focusing on a select few. Why?

Before he could do anything with the information, Jonathan made a choked gasp of surprise. The Inquisitor had climbed up, as well, and she had struck him in the back of the head with a witchlight. He fell forward heavily, and she extended a hand, clearly asking for a blade. “You,” she hissed out. “I knew there was something off about you. Traitor.”

He was bleeding, Alec saw, with an arrow pointed at him, though he couldn’t make himself fire. There was a pool of red around Jonathan’s head. Still, he seemed awake and alert. He twisted to the side to look at Imogen, his lips twisted in a dark, mocking smile. “I’d love to kill you, too, you wench,” he said, “but unfortunately you’re not on my list.”

There was the faintest glimmer of confusion on her face, and then Alec saw somebody move behind the Inquisitor, blade in hand. He realised all too late that this person was not giving it to her; she was aiming, instead, to stab her.

But before he could, Jonathan, faster than he could react to, jumped up, pulling Imogen down and beneath him. He fired at the rogue Shadowhunter straight through her head. It was Annabelle Blackwell.

There was a momentary breath where nothing happened. Alec was frozen, not knowing who he was supposed to attack anymore. He saw Jonathan take out a magazine from his belt. His eyes were darting around the room. He seemed, almost, to be doing math in his head. He was about to reload when Robert reached him again, tackling him to the side. The magazine slipped out of his grip and across the table, down to the ground.

“You killed my son!” Robert roared. “I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you!”

“Dad!” Alec darted forward, uncaringly. His father was going to die. Jonathan was clearly inhuman, impossible to defeat. There was a loud blast. Robert staggered back, blood all over his face. Alec felt a horrible dread crawl up him. Had he shot him? Was he dead? Jonathan took the opportunity to run, zipping past them both towards the hallway.

No. He wasn’t getting away with it again.

He ran after him, anger greater than any he’d felt taking hold of him. It was choking him, mixing in with the grief into spikes that went through his chest. He managed to grab of Jonathan, and he slammed him into the wall.

He was expecting something, some amount of deadly force thrown his way. Instead those black, monstrous eyes ignored him completely. Jonathan slipped a dagger between his fingers and threw it to someone behind Alec. “One last to go, Lightwood,” he said. He then took him by his shirt and launched him away and back towards the room. Alec felt his vision swim. He forced himself to go up his elbows. He saw Valentine’s son running further down the hallway, until he reached a woman that had been fleeing the room. He grabbed her by her hair and pulled her back.

“No!” she cried out, falling to her knees. “I don’t— I don’t understand. We have been faithful. Please— Don’t kill me, please—”

Incredibly, he saw Jonathan hesitate. At least, that’s what it appeared to be. He didn’t move, didn’t immediately slice open her throat.

“Please— He said he’d kill my son, please—”

There was a general commotion around them. Alec knocked an arrow in, pointing it. Jonathan cursed under his breath. He pulled her up, forcing her to stand. “You’re coming with me, then,” he snarled. “I have a job for you.”

Alec fired, but, once again, it was not enough to take him down.

Valentine was sitting with his legs up his desk, tuning out the screams of that werewolf girl, when he got the fire message.

He frowned. He wasn’t expecting any news. He took it out of the air, and immediately he could tell that there was an object rolled up along the paper. As he unfurled it, a severed finger fell on top of his lap.

He was not startled, though he picked it up curiously. He turned it to the side — there was a ring on it. The signet ring with the Clave’s symbol, the one only the Consul wore.

He locked his jaw, anger rising from deep within. He then looked at the paper. He recognised where it was from immediately; it wasn’t a message, it was a passage ripped out of his old Bible. Acts 7:52.

Which of the prophets have not your fathers persecuted? and they have slain them which shewed before of the coming of the Just One; of whom ye have been now the betrayers and murderers.

There was a single word underlined in red, on the side where the same words were in the original ancient Greek. Ερχομαι (erchomai).

I am coming.

He crumpled the paper into a fist. 

Chapter Text

“He was here?!”

Alec stared at Jace with a heaviness in his eyes. It had been a while since Jace had seen him look so tired. “Yes,” he said. “He could have killed dad. For a moment I thought he had. I wasn’t able to—” his voice died.

“Alec,” Izzy spoke up, her features twisted in sadness. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I heard the shot,” Alec kept going. “The shotgun firing. I saw his face covered in blood. I thought he was dead.”

But Robert was not dead. Jace had seen him earlier, wiping off the blood. “He hit me with the recoil,” he had told them. “I’m fine.”

Alec had been so pale. He still was devoid of colour, his eyes looking haunted. “He’s so fast, Jace,” he muttered then. “He wasn’t like that before. I mean, you beat him before. But he’s— he’s not human.”

Jace didn’t answer him. He remembered what Valentine had said, about Jonathan being stronger than any Shadowhunter before him. He had hardly believed it then, after he’d fought him. There was no ferocity in him. Jonathan had fought him resignedly, dejectedly.

This was different. These were the actions of somebody with nothing left to lose, and, apparently, a great deal to gain. This Jonathan was far more dangerous.

“Jace,” Izzy spoke up. He turned around to find the Inquisitor approaching them. She was heading directly for him.

Great.

“Jonathan—” she started speaking.

“I told you, my name is Jace.”

Her words died. He had hardly seen any emotion that wasn’t anger or distaste appear in her face, but now the Inquisitor seemed stunned. “Jace,” she exhaled. “Clarissa told me… what you two found in those journals.”

He stared at her. He didn’t know what to say. He had figured that she already knew. This wasn’t a conversation he was looking forward to having. “Can’t we do this some other time?”

“I wanted to apologise to you—” He shook his head, walking aimlessly past her. He didn’t want to hear it. He heard Isabelle’s voice call out to him, but it was the Inquisitor who followed him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Please,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically soft, “I want to make this right.”

“There is no making this right.” He was surprised to hear how cold he sounded; just like Valentine — just like Jonathan.

He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to unpack any of this. The feeling of unfairness that had clinged to him for so long was still there, but now he knew that he hadn’t been the real target. It was Jonathan’s mother who had abandoned him, not Jace’s. It was him that the Clave would have killed if they had ever found out; even if he hadn’t done anything, they would have never heard him out.

But knowing this wasn’t any good. These traitorous sympathies that he had were just obstacles. Jonathan had killed his little brother in cold fucking blood, and here Jace was, feeling sorry for him, wishing that he could have made it right. He hated himself for it.

“I didn’t know who you were. I thought—”

“What?” He whirled, snarling. “You thought I was some monster? That I was more demon than person? Don’t you realise that’s exactly the way Valentine thinks?!” It was too far, he knew. He shouldn’t be saying this where he could be heard, where he could be accused of betraying the Clave. And yet, he couldn’t keep it in. “He thinks it’s all about blood, and nothing else. I had thought we were better than him, but we’re not. My father is right. The Clave is rotten. Except, to him, it is because you aren’t enough like him. I think it’s because you’re too much like him.”

“Inquisitor,” there was a voice beside them both. They turned. “The Consul has been found dead. He’s missing his finger, with the ring.”

Imogen blinked. She still seemed miles away from the harsh woman he had known. She seemed, now, completely lost. “Let us… gather our dead,” she said. “We shall honour them.”

The house was just as he remembered it.

Jonathan stood in Jocelyn's living room, looking down at the couch where he had been lying when Clary pulled him out of the vision. Everything was the same. A month ago… a month ago everything was okay. He had thought, even, that the next time he came here, he would see his mother, and he would convince her that he wasn’t a monster. Or, at the very least, that he could learn to be something else.

He had lock-picked the door. He’d noticed, then, that the Malachi configuration was gone. Perhaps the Clave had decided to forget and forgive, as unlikely as it was. Forgiveness. The concept seemed almost foreign to him. The only time he ever had it was right here, when Clary told him to apologise, that apologising was good, and that if he did he would see he could be something different.

If only it was that simple.

He heard steps. He didn’t turn around. He had left most of his weapons back at the safehouse; all he had on him was his seraph blade. It was enough. He wasn’t planning on shooting his own family, after all, even if they wouldn’t have considered him part of it.

There was the sound of a cabinet in the kitchen opening, the wood creaking. He turned, and saw his mother dressed in yoga pants, with her red hair up in a messy bun. She had her back to him. She hadn’t seen him. 

She turned then, and the breath caught in her throat. The glass in her grip slipped and shattered at her feet.

Jonathan shifted his head to the hallway slightly, wondering if the noise had woken anybody up.

“Jonathan,” she said. Her voice was clipped, laced in grief. He finally turned his gaze to her. He couldn’t help his own curiosity at how she would look at him, if there’d be any love in her eyes, or if it would all be hatred.

He found that it was mostly just sorrow. “Hey,” he spoke. His voice was hoarse. He had tried to cloak his own emotions like he usually did, but it seemed the ability was failing him now. “I hope you don’t mind. I came here to pay Clary a little visit, but I wanted to see you, too. I barely remember you, after all.”

Jocelyn’s face hardened. She reached to her side, where no doubt she kept her own weapon, but Jonathan didn’t pay the gesture any mind. “You won’t touch my daughter,” she declared.

He exhaled out through his nose. He could have told her ‘ I’m not going to hurt her,’ but what was the point? She wouldn’t believe him anyway. Instead he said what he really wanted to; “why did you leave me?” For a moment she seemed to hesitate. He kept going; “did I do something? I can’t remember much. Valentine told me I killed a bird. Is that why? Were you afraid of me? I remember you talking about me. You said there was something wrong with me.”

He only got silence.

“Tell me,” his voice shook. He hadn’t realised how close he was to tears until now, that he had to gulp them down. “Why did you leave me? I needed you. You could have— you could have made me better.” You could have fixed me, before it was too late.