Mortal Instruments 1. Part One: Trembling Flame

_A/N: I do not own the Mortal Instruments. That privilege goes to Cassandra Clare. I'd like to point out that I haven't seen the movie and am not writing this fic because of it. This is based solely on the books. This is my first fanfic and the events in the Mortal Instruments begin during late December, not August. It's for a good reason, trust me and the season shift won't have a huge impact on the timeline. This story will be three parts in one with each book being combined into its corresponding part. Any reviews constructive or otherwise are welcome and very much appreciated. Try the first few chapters. The writing gets better, I promise. All things said I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

**PART ONE: TREMBLING FLAME**

_**"The mind covers the truth as the light covers the shadows."**_

The dream was always the same. Vicious and jagged, the memory it heralded always lingered around the edges of her mind. With vivid recollection, terrifying images bombarded her. A chilling grin, a clawed hand coated in scarlet blood, sadistic fiendish eyes that regarded her in contempt. These mental pictures would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Whitley bolted up, heart hammering as another nightmare came and went. Sweat clung to her brow and she tossed the suffocating thick cover off before laying back down in an attempt to slow her panicked breathing. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table a minute later and got back up. Going to stand by her window, she proceeded to stare through the ice-frosted pane. Looking outside in the morning was something of a pattern she'd formed in recent weeks. Fretting with the cool silver beads of the onyx pendant she wore, she reached out and drew shapes idly on the glass. A winter wonderland gleamed at her as she stood there a moment, eager to rid her mind of the dark memory plaguing her.

Wandering back over to the bed, she sat on its rumpled blue comforter. An idea came to muddled mind and she straightened reflexively. Playing an instrument could help her drive out the dreary, tempestuous sensations her dreams caused. Her hands slipped beneath the bed frame and found the case holding her violin. She opened it, taking in the burnished surface before placing the stringed instrument on her shoulder and fitting her chin on its guard. She held the bow as she sifted through the small music collection in her head and settled on an allegretto piece.

Once the calming lilt surmounted and a semblance of tranquility replaced her anxiety, her eyes caught sight of her clock again. Upon seeing the time, she recalled that she had an appointment to keep. Putting the instrument away, she grabbed her toiletries and walked into her bathroom. As water poured down her sides, her fingers found their way to the scars rooted in her right forearm. Upon seeing the stark contrast against her olive skin, tears came unbidden to her eyes. Her heart wrenched with grief but she steeled herself against the accompanying tide of wretchedness. Opening that wound wouldn't help her. Absently, she brought her hand farther down to her wrist; before remembering the silver band she'd grown accustomed to wearing wasn't there any longer.

As she reached up to wipe a rogue tear away, her eyes caught sight of the mark on the back of her hand. An outlandish symbol that bore the resemblance of an eye—a new oddity in her life. Whitley noticed it some weeks ago and couldn't help but wonder how she hadn't before. Normally she would have tried to puzzle out how the mark had made its way to her hand, but she was too weary to do such a thing.

She choose to dismiss it and all further thoughts. Soon they faded into nothingness as the droplets of water pacified her, taking her mind of things. She dried off and headed back to her room, dressing herself in attire suitable for the cold weather outside. She entered the kitchen and fixed a bowl of cereal, settling down on one of the stools at the kitchen counter; silence and the occasional clink of metal against porcelain her only companions as she ate.

Out of habit her eyes flicked towards her father's study, hoping that he'd make an appearance. She then sighed in disappointment, knowing this occurrence was unlikely. Wet footprints created a path to his door—a sign she'd just missed him. Mere glimpses were the only sort of "interaction" she had with him nowadays and she could only guess where he would go in the middle of the night. Only one thing was clear to her: there was no opening that door once it was closed. Ignoring the tightening sensation in her throat, she scooped up the last contents of her breakfast and headed out the door, dreading what was to come.

* * *

An hour later Whitley stood outside the building to her psychiatrist's office. The seventeen year old shuffled her feet nervously on one of the small patches of ice that coated the sidewalks as taxis flew past her on the recently plowed streets. Their tires sped through the blackened snow sludge, sending unruly strands of dark hair into her eyes. Shoppers milled about around her as they got last-minute errands done, hands laden with wrapped gifts and bags. Everything from the Christmas displays in the shop windows, the music playing from their stores and the chatter of everyone talking about their purchases went unnoticed by Whitley. Her breath rose in visible puffs on the chilly, late morning air as she stared at the revolving glass doors, asking herself why she kept coming here.

Shivering from something other than the cold, images of strange creatures assailed her, abnormal beings that no one else could see. Worried about her sanity, she'd convinced herself to make an appointment. Shaking her head to dislodge thoughts of discomfort, she strode through the doors determinedly, heading straight for the elevator in the lobby. She crammed herself gently between some disgruntled workers and pressed her floor number. Getting off at the telltale chime and walking towards where she knew the office to be, she was taken in by the soothing atmosphere the soft palettes and tidiness of the waiting area created. She approached the receptionist manning the phones and a small, strange chill reverberated through her body suddenly despite the warmth of the room as she waited for the woman to acknowledge her. A manicured finger motioned for her to wait and placed the phone back on the hook.

"Name?" she asked curtly, opening the appointment book on her computer.

"Whitley." The woman sent her pointed look. "Reiner." she elaborated, frowning inwardly at the woman's rude behavior. It wasn't like she hadn't seen her before.

"He's with another client. Sit over there." The woman gestured to the row of black vinyl chairs sitting against the beige walls. Whitley sat down and picked up a magazine from the square glass table in front of her to quell the urge to peek at her surroundings. Giggles reached her ears as she flipped through the thin pages and she examined the only other waiting patient. A portly man staring ahead blankly and rocking back and forth slowly, the fluorescent lighting flaring off his balding head. She could discern his muttering from where she was sitting a few seats down.

"They're real. They say they aren't but I know they exist. I hear the laughter in my head, see the dark of their eyes."

Laughter rang out again and this time Whitley noticed the tiny, pixie-like creatures floating around him. They pulled and prodded at him, fluttering iridescent wings gleaming in the light. Sharp teeth flashed menacingly and black eyes glinted mischievously as they tittered. The man waved his hands to swat them away but it proved to be useless as the aberrant creatures recommenced their pestering with zest. He gave up and buried his face in his hands, soft sobs piercing the air as they tugged at his clothes and terror seized her.

Was that her future?

No, she thought insistently; she was here to make sure it wasn't. She blinked harshly in hopes that it would dispel the horrible image but it didn't work—it never did. The sound of a door opening disrupted her thoughts of inner turmoil and she turned to see a woman emerge from the office door next to her and shuddered internally as haunted eyes met hers. Whitley was relieved when the woman's gaze went elsewhere.

"Mrs. Reiner." A familiar voice greeted her, tone deliberately relaxing. Her psychiatrist, Dr. Hardeman, stood in the doorway, smiling at her warmly. He swept his arm in the direction of the door. "Right on time as always."

Whitley entered his office, wondering how someone in his job profession could have such a cheerful countenance. Perspective, she supposed. Whatever the cause, it certainly helped and the tight grip on her heart lessened significantly. Perhaps that had been his intention.

Upon entering she saw that his working space was in its usual messy state. Or as he preferred to call it, "organized chaos." She sat on an old sofa, thankful the clichéd chaise lounge wasn't present. Venturing behind his escritoire, he took out his file on her and planted himself in his office chair. Scooting back around the desk, he then stopped in front of her, attentive eyes meeting hers.

Used to this routine, Whitley touched her pendant and closed her eyes, combating the urge to flee the onslaught of questioning she knew was about to come. He gave her a moment as she breathed deeply in an effort to calm herself and disregard the nervousness within her. Confiding in a stranger wasn't an easy task for her to undertake, but sadly it was necessary one. Yet with this being her first real session, it wasn't going to be as simple as she wanted it to be. He hadn't been able to delve into her reason for being there the last time since they had to get certain questions out of the way and see if they were comfortable with each other as protocol demanded. It hadn't taken long for Whitley to be at ease around him, as he'd already proved himself to be well intentioned. His going rate was thrice the amount of money she accumulated in a month. With her saving for college she didn't dare take too much from her funds. He'd been nice enough to lower it for her after hearing her situation.

He's trying to help you.

"Ready?" he asked.

She exhaled and opened them."Ready."

"The dreams…" he began. "Have they gotten any better?" He took note of the faint circles under her eyes.

"No."

"Worse?"

"No, it's the same every time. Never changing."

"Your mother's murder."

"Yes."

"Why do you think that is?"

"I…" She wriggled in her seat in discomfort as she voiced her thoughts. "I can't help but think I should've died with her."

"And why is that?" He knew they walked a thin line. That particular thought process was very dangerous.

"I think I'm being punished for surviving."

Whitley lifted her sleeve a little as she spoke, thumb reaching out to caress her scars, knowing that the conclusion she had reached was absurd, but what other explanation could there possibly be? According to the nurse of the hospital she'd woken up in, she shouldn't have been able to survive the attack; apparently poison had been passing through her bloodstream far too quickly. Despite the tireless work of the doctors, they hadn't expected her to make it past the night. When she did they'd called her a medical miracle. Her deduction was definitely better than the alternative: the fact that she might be going crazy wasn't a comforting one.

"Punished?" He echoed surprised. "Why do you think that?"

Whitley grew hesitant. For some reason she felt as if she shouldn't tell him. Maybe she didn't want him to send her to insane asylum to spend the rest of her life in a straight jacket with nothing but the padded walls of her room to keep her company. Editing the experiences were an option, but she doubted she would get the help she needed if she did.

"I'm seeing things," she finally whispered, watching as he straightened in his chair.

"What kind of things?"

"I don't know…" she murmured uncertainly, struggling to describe the what she'd witnessed. She decided to depict the ones from the waiting area. "Pixies… fairies, I think. They have wings." Her brows furrowed in fright as she continued, "No one else can see them—at least I don't think they can." Her thoughts went immediately to that poor man in the lobby; was he seeing the exact same things she was?

"You say this began the night of her murder? It's possible you may be retreating into a fantasy world to cope with your trauma. Or it could simply be sleep deprivation. Hmm." He pressed his pen to his mouth in thought and looked at her uncertainly. "I need to know if you're at risk for PTSD… but it would help knowing what could have started all this. Do you think you'll be able tell me what happened that night?"

Again, indecision swept through her. Going back through the events of that night—that week really—wouldn't be easy. Certain parts of it were still a mystery to her: the strange mark that had appeared on her hand overnight and the beast that had killed her mother. It couldn't have possibly been real… could it? No, he'd been human only seconds before. She must have imagined the creature in her in distress. The police had chalked it up as some strange mugging gone wrong and Whitley would do the same.

"No. I don't think I can," she replied. Attempting to steady her now erratic pulse.

"Okay, understandable. Are you up for some other questions?" he asked writing something down on his pad, wanting to divert her from her stricken state. At her nod he continued, "Have you had a period of a week or more during your life when you have felt unusually good or high? Was this clearly different from your usual mood, so much so that your relatives and friends noticed the change?"

And so began another litany of inquires that deterred Whitley from thoughts of distress. For now, at least.

* * *

It was one o'clock on the dot when she returned to the townhouse. She was immersed in a feeling of security as she closed the door, a somewhat contented sigh leaving her as heat entered her cold limbs. She slipped off her coat and tugged off her boots, rolling her neck to ease the tension in it that had resulted from refusing to look at anything but her feet as she traveled back home. Another small sigh left her as she righted herself and headed to her room, trying to think of whatever she could to avoid the impulse to sleep. Her eyes flitted a path from the fantasy movie posters pinned on her dark teal walls to the bookcases pushed against them, filled to the brim with dozens of worn out novels. Whitley placed her coat and boots by the door and walked over to it. She ran the pads of her fingers over their thick spines, remembering staying up late night after night, always telling herself that the page she was currently reading would be her last, only to read 50 more as dawn would start to trickle through her window.

Sadly, her love for reading had waned in recent weeks, so that was one hobby she could no longer freely partake in. She sat at her desk and pulled the economics textbook out of her book bag. Maybe studying would diminish the longing to close her eyes. Whitley opened a zipper on the front of her bag and took out her music player, remembering the argument she had with her mother when she'd asked for a cellphone before acquiescing to the suggested compromise. She put in the ear buds and opened her school book, pushing memories of her mother out of her mind, eyes scanning the pages of the lesson plan one of her teachers had emailed her. She'd almost come to the end of it but her drowsiness could no longer be ignored. The black text blurred and sleep overtook her.

She awoke to a startlingly loud song blasting through her ears and shot up, snatching her earphones out, mind struggling to escape a groggy post nightmare haze. She didn't bother to assess the recent and frankly disconcerting dream currently coursing through her mind as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Groaning at the insistent pounding that had commenced in her head,s he opened the top drawer of her dresser and reached for the aspirin she kept close at hand. Swallowing the pills dry and she grimaced at the taste, trudging to the fridge for something to wash out the bitter aftertaste. She grabbed a juice bottle and took a sip, eyes habitually traveling to the adjoining living room.

Signs of her mother's work as an astronomer and her love for stars could be seen here and there. From the numerous photos of constellations, and star charts hanging from violet walls, to the glass case filled with old bronze astronomy equipment.

The same could be said for her father. Mathias' book collection laid inside the cabinet next to the fireplace, his first published novel proudly showcased in front of it. A beep sounded through the quiet apartment, halting her observation and Whitley noticed the blinking red numbers of the answering machine on the counter. Figuring it was most likely yet another person offering their condolences, she pressed play

"Whitley, it's Perrin. I just want to say again how sorry I am for your loss. I know that I'm about to ask a lot considering," the voice paused, "recent events, but do you think you can come in today? I'm understaffed, and we're in the weeds. Call me if you're interested." The message ended with a succinct click and indecision took hold of her. She wanted to say yes, but fear of the unknown gnawed at her. What mythical creature would she see this time? Ghosts? Vampires? Werewolves? Could she handle going somewhere other than the psychiatrist's office? Or trust herself to differentiate fantasy from reality?

With a quick glance at the clock revealing it to be four, Whitley came to a decision and headed out. Pointedly ignoring any concerns lingering in the back of her mind, she focused solely on forgetting her troubles for a while.

* * *

Java Jones was, as the name implied, a café. When she'd moved here a year and a half ago and began her search of a job in order to start saving up, Whitley had found one here in time for her junior year. She recalled the overwhelming training; weeks of having numbers and "repeatable routines" drilled into her head. One of the first things she'd learned the hard way is that baristas had to be fast. With things like shots of espresso only staying good for ten seconds, she had to be quick in mixing them with some sort of liquid before those seconds were up, or her shots would "die." It had been ages before what she thought she'd never remember became second nature to her.

Upon entering, Whitley wasn't surprised to see how crowded it was; people always needed their caffeine. She bit her lip nervously as she looked at the line of them that almost went out the door. The holiday season was always especially grueling—doubly so if you ran out supplies—but what concerned her the most were the patrons; she knew all too well how rude customers could be. They were always do things like ignore you when you say "Hello," talk on the phone as you get their order, blame you for things you have no control over, and ask for drinks that are incredibly complicated. The shifts she spent cooking back in the kitchen had been a valuable reprieve. All possibilities considered, it was safe to say working here would do well in distracting her. She optimistic in her hope that focusing on menial tasks would be enough dissuade the hallucination for the time being.

Though it had only been a scant few weeks since she'd set foot inside, Whitley took a moment to look around. The smell of coffee was strong like one would expect, but undertones of hot chocolate wafted to her nose, a sign the concoction was being served as well. Curtains that were usually closed to give off a warm atmosphere were open, letting the lights of the city cast a bright glow on the interior. Waiters were gliding between the booths and tables pressed against the wooden paneled walls on their respective sides, hot dishes balanced carefully on their hands and arms. Monet prints and contemporary artwork sat high on the walls above, creating something beautiful in their dissimilarity. Farther back she could see the stage and the threadbare couches and armchairs that surrounded it. Tonight was poetry night; the lights were on and set low, a sign that someone would be performing later.

As Whitley wondered who, she spotted a familiar head of grey hair through the thick mass of customers. She walked behind the glass-fronted counter, taking an apron off the hook closest to her and joined Perrin and the other barista, who both sent tense smiles her way in thanks as they tried to placate impatient customers. After a while the patrons dispersed, either going back outside or settling down to relax in idle chit chat and use the free Wi-Fi that Perrin offered during the holidays. When Whitley had asked why he'd do such a thing he said something about it being good for business. It did the trick—the café was packed for a Monday afternoon. A bemused expression formed her face when she noticed one of the patrons had actually brought their entire desktop.

Perrin approached her after serving the last customer in line. "Thanks for coming in Whitley."

"No problem Perrin." The man was like a grandfather to her—of course she wouldn't say no. And staying inside for so long undoubtedly wouldn't help her mental state; if anything it made it worse.

"So… how are you?" he asked hesitantly eyes looking over her worriedly.

She wanted to say she was fine, she needed to be fine. "I'm dealing."

The older man nodded in understanding and reached out to squeeze her shoulder. "I'm here if you want to talk."

He returned to work and Whitley leaned back against the counter for moment, taking in the familiar sounds and smells of the café. She checked in with the other barista, Garret, and headed towards the back of the house to change out of her street clothes. The saccharine scent of freshly baked pastries and cream cakes drifted to her nose as she passed the kitchen. She reached her employee locker and retrieved the name tag and uniform she kept there, changing into them before walking back to the front of the café. A small smile curled her lips as she noticed her friends had arrived, occupying their normal area in the back.

The first one she noticed was Luca, the shock of dark turquoise hair enhancing her pale skin and light green eyes, appearing every bit the part of an ice queen; only a select few knew how kind she was. Like Zack, her boyfriend since seventh grade, with his brown hair and eyes who looked smitten as he stared at the girl in his lap. Quentin, Luca's twin brother looked stoned, bleary green eyes staring happily at nothing, not even caring that sister was intentionally messing up his perfectly styled blond hair. Last but not least was Cipriana, who was perched on the arm of the couch, reading the manga in her lap, hand reaching up to touch the violet forehead protector wrapped around her light brown curls. Whitley's smile grew a bit bigger when the girls eyes flickered every so often towards Quentin. On instinct she started towards them, before glancing at the counter, remembering that she was in fact still working, Perrin who had noticed her predicament simply inclined his head, stating she had ten minutes. She acknowledged gratefully and rushed towards them, content with how ordinary her life seemed at that moment.

* * *

Around nine, the regular crowd shuffled out, replaced with a teenagers enjoying the newfound freedom of their winter break. Adults that had swarmed the dining area earlier went elsewhere as soon as the teens had started to appear, the servers along with them. Chairs were stacked on their tables signaling that the café would be closing as soon as poetry night was over. Whitley's stomach churned as her gaze darted outside, eyes scanning the darkness that lurked there. She raised a hand, stroking her pendant to calm herself, pushing down the uneasiness inside her. She worried her lip as she continued her task, twisting one of the knobs on the espresso machine to use the steam wand on some milk. She poured it into the mug clutched tightly in her hand, mixing it with the thick chocolate already inside. She put a dollop of whipped cream on top and stuck a candy cane in it, turning to the waiting female customer.

"Happy Holidays."

Whitley handed her the mug, hoping her hand didn't shake as she did so. The girl took it and headed towards one the free seats near the stage as Whitley's eyes wandered outside once more. Perhaps Perrin would let her go home early? A sudden drumming sound had her flinching and her eyes snapped to the stage where Eric and Matt were "performing". The two of them were really into it. At least Eric was, Matt, much like Quentin, looked stoned —they'd definitely been hanging out together—as he beat irregularly on his djembe. Eric had yet to actually start reciting his poem. All he was doing was swaying back and forth but that was probably for the best. To her right the café door opened and Whitley recognized the bespectacled form of Simon and his friend Clary. They were debating whether or not to stay, a wise decision in itself. The duo must have agreed to because Simon made his way towards her as Clary begrudgingly walked to a couch in the back.

"Hi Simon," she said greeting the younger boy.

"Hi Whitley. Two black coffees."

She took the last two preheated mugs from atop one of the nearby coffee machines, filling them with the caffeinated beverage before turning back to the cash register and punching his order in.

"That'll be 2.65."

He gave he said amount and thanked her, heading over to where Clary was. Whitley deposited the cash in her register and looked at the deserted area in front of her. She didn't think any more customers would be appearing for a while and she was alone since Garret had gone out back for his break. She shifted her feet as the familiar ache of standing on them for 5 hours straight began to flare up and walked over to the sink to wash off the syrup stuck to her hands. She looked at the door again when the bell overhead it jingled softly and a blond boy her age stepped through.

Normally, she wouldn't have paid much attention to him—it wasn't like attractive guys were rare—but something about him struck her as strange. He wasn't bundled up like the other teens, only a single layer of unusual dark clothes adorning his lithe frame. His forearms were bare, covered in faint white lines. They appeared to be scars and her stomach lurched again as she imagined the turbulent things he'd done to get them. He stopped in front of the doorway, bright eyes assessing the back of the crowded room. A smirk came to his face as he apparently found what he was looking for.

When she processed that his eyes were gold she blinked and angled her head, believing them to be a trick of the light but they were inact gold. She dismissed them as contacts as he finally moved forward before he stopped suddenly. His startled gaze snapped to hers and she instantly looked away.

Mortification flooded through her as she realized how long she'd been staring at him. The last thing she needed right now was to look like some sort of ditzy girl fawning over him. He looked like the type of guy who would be used to that kind of blatant gawking if that cocky smile of his was any indication. She glanced at him again when she noticed that he was still staring at her. He'd gotten over his surprise, fair brows now furrowed in scrutinization as his eyes zeroed in on the mark on the back of her right hand and ran over the rest her form, most focused on her sleeve-covered arms. He appeared to be searching for something. Their eyes met again and he seemed to be waiting for her to make the first move; for some peculiar reason so she did just that. Whitley discharged her cash drawer, intent on going in back to balance it, her eyes meeting his as she left.

She stopped midway when the smell of clove cigarettes assaulted her nose and set down the till, walking towards the alleyway on the side of the building. Ignoring the rapid thump of her heart, she opened the cracked door further and cautiously poked her head out. She knew how dangerous dark areas were. The light above gave her extra illumination to see, easing her worry somewhat as her eyes scoured the area and came upon Garret leaning against the graffitied wall across from her, the orange blaze that emitted from his cigarette casting a glow on his face. Thick, sweet smoke billowed towards her and she coughed, waving it away.

"Those things will kill you." She picked up a brick and used it to prop the door open, wiping its muck on her jeans.

"I know."

The boy shrugged, not caring. But Whitley did. Garret was a sweet kid and a good co-worker at the impressionable age of fifteen; she didn't want him going doing the wrong thing-not to mention she knew what would happen as a result. Those graphic videos she had to watch in countless health classes were seared into her memory forever.

"Can I get a drag?"

Surprised, he extended the cigarette towards her cautiously and she took it, nearly bringing the roll up to her lips before throwing it to the damp asphalt beneath them, stomping it out with her tennis shoe.

"If you want to smoke wait until you're old enough," she said over his exclaim of indignation. He shoved past her inside and Whitley's quick hands snatched the cigarette pack from the visible bulge of his back pocket. She stared at it, wondering where a boy his age had gotten them, a shiver passing through her and her eyes swept across the shadowed crevice again. Ever since her mother's death a strange presence had entered her life. It felt as if someone was watching her from a distance, with a gaze like ice on her skin. A dark shape shifted out of the corner of her eye and her heart leapt in fear, a thousand possibilities swimming through her mind, each one of them worse than the last. She let out an audible sound of relief as a meow echoed throughout the dark pathway and stray cat bounded past her and out of sight. She realized her relief was premature as she looked down at the gloom that rapidly surrounding her. Panicked, she threw the pack into the dumpster and dashed back to the café, slamming the door shut behind her.

A loud screech sounded in the distance and she cringed at the sudden sound, nearly sending her heart into overdrive.

"Sorry about that, guys!" Eric yelled. "All right. I'm Eric and this is my homeboy Matt on the drums. My first poem is called 'Untitled.'"

Whitley pressed a hand to her forehead in agitation at how paranoid she was acting and picked up her cash drawer. The sooner she got home the better she would feel. She walked briskly into an empty room and closed the door when Eric began to wail about his nefarious loins and started counting; her math skills enabling her to finish the task quickly. She put the money, receipts and cash drawer check out sheet in an envelope and gave it to Perrin, doing her best to explain why she needed to leave. After saying that he understood she went back towards the locker room and changed out of her uniform. She walked to the front of the cafe, saying goodbye to her friends where they sat near the stage, the four of them nearly keeling over in laughter. Cipriana joined her and Whitley felt comforted by her company as they headed outside. Voices to her left had her looking over to see Clary and the blond boy from earlier talking. She turned away, not thinking much of it and went over to the curb, raising a gloved hand to hail a cab.

Just as one slowed down to pick them up Cipriana took hold of her sleeve and whispered to her. "That girl's talking to herself."

Whitley followed her line of vision to where Clary was. "She's not talking to herself there's some guy with her," she told Cipriana hesitantly, sincerely hoping the girl just needed to get her eyes checked. It hadn't occurred to her that no one else could see him.

"He's right there." She pointed towards him with a slight tremor in her voice. Was he one of those creatures she kept seeing these past few weeks? The beings haunting her dreams?

Cipriana's gaze flew towards where Whitley pointed before it landed back on her. "Unless he's dark and his name is Shadow..." Concern began to show plainly on her face. "Are you okay Whit?"

The girl barely heard her over the sound of her heart beating in ears. Clary was talking to him; that made him real didn't it? Then why couldn't Cipriana see him? A consoling hand on her on her back yanked her from the confused thoughts and her eyes met Cipriana's worried ones and Whitley realized how badly she was shaking.

Finally she spoke, "No... I don't think I am."

In reply, Cipriana guided her into the waiting taxi and tried to comfort the trembling girl as they drove off into the night. Was this truly the beginning of her descent into madness?


	2. Red Flag

**RED FLAG**

_**"Red flags are moments of hesitation that determine our destination."**_  
**―**** Mandy Hale**

Sleep did not come much that night. Hours passed before Whitley could quiet the unwanted thoughts streaming steadfast in her mind. Hours spent staring into space and curled up into a ball, scared of the world outside her door. When she'd finally fallen asleep she woke up a short while later, grateful her brief slumber hadn't been deep enough for her to dream. Grim, she knew what she needed to do. Think. Regain her hold on the little sanity she had left. She sat up and wiped the tears away from her cheeks, eyes instinctively going to the window, seeking the solace the first appearance of light in the sky would offer, and was disconcerted to see the sun had yet to rise.

Her bare feet touched the white carpet floor as she left her warm haven, preparing herself for the headache she was about to induce. She approached her desk and opened her laptop, typing an inquiry into an search engine. What were the odds of two people having the exact same hallucination? A result named "Folie à deux" stuck out, "a madness shared by two" but this only occurred when the individual's involved lived in close proximity with each other and physically or socially isolated. Whitley didn't live near Clary and hadn't stayed inside long enough for the latter to occur, so it was safe to rule it out as a possibility. Other than that the chances of two people having the same hallucination were nil. What was the common link then, trauma? No, that couldn't be right and Clary didn't appear to be acting differently. Then again Whitley isn't friends with her so she had no way of knowing for certain. She backspaced, this time entering invisible creatures into it. The results that came back didn't give her any aid at all since they consisted of ramblings and conspiracy theories that had her wanting to bang her cranium against the desk in frustration. Nothing was making sense. Why she thought she could get lucid answers from the internet of all places was beyond her. She slammed the notebook top down with a sigh, scrubbing a hand over her face in exasperation then straightened suddenly in comprehension. Clary. She could talk to Clary, perhaps she had the answers Whitley sought. Her optimism was short lived when she realized she had no way to contact the girl and her shoulders slumped in dejection. Her head hit the table with a dull thump, jumbled thoughts causing an overwhelming and irritated feeling to come over her.

Sunlight peeked through the curtains, dims rays akin to a beacon in the dark. Whitley pulled the drapes further apart to let more of the pinkish glow in, troubled gaze taking in the fresh coat of snow blanketing the city and the thick white frost making the world seem brighter than it was. Her eyes followed one of the wan shafts of light shooting through the pane and landed on the book with her music in it. She looked at the tens of pages filled with hastily scrawled musical notations of her compositions. Proud to see there were only a few blank sheets left. Tears welled in her eyes when she came upon the hymn that she'd written for her mother's funeral and she touched the tear stained paper reverently. She stiffened and closed the book quickly with a snap, shoving it and any other reminders of Geneva aside. Now desperate for a diversion Whitley grabbed her violin and settled on her covers. After getting lost in the music and loosing track of time, the doorbell rang. Apprehension pricked at her as she lowered the instrument, she wasn't expecting anyone. When it rang again she put the instrument away and lifted her stiff body off the bed. She padded downstairs, heart beating wildly against her ribs as she neared the front door. She swallowed heavily and peered into the peephole, relief spreading through her as she registered Cipriana.

"Open up!" Whitley reached out with trembling hands and unlocked the bolts she'd secured in a frenzy the evening before. Her heartbeat slowed to a normal pace as she opened the door, pinching the bridge of her nose in agitation at how paranoid she was acting again. Who did she think it would be? "I come bearing gifts." Cipriana chirped upon entering. She held up DVD's and boxes of pizza.

"What are you doing here?" Whitley hoped she didn't look as forlorn as she felt.

"I figured we'd have a girl's day." Cipriana moved past her to living room. "We haven't had one in a while."

Whitley locked the door again and went after her. "With pizza at 11 in the morning?" A typical 'girl's day' consisted of a trip to the Movie Theater or mall and the smell of the Italian dish didn't send her stomach into a tizzy like it normally would; she didn't have much of an appetite these days.

"It's never too early for pizza." Cipriana dropped her haul onto the coffee table sitting neatly between two chairs. "Were trying something different today."

"Why?" Whitley asked leaning against the door frame. The girl simply lifted a shoulder in reply and Whitley suddenly realized why she was here. "You don't have to do this Cip."

Cipriana turned to meet her eyes and Whitley saw the concern for her there. Not surprising considering her erratic behavior last night. It had taken time to convince her friend to go home after she'd calmed down from her freak out. "I know." And that in a nutshell is the kind of person she was. Cipriana Castillo was a rabid manga/anime fan Whitley met when they had to sit next to each other in Chem. Her weird, bubbly personality had been more than welcome to Whitley in her new surroundings. She always knew how to cheer people up and was generous, almost to a fault, with her time and possessions. She'd be a friend for life and Whitley loved her for it.

"I'll go wash up, then I'll join you." The notion of carefree day cheered her up slightly as she walked back upstairs.

* * *

"What next?" Cipriana asked as she perused the home movie collection. "_Back to the Future_?"

Whitley shook her head. They'd spent the last few hours watching light hearted films that helped distract her from the dark and confused contemplation's she had. It was a quarter to eight now and a feeling of trepidation had grown within her, like a series quivering knots in her abdomen. She set down the cup of the ginger ale she'd been drinking in hopes that it would go away but she couldn't shake the presentiment that her entire world was about come crashing down around her. "I don't feel like watching another movie, I was hoping we could talk…" She said hesitantly. She knew Cipriana wouldn't judge her for what was happening to her but she couldn't stop the caution she felt. It's not every day you tell your best friend that you're going insane after all. Although part of her reasoned that telling her about the creatures she was seeing couldn't make things worse.

"Of course." Cipriana assumed her original position on the couch across from her. "What about?" She asked, giving Whitley her complete attention.

Whitley brought her knees to her chest and placed her chin on the blanket that covered them, wrapping her arms around the coarse fabric. Where to start? Maybe that she was seeing a shrink? Or that she's seeing things in general, but in order to do that she'd have to go back through the night it started and that's something she definitely didn't want to do; she did that enough in her nightmares as it is.

Cipriana spoke first, "How about we talk about something else first and then see if you're comfortable enough to say what's on your mind." Whitley nodded her head in agreement. "Okay, I'll start with an easy topic…" She shifted as she racked her brain. "Oh! My parent's agreed to let me have the party." She said jubilantly and Whitley allowed herself to share some of her excitement; the girl had wanted a cosplay party for a long time. A pang of sadness struck her without warning. Her birthday was in May, a mere two weeks before graduation and she wouldn't be celebrating the occasion like she'd planned. At this rate she'd most likely be on psych medication. Prescriptions that could make her lose all sense of self. She closed her eyes to banish her gloomy thoughts. Cipriana continued eagerly. "I have no idea who I'll dress up as. No one too girly. Tifa from Final Fantasy VII? God no, that costume is too revealing my parents would kill me. Mayhaps her outfit from Advent Children is a better option, hmm…" She trailed off in thought and turned to Whitley, brows furrowing in concern when the girl said nothing. "You okay Whit?"

Whatever Whitley could've said wouldn't assuage Cipriana's worry. Everyone close to her knew her response to that kind of question was automatic, to say she was fine when she really wasn't. She didn't like adding her problems to someone else's and preferred to deal with her them on her own. "Yeah. I'm just a little... scattered."

Cipriana looked at her sympathetically. "Your allowed to be. Do you want to talk about... you know?" She let the words hang in the air then looked at her cautiously, as if the very mention of her mother's murder would suddenly send her spiraling.

"No." While simply being reminded of that night no longer made her upset, she had a long way to go before she'd be ready to talk about it."What schools have you applied to?" She asked, wanting to talk about something, anything else.

Cipriana stared at her for moment, worry still clear in eyes before going with it. "Because my love for all things animated has no bounds an art college is definitely the plan. So far I've only applied Brooklyn College, Pratt Institute…" Whitley froze, missing the rest of her list. _Institute. _Before her mother was killed she said something about an Institute. Could it be related to recent events? No, that seemed far-fetched. Her thoughts went to the blond boy from yesterday. Was there another explanation for why Cipriana hadn't seen him? He didn't look like any of the unearthly beings she'd seen. Except for his eyes, if they were real they couldn't possibly belong to a human. No, there was no reason Cipriana shouldn't have seen him, some days Whitley could say the girl's eyesight was sharper than her own. Her fingers traced the strange mark on her hand and she looked down at it in confusion. Where had it come from? At the back of her mind something prodded at her insistently, telling her that she didn't have all the information. What was she missing? Oblivious to the thoughts running rampant through her friend's head Cipriana went on, "…I received early acceptance letters too but I don't want to attend college right away. I'm thinking about taking some time off and working on my manga." Guilt flooded through Whitley as she realized she wasn't paying attention to her friend. Cipriana didn't deserve that. "What about you? Juilliard right?"

Juilliard. Her dream school since she was a little girl. She'd been elated when her parents told her they were moving to New York, hoping she might have a better chance to attend the school and that it'd help her aspiration to be one of the next great composers. Unfortunately for her dreams the Julliard acceptance rate was small and Whitley is realistic which meant, "I also applied to MSM, BCC… " Her mother may not have wanted her too far away from home but at least she'd been willing to let her attend a university. Some people may resent their parents for being overprotective and acting such a way but it hadn't bothered Whitley. She garnered that Geneva had reasons and those reasons kept her safe. It was unquestionably better than having a parent who didn't care or even worse, not having one at all. Her nails dug into her palms as she recalled how frantic Geneva was acting the days before she'd been slain. What had scared her so?

"You shouldn't fret. You have the talent and the drive you're going to get in." Whitley lips curled into a smile at Cipriana's unwavering certainty. That effortless ability to give positive assurance was one of the many things that made her a good friend. Before she could lose her nerve she drew in breath, ready to tell her everything but the shrill ringing of the house phone interrupted her. Getting up, she tossed the coverlet onto the sofa and picked up the cordless phone, answering the call when she recognized Luca's number.

"Hey Whitley, sorry If I'm interrupting anything but have you heard from Cip? She's not answering her phone."

"She's with me."

"Perfect, that'll save me a stop." The sound of clanging hangers reached Whitley's ears and she pictured Luca walking around in her spacious closet, looking through the clothes she owned with a critical eye, trying to create an ensemble she hadn't already worn.

"What do you mean?"

"Jamie's Christmas party is tonight." Whitley's eyes wandered to the invitation that lay inches away from her on the counter, gossamer design nearly lost under some junk mail. Jamie Nguyen was the daughter of a wealthy socialite and one of the most popular people at Berkeley Carroll School, renowned for the huge bashes she hosted. Apparently partying was in her blood. Whitley had been quite surprised when she'd found the invite in the mail as Jamie had never invited her to one before. She'd tutored the girl for a time in Pre-Calculus and despite Jamie being a nice person Whitley wouldn't call her a friend, their personalities differed too much for that label. Luca, who designed a majority of Jamie's clothing was closer to her than she was.

"I thought you and Cip could go with me. We only have six months left together."

Whitley sighed softly at the sadness that had entered her friend's voice. She didn't dare bring up her own fears about life after graduation. "You make it sound like we won't be in the same city anymore Luca and I'm not sure if I want to go, you know how I feel around a lot of people." As an introvert she received most of her pleasure from solitary activities and had a preference for quiet and mental reflection. Too much social interaction at once drained her. Needless to say she wasn't a fan of the New York scene. Whitley had been raised in Wake Forest, a small town just north of Raleigh, North Carolina. Its softer, slower pace suited her more than The Big Apple's ever could. And with all that happened recently the thought of going to party—going anywhere really, seemed irrational. Leaving home last night had clearly been a bad idea. Not to mention that she hadn't attended a gathering of any sort in six years, not since the cherry cake debacle in 2001. To this day she couldn't look at the dark red fruit without feeling a little queasy.

"Andrew may be there." Whitley's mind went to the boy with brown hair and blue eyes, dismayed to find that she didn't experience the flutter in her heart thoughts of him usually brought.

"I doubt it." The boy was more interested in things like quantum mechanics and analytical chemistry, hardly the party animal type.

"Jamie said he was invited so I guess we'll see." The sound of a door closing could be heard in the background and the loud roar of traffic made itself known. At Whitley's silence Luca continued, yelling over the honking horns and pedestrian shouts. "Come on Whit, I guarantee you'll enjoy yourself. If you don't start having a good time in the first hour you can take a cab home early and I'll pay for your fare. Deal?"

That… didn't sound too bad and try as she might she couldn't very well stay inside forever. As long as left as early as possible what was the harm? Studiously ignoring her arbitrary reasoning Whitley said, "Deal."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later Luca arrived at the apartment in all her stylish splendor, dressed impeccably in a frilly white gown and black pumps. The three of them headed up to Whitley's room to get ready and Luca unzipped the garment bag strung over her arm. She pulled out a dress and handed it to Whitley, whose reluctance must have shown on her face because Luca gently pushed her into the bathroom and said, "Ah, you promised to try."

Whitley undressed and threw her comfortable garments into a hamper, exchanging the loose clothes for an A-line dress, recognizing it as one of the colorful fashion sketches on the walls of Luca's bedroom. Since the girl took Whitley's measurements a while ago the dress fit perfectly, though she is somewhat thinner and drawn from the lack of sleep. She frowned as she observed herself in the mirror. The dresses she owned were in neutral colors and were—as Luca liked to say—painfully plain. She only wore them at recitals, so small shift in wardrobe was a bit startling. Silly as it was, she felt like she looking at a stranger. Her heart twisted as she fingered the short burgundy sleeves and caught sight of the scar marring her arm. She was someone else now wasn't she? Whitley knew that night had changed her irrevocably, but how much? It couldn't have been a lot if her friends weren't treating her differently, but perhaps they hadn't noticed or were afraid to mention it? Curiously, she leaned forward to examine herself further and see if any of those changes showed. She looked the same of course; the face she'd known her entire life stared back at her. Though her eyes seemed dimmer, disturbed. She hoped that last part was her imagination.

A knock on the door brought her out of her reflective musing and Luca's voice drifted through the wood. "You decent?"

"Yes." Whitley tucked her scarred arm against her side as Luca entered the bathroom with tights and shoes in hand.

Luca smiled as she looked at her. "I knew that dress would look good on you. Here." For a moment as Whitley took what was extended to her she considered telling her that she'd changed her mind but the happiness in the girl's eyes stopped her; Whitley didn't wear her designs often. Realizing how much this meant to her she stepped into the tights and heels, wobbling at the unfamiliar distance between her and the ground as the tall soles added height to her average stature. Luca grabbed her arm when she sensed an impending trip to the floor and steered her back to the bedroom. Cipriana switched places with her and went into the bathroom to change. Whitley sat down on her bed and took her tresses out of their ponytail and started taming the tousled strands into something presentable, using the mirror on her dresser for guidance."Let me." Luca took the comb and ran it through the locks of Whitley's hair. "How's your dad?"

Whitley let the familiar motion soothe her before she answered, "I don't know." Her spine bowed in sadness and she blinked away gathering tears. "He hasn't left his room much since the funeral." She didn't blame him. Her own grief came in waves that threatened to consume her entirely. She was at the mercy of its whims and at times it bit her with such ferocity she feared it would leave her an empty shell. Wallowing in it only made matters worse, she had move on before it pulled her under.

Luca lowered the comb and rubbed Whitley's back to console her but it did little to mollify her bereavement. "He'll heal. So will you." The next few minutes were spent in an easy silence as Luca finished her hair, letting it fall past her shoulders. She took hold of her chin and tilted her face up. "Are you sleeping? You look like hell." Whitley's mouth twitched in amusement. Luca sometimes had a brutal honesty that would've tested most friendships but not theirs. Whitley appreciated it, always knowing where she stood with her.

"As much as I can." It wasn't a lie. She slept as much as her dreams and thoughts would allow, which wasn't much at all. Oddly enough, she didn't feel as tired as she should have. It was if she'd been struck by lightning, but instead of leaving her scorched and sore, it buzzed and flowed through her like a river, an infinite energy in its wake. "I'm fine."

Doubt lined Luca's face but she didn't pry any further. She picked up her purse and dug through it, hand emerging with concealer. "May I?"

Whitley detested cosmetics. Whenever she wore them it felt like she was hiding something underneath all those layers and broadcasting her insecurities to the world. She opened her mouth to decline but her thoughts from moments prior stopped her. Makeup may be an uncomfortable experience for her but it was confidence in a container for others. Perhaps it could be the same thing for her tonight. "Go for it."

Luca's finely sculpted brows lifted in surprise and she uncapped the small jar. As she rubbed it under Whitley's eyes she frowned suddenly, expression becoming troubled.

"What's wrong?"

"I just remembered something. Do you know someone named Clary?" Luca asked, bringing out a small makeup kit.

Fear swept over Whitley like a current. "Yes. Why are you asking did something happen to her?" She inquired in a rapid fire way, unconsciously holding the cover beneath her in a death grip. Common sense telling her that something had, Luca wouldn't have been asking otherwise. Nevertheless she waited with bated breath.

"I'm not sure. I talked to that boy, Simon, at the café this afternoon because he looked distraught and coaxed him into telling me what was wrong. He said something about her running off last night, told him she'd come back and never did. Add on the fact that she's not answering his calls and it's easy to see why he's in such a state. I said I'd ask around and thought I would ask you first since you might have left around the same time she did. I really hope nothing bad happened to her." Whitley quietly agreed, trying not to show the alarm the coursing through her. With skillful flicks of her wrist Luca finished applying the maquillage and retrieved a blazer from Whitley's closest. "This will complete the look." She handed it to the silent girl and moved away to help Cipriana with a problem in her outfit.

Whitley pulled it on and leaned heavily against the bureau, a steady stream of curses leaving her. She'd somehow pushed the strange creatures she was seeing from her mind. Was it possible they weren't hallucinations? If the boy was real then why were she and Clary the only ones who seemed to be able to see him? An illusion couldn't kidnap or kill a person. Now that she thought about it their conversation from the night before looked more like a confrontation. If the boy did in fact exist, then the creatures did as well. If so... she wasn't sure what to do now that her worst fear had been confirmed. The disquiet she felt earlier pulled at her resolutely, urging her to stay home and hide but she wasn't going to curl up and shut down, not again. She also couldn't ignore that someone had gone missing and that may have known who took them. The logical thing, the _normal_ thing would be to call the police but this wasn't an average circumstance and that conversation surely wouldn't go well. She could practically hear the mocking cackle and dial tone in her ear. If anything did happen it'd be the admittance to the mental hospital she feared would come sooner rather than later.

"Ready?" Luca asked, placing a hand on her shoulder she when saw how deep in thought she was. Whitley nodded shakily in response and pocketed some things from her dresser before following her friends outside, paying no heed to the weighted feeling in her chest.


	3. Into Dust

**INTO DUST**

"_**It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life, reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, a sense of insupportable loneliness and dread of some strange impending doom."**_  
**―****Edgar Allan Poe**

Everything in the room screamed that she didn't belong. The expansive hall around her came alive with color as lights flashed overhead. Music blared from speakers spread throughout the dimly lit space as the DJ on the stage pumped up the excited swarm, dozens of rowdy bodies squeezed collectively in the center, moving seamlessly as one. Luca, more than used to this kind of environment with her fair share of parties under her belt, elbowed and waded a path through the crowd in front of her with ease. A dancing body bumped into Whitley's and spilled their drink on her foot. "Great." She muttered as clear liquid seeped through her tights and damp nylon clung to her skin. They reached a vacant table located in the back and slid into the accompanying booth. Whitley shouted over the heavy bass jeopardizing her hearing, "I don't recognize a lot of people here." She observed the myriad of faces out on the floor; only a few of her fellow seniors were distinguishable in the horde. Their visages puzzled her, the blend of serenity and abandon there formed something she couldn't decipher.

"I don't either." Cipriana said, tugging one of the curls escaping from her bun anxiously.

"Relax." Luca said, waving off their worry. "Just don't accept anything that isn't from a server or leave your drink unattended. You don't want some creep slipping you anything."

Whitley waited for more guidance and felt a stab of distress when met with silence. "That's it?"

"You were expecting more?"

"Are there unspoken rules I need to follow? You know, basic party etiquette?" Whitley tucked a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear, weighing the pros and cons of being in an unfamiliar setting. The cons far outweighed the pros but she'd promised to try and try is what she would do. Besides, this particular event offered a much needed escape from her unpleasant and bleak reality. A diversion from everything wrong with her life.

Amusement flickered in Luca's eyes and she laughed. "Etiquette? You're not having tea with the queen Whit. It's a party. You're supposed be free of inhibition not worrying about how to behave. There's no correct way to have fun."

"I don't want to embarrass myself." Whitley said, resenting the small part of her that was always self-conscious. Being free of inhibition sounded like a bad thing. The thought of losing control frightened her. Her eyes went to the dance floor once more, really taking in the swaying forms and multitude of faces, finally comprehending what they exuded. Oblivion. She briefly wondered how it felt to be incognizant; completely unaware of everything around you. Certainly better than a constant state of fear and worry?

"You won't." Luca said gently, patting her hand. "Everyone here is too wrapped up in their own worlds to care about what your doing. Stop over thinking it." A waiter drew near then, flutes of soda covering the tray in his hands. While knowing the sugar wouldn't help her restlessness Whitley grabbed one and took a sip, savoring the cold burning sensation. Her attention drifted to the stage, the music blasting from it wasn't the type she's partial to and is at best distracting—deep, powerful thumping of drums and rapid talking passing as singing—but that was currently a good thing. "Jamie did a nice job this year." Luca noted with satisfaction.

Whitley didn't have much to compare it to but agreed with her assessment. Jamie captured the winter wonderland atmosphere and brought it inside. Curtains and draperies of various tones had been hung along the walls, cool blues, soft grays and shimmering opalescent white. The area surrounding the dance floor was bathed in blue light and faux snow laid in fine clumps at their feet. Spotlights in the shape of snowflakes and barren birch trees were placed sparsely all over the room. Silver lights and ornaments hung from the ceiling, creating a scene reminiscent of the night sky. Small bands of people lingered near the edges of it all, engaged in animated conversation and adorned in extravagant clothing. Members of Jamie's inner circle and acting troupe.

Cipriana leaned around Whitley to address the turquoise haired girl. "Are Zach and Quentin coming?"

Luca smoothed down the front of her gown, removing an invisible crease. "No. Zach's visiting his grandparents in New Jersey and Quentin's at home playing some video game." Cipriana deflated at this information and Whitley placed a consoling arm on her shoulders.

"He'll come around."

Cipriana's ears turned red and she was suddenly unable to meet anyone's eyes. "Am I that obvious?"

"No…" Whitley said haltingly, trying not to give away her white lie.

Cipriana saw right through it. "Nice try. I look like an idiot don't I?"

Whitley rushed to assure her. "You don't. I'm observant, I notice the tiniest things." While her statement wasn't a lie, it wasn't hard to miss. Whenever Quentin walked into the room a blush bloomed on Cipriana's cheeks and a glint came to her eyes. Whitley remembered the first time she'd noticed Cipriana's feelings for the boy, she'd been pleased to see her friend so happy. Though inevitable Whitley didn't want her to lose the feeling of euphoria that came with first love. Especially not if she lost it because of something like chagrin.

Cipriana's head tilted to the side dubiously, but she must have seen the truth in her words for she perked up and smiled gratefully. "Thanks."

"I'll never get what you see in my brother but I wish you luck." Luca set down her flute on the table. "I'm going go to look for Jamie." She made her way back through the large throng, pumps clacking against the floor as she went.

Inattentively, Whitley swirled the contents of her glass and inhaled the syrupy aroma of cola seltzer. For a moment she imagined the carbonated beverage was replaced with alcohol and that she was drowning her sorrows in it. She envisioned the artificial giddiness, the fuzz of intoxication, her troubles fading away… Ashamed, she caught herself and shook her head to clear it. Even if her need to forget was strong, she had to believe she'd never be desperate enough to look for succor in a bottle. A humming sound filled the air and Cipriana pulled out her cellphone. Her lips pressed together in a slight grimace and she shoved it back in her pocket. "Something wrong?" Whitley asked. "That's the fifth time your cellphone has rang in the past two minutes." The phone vibrated again. "Sixth."

"It's my dad. Concern for you wasn't the only reason I came over. My parents are thinking about having a baby. They told me this morning. My response wasn't the best."

"Cip…" Disappointment tinged Whitley's voice. "Is the thought of your parents having another child so bad?" Personally, Whitley had always wanted a sibling, someone with whom she could have adventures and share secrets. Alas, that was one thing that would never happen now. Like her Cipriana was an only child. Because of this fact people automatically categorized her as a spoiled brat who threw tantrums if she didn't get her way. As much as she wanted to deny it their assumptions frustrated her; human beings were too complex to be lumped together. Vulgar jokes and raucous male laughter pouring out of a nearby booth quickly reminded her how wrong she was and Whitley mentally revised. _A good portion_ _of them anyway…_

"Of course not." Cipriana said indignantly. "I'd be happy for them if I didn't think they were doing it for the wrong reasons."

"Have you told them how you feel?" Whitley asked. She thought of her father alone in their shared grief, and sorrow settled in the pit of her stomach like a lead weight in a pond. She winced quietly.

"No, I needed time to think. Bringing up serious subjects feels weird."

Whitley knew what she spoke of. The relationship Cipriana had with her parents wasn't the most orthodox she'd ever seen but it worked. "It can't hurt to try."

"I beg to differ… but your right. I should talk to them." Cipriana conceded, extracting her phone. She looked at Whitley, brows knitting in concern. "I'm heading outside to try and get a better signal. Will you be ok while I'm gone?"

Whitley's conscience nudged her. _If there was a time to tell her now would be it. _She wanted to, she really did but for some reason the idea of doing so made her squirm. What little courage she'd had earlier dissipated. "Yes." _Coward._

"Ok." Cipriana's tone was hesitant as she slid out the booth. "I'll be right back." With hurried glance in Whitley's direction she was gone.

The leather seat beneath Whitley protested as she sank into it, absently rubbing her pendant. She found herself understanding the appeal of such events. It felt good to be surrounded by noise and darkness, the former's loud music made it impossible to concentrate on what bothered her. Ultimately it resulted in a somewhat more enjoyable experience for her, different than the anxiety she was used to in similar situations. Eventually it became too much and darkness so welcoming moments before started to worry Whitley. Her imagination conjured up images of creatures that could be lurking beyond her optic view. Before she can stop and analyze them, calm herself down, the thoughts accelerate inside her head. It's when her breathing comes in panicked gasps and dots dance across her vision that she realizes she's having a panic attack. Heart pounding, Whitley rose and skirted around the crowd. She entered the restroom, finding it mercifully empty and locked the door behind her. A selfish act but a necessary one. The harsh lighting provided amenity as the room spun and she stumbled over to the granite sink top, trying to compel everything around her to slow to a speed her brain and body can cope with. _5-2-_5 she thought, recalling the respiration exercise Dr. Hardeman taught her. _It will pass. _She closed her eyes and focused on breathing, inhaling and exhaling at specific intervals to relax her heart rate. She expelled a sigh as it returned to a familiar thump and tingling in her fingers and toes receded, clutching the counter top to stop her knees from buckling.

She finally stood upright and her reflection surprised her. Luca had done well, a little too well; Whitley almost didn't recognize herself. What roundness that remained in the soft planes of her face had been contoured and sharped, paired with dark eyeliner and shadow that made her eyes look bigger. Her hair was a paltry consolation, while loose and polished the waves managed to retain their usual wildness. She yanked some paper towels out of the dispenser and ran them under the tap, moving to scrub the makeup off before stopping herself. The cosmetics were a facade, one which gave assurance to herself and others when she had none. A requisite if she was going to make it through the rest of the night. She needed all the help she could get to push all confusion and sadness to the recesses of her mind.

"You'll be fine. You can handle this." Determination renewed, Whitley threw the towels away and headed towards the door. The faintest of shivers ran up her spine as her fingers brushed the handle and she held still, senses on high alert. She slid a hand into her blazer, comforted by the cool canister holding her pepper spray. She sighed shakily and directed her gaze over her shoulder, seeking to disregard the crippling dread that had intensified within her.

Sheer fright swept through her when she saw fathomless black eyes staring back at her, pinprick white pupils boring into her own. Horror consumed every cell in her body, swelling them with terror. How had it gotten in? She couldn't be certain what _it_ was, for it had no discernible shape. It shifted between multiple forms; a drooling hound one second and a lumbering beast the next. Its mouth was the only consistency, two rows of inch long incisors serrated like a knife and rattling breath gut wrenchingly foul. Whitley wanted to move, scream, but fear kept her immobile. She wished she could close her eyes and make the monster go away as she'd done when she was a child but if this creature was real she knew even a second of hesitation would cost her dearly. She strained her vocals to scream but nothing except a terrified whimper emerged. She could only watch as it lunged at her, bracing herself for impact.

* * *

Jace entered the venue where he'd tailed the Downworlder. Stifling air struck him the minute he stepped inside, dense heat a far cry from the winter chill. His keen eyes scanned the room, searching for his target. Wings fluttered in his peripheral vision and his eyes honed in on their owner. A warlock with a pair of webbed hands and black wings jutting out of splits in his denim jacket. Jace's hand went to his wrist, touching the bone hilt of the knife protruding from the cuff encasing it, surveying him at a discreet distance. Years of rigorous training under his father's arduous tutelage advised him how important it was to remain unseen. '_The finest hunters do not let their prey see them coming'._ Not being dressed in traditional Shadowhunter gear, save for the runes placed carefully beneath the shirt he wore, both helped and hindered him. He was aware that he should've been on his way back to the Institute with take out from Taki's not shadowing a Downworlder, but upon seeing the warlock moving with a sense of urgency and purpose, suspicion promptly overrode reason. It's possible he was being paranoid but the air of nervousness surrounding the child of Lilith would've given anyone pause. Beads of sweat were running down his forehead as rapidly blinking eyes swept across the room as Jace's had done. He was up something, of that Jace was certain.

One of the warlock's trembling hands came up and wiped the perspiration away hastily. He ceased his skittish movements and pulled something out. An object, small in size and silver in hue. The warlock muttered something—an incantation most likely—and the item hovered above his hand a moment before moving forward, following a set path. Where was it going? Seemingly in reply the object veers to left, yanked by its hidden chord. A girl suddenly invades Jace's line of sight, rushing around the congregate and bounding out of view, jostling a few passerby's in her haste. The item followed, drawn to her like a moth to flame. A tracking spell. Jace is surprised to recognize her as the barista from the Java Jones the night before. Her panicked expression set off alarm bells in his head. Is she in danger?

The warlock moved towards her and Jace automatically drew his blade, but wisely stayed his hand. The Accords demanded interaction between Downworlder's and Shadowhunters be civil. Though hostility between the two factions was unavoidable. Laws for attacking a Downworlder were different than they were for a demon. A Shadowhunter couldn't strike a Downworlder openly without cause and although Jace despised them he wouldn't risk starting a war. He would have to wait for the warlock to make the first move. Even then he couldn't truly harm him. Preferably, he'd have to bring him back to his fellow warlocks for punishment. To ensure a _fair_ trial_. _Jace scoffed at the word and watched the Downworlder pursue the girl down a murky hallway and gave chase, smoothly dodging a stumbling mundane. He stopped short of the passageway itself, peering down it intently. The warlock leaned idly on a wall and the girl was nowhere to be seen. Had he misinterpreted the situation? No, whatever the warlock's plan, it definitely involved the girl; he'd been looking for her. Where had she gone?

The warlock raised his webbed hands and waved them, lips moving inaudibly. Unable to hear him under the steady pulse of music, Jace silently crept closer and strained his ears. He heard it then, the sound of crackling flames. Chthonian. One of languages warlocks used when casting spells. A faint clicking sound came from Jace's jacket and he retrieved his new sensor, holding it out in front of him. The warlock began chanting and the sound of crackling flames intensified. The sensor whirred then clicked anew, this time more urgently. Jace put two and two together, he was summoning something. Jace charged him, slamming his unsuspecting body into a wall and catching him off guard. In the strobing lights Jace could see the warlock was pubescent in age, at least fourteen.

Jace's pride swelled when the boy's eyes widened to comical proportions and all color drained from his face. Only he could send a bolt of fear into his enemies without lifting a finger. He smirked and pressed a dagger to the boy's side, relishing his trepidation. "Summoning demons is illegal."

"D-d-don't hurt me." The boy stammered. "I'm only doing what he told me to."

"He?" Jace inquired lowly, sorely tempted to nick him just for the hell of it.

"Valentine."

Jace's lips thinned in anger. _Not this again. _He squelched his rage and spoke, voice laced with barely suppressed rancor. "Valentine's dead."

"He's not!" The boy cried vehemently, wings flapping in agitation. "He hired me himself! Told me to find the girl. He wants her."

"Why?" Jace queried, asking himself why he was humoring the notion. _The warlock has nothing to gain by lying to you. _Instinctively, Jace pushed his voice of reason away. He wasn't about to trust a Downworlder and the warlock would obviously say anything to save his own skin.

"I don't know! He told me to summon a minor demon in front of her. See what she does."

Jace's ire gave way to confusion. _What she does? Is there a demon killing method I'm unaware of? _He didn't show his perplexion externally, his face remained composed in its standard stoic countenance. '_Never show emotion. Sentiment is for the weak.' _It was one of the first lessons his father ingrained in him and it was one he would never forget. Before he could question the boy further a loud thump and the sound of something shattering came from down the hall. Jace inherently turned towards source and the boy took advantage of the distraction, moving to strike at Jace's jaw with a clenched fist. Jace deftly sidestepped the sorry attempt and pushed the boy's head against the wall. It bounced off the Venetian plaster and the boy slid to the ground, unconscious. Something fell out of his pocket and clattered to the floor, gleaming in the strobing lights. A tarnished piece of jewelry, impacted and torn on one side; the item he'd been using to track the girl. Jace laughed at the boy's sloppy execution as he picked it up. Closer inspection revealed it to be a bracelet; silver-white, translucent, smooth as glass but warm and heavy like stone. Adamas.

The familiar material glowed slightly at his touch and Jace placed it in his pocket, prodding the boy's limp form with the tip of his boot. Why did a warlock have heavenly metal? And why is it fashioned in such a way? An unholy screech sounded nearby and Jace innately ran in its direction. The sensor clicked insistently and Jace held his blade tighter, stopping at one of the restroom doors. He placed an opening rune on the door and it swung open just in time for him to see an unknown demon burst into dust. Stunned, he found the girl sprawled out on the floor several feet away, eyes fixed on the space where the demon had been. He immediately took note of the lack of weapons on her. Glass splintering underfoot had him looking down to see one of the decorative vases from the sink laying broken at his feet. She couldn't have possibly killed it with that. Concern crept up as Jace noticed how vacant her eyes were as she sat there doing nothing, seemingly unaware of his presence. Whether it was for himself or the girl Jace couldn't tell; that unfocused stare into a vast abyss of nothingness would've made anyone weary. Sporadically, her brow would furrow to indicate some kind of thought was forming, but then her face would relax again into the same stricken expression. If it weren't for the rapid movements of her chest and her blinking eyes Jace would've assumed she was catatonic. Putting caution to the wind he advanced, knocking pebbles littering ceramic tile aside.

She raised her eyes at his approach. Fear, stark and vivid glittered in them, confounding him. She backed away until she hit a wall. Realizing she had nowhere to go, her posture became similar to a caged animal's, indicating she might bolt at any moment. She snatched up a stray shard and pointed it at him. "Stay back!" She was scared of _him_?

Jace was more than used to the looks he received from females. Desire, appreciation even the occasional adulation but fear, fear was a new one. Fear was an emotion commonly associated with enemies. To say that he was floored would be an understatement. He wasn't equipped to handle this sort of situation, one requiring he be kind and gentle. Diplomacy was not one of the defining traits of his nature. It wasn't his strong suit, he was too direct for it. Improvising, however, was. Jace put his weapon away and splayed his empty hands, showing her he was unarmed. "I'm not going to hurt you." The phrase felt strange on his tongue. He was one of the deadliest Shadowhunter's of his age for a reason.

"Liar." She said with an astounding amount of venom. "You're one of those _creatures. _The first thing you do is hurt people. You killed—" She broke off with a pained shudder and Jace stilled at her declaration, shock flowing through him as realization dawned. She thought him a demon.

Outraged, the words slipped out before he could stop them. "I'm not a demon."

She balked and blinked rapidly, looking as if she'd been struck. Evidently she'd never heard the term used so casually before. "Demon?" She seemed to be testing the idea, then shook her head in denial. "No. Demons aren't real. You're lying to me."

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news but they are. You just killed one." How did she not know any of this, had whoever raised her taught her nothing? His mind went to last night, she hadn't reacted how he'd anticipated then either. Recognition didn't flare in her eyes and she hadn't approached him. Initially he'd assumed she was mundane with the Sight but the rune on the back of her hand swiftly put that presumption to rest. She'd gazed at him with something akin to open curiosity as he searched for traces of other marks on her and found none. After carrying the injured girl, Clary, back to the Institute to have her wounds tended—much to Alec and Isabelle's vexation—he'd told Hodge about the anomaly. As always his tutor was cautious in his deeds and assertions, suggesting they wait a few days and see if she came to them first. Jace knew it was a long shot but thought it best not to argue, an admittedly rare occurrence.

Presently, Jace watched her eyes snap to where the demon she'd vanquished the demon, face clouding with uneasiness. "No. I—I didn't it... None of this real. It can't be." She pressed a hand to her forehead and Jace regarded her quizzically, watching her external struggle; a gamut of conflicting emotions flew across her features at a rapid pace. For some unfathomable reason Jace felt a surge of pity and the urge to help her rose within, surprising him. Perhaps it was because her light grey eyes were a shade similar to Max's and reminded Jace of the small boy when frightened. Or perhaps it was the fact that—if he were honest with himself—he wasn't callous enough to leave anyone to unnecessary madness.

_Something's amiss here. I need to get her to Hodge. _"Come with me." He said in what he hoped was a gentle tone. Her stupefaction quickly turned into incredulity. "Don't argue. We have to leave, you aren't safe here."


	4. Rude Awakening

**RUDE AWAKENING**

**_"It's not the lies we tell others that do the most damage, it's those we tell ourselves. From this all troubles rise." _**  
**―Anthony McCarten**

* * *

At first Whitley wasn't quite sure where she was. A thick fog had settled in her head and edges of her sight were blurred. Her heart felt like it was beating out of her chest and a fine sheen of sweat plasters her clothes to her back. Over the near deafening roar in her ears she heard sounds both muted and loud but they didn't register. Gradually she became aware of cool tile beneath her damp palms and the avant-garde photos sitting on the dark green restroom walls. Realizing she was sprawled rather awkwardly on the floor, she attempted to stand but a heaviness in her limbs rendered her inert. Giving her body time to recuperate and waiting for stability to reassert itself, she took a moment to figure out how she'd gotten here. The last thing she remembered was seeing that creature lunge at her. She tried to recall what occurred next but could only evoke a torrent of emotions, panic and fear the strongest among them. Images that should've completed the memory didn't. As if she'd been blinded temporarily and robbed of her sight during the encounter. Had she been truly able to ward off her anxiety attack or had she passed out and imagined the whole thing? She hoped so, just thinking about what happened was capable of sending her mind into a perpetual whorl of tumult.

Slowly but surely her senses returned. The fierce ringing present in her ears faded and her vision cleared. Loud music and excited chatter in the distance resounded off thin walls. The fog in her mind started to lift, but her brain was still addled and fuzzy enough that it took a moment to process the sound of glass breaking. Alarm ripped through her when she looked up and saw golden eyes staring at her. Recognizing the blond boy from the night before, she stifled a scream and scrambled away to put some distance between them. Her back hit something hard and she instantly became more alert, fully aware of her surroundings. How long had he been there? And was he in fact real or a figment of her imagination she conjured up to deal with her mother's death?

Whitley was certain she didn't want to know the answer to that question, as it probably wasn't going to be the one she desperately needed it to be. In the end it didn't matter; real or not he was dangerous. Her eyes fell to the blade in his hand and a sliver of trepidation wormed it's into her heart, but she adamantly ignored it. She had to get out of here and back to the party, where her friends would be looking for her soon and where the distractions she desired were plenty. She glanced furtively at the door and immediately dismissed the idea. It was the most obvious option and a moot endeavor as he was flush in front of it. It was also the _only_ option, there was no window to scurry out of and in her current condition she was no better than a lethargic, excess movement was improbable. To her surprise as she further contemplated a different means of escape the boy simply watched, unmoving from his position, leaving her to speculation. Why was he here of all places, had he known were she was?

At the thought Whitley snatched up an errant glass shard lying on the ground nearby and pointed it at him in pure desperation. "Stay back!" Her voice came out shakier than she would have liked and she knew the second he wished it he could possibly tear her to shreds, but she didn't want to give in completely to her fear. Unease mounted as he lifted the dagger and light gleamed wickedly off worn metal. It diminished a moment later and was superseded by bewilderment when he not only put the weapon away, but splayed his empty hands and approached her as if _she_ was the hazardous one.

"I'm not going to hurt you." The words sounded stiff and formal like he'd never used them before and the briefest flicker of discomfort crossed his face but Whitley didn't notice. Weeks of bridled emotion that had been simmering underneath her façade of resilience finally set alight.

"Liar. You're one of those _creatures._ The first thing you do is hurt people. You killed—" She cut off abruptly and shuddered, trying to force the rapid swirl of sickening and painful images out of her mind in an effort to regain her composure. Though venting did help abate her pain to some extent, her outburst was childish and unnecessary; it hadn't been him that had killed her mother after all. Absently Whitley chastised herself.

"I'm not a demon."

Shock siphoned the blood from her face and hit her full force. "Demon?" That was the last thing she could've expected to hear. For a moment uncertainty took hold of her and she considered the idea. If what he said was true it explained some things, but not why anyone else couldn't see him or the demons. The logical side of her brain chimed in as it always did and denial rose up, sharp and fast. _It's impossible._ "No. Demons aren't real. You're lying to me." At least not the monsters she'd seen, ones that apparently freely roamed the night and had naturally distorted forms. Monsters of the day however, one's that looked like her and blended in with society, those were a different story—mere wolves in sheep's clothing. These creatures were something else entirely, something that had the power to strike raw terror into even the bravest of souls. Her greatest nightmares come to life. _It's impossible, _she reiterated refusing to believe it.

_'__There is no point in using the word 'impossible' to describe something that has clearly happened.'_ At the sound of Geneva's voice Whitley went rigid, before remembering her mother was no longer here and would only exist in memories now. A familiar hollow feeling bloomed in her chest and she clenched her fists to alleviate a agonizing bout of grief. She faltered as barely healed wounds opened and suddenly wanted nothing more than to check out and fall back into her old coping habits. The hot pinpricks of tears stung the backs of her eyes and she stubbornly blinked them away. She would get past this, she _had_ to.

Regrettably the boy seems to be as stubborn as she. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news but they are. You just killed one."

Whitley's eyes shot to where she'd seen the creature last. For a second time she tried to recall what happened after seeing it lunge at her and hit a wall, some sort of mental block that left a bit of the memory she couldn't account for. That meant she had passed out didn't it, or something to that effect. There could be no other plausible explanation for the gap. "No. I—I didn't it... None of this real. It can't be." She pressed a hand to her forehead as the room spun once more and pain erupted above her brow. Ceaseless questions raced round her mind. Why did he think she had_ killed_ it? Why was she humoring him, if he was a figment of her imagination couldn't she just make him go away? He had to disappear eventually right?

Deciding it best to forego all thought, Whitley closed her eyes to shut out anything and everything around her. But the din persisted, the boy's voice in particular, shattering her concentration. "Come with me." Her eyes snapped open at his words and she regarded him incredulously. _He can't honestly think I'll go with somewhere with him, if he does he's crazier than I am._ "Don't argue. We have to leave, you aren't safe here."

Again, the words sounded stilted and wooden like he was a bad actor reciting from some script. Despite her misgivings and because think was all she could do, his words took root in her mind. Through a haze of confusion and doubt Whitley searched for answers. Was the primal emotion of fear clouding her reason? Could someone who sought to harm her be looking at her with such urgency—an expression that on someone else would have mirrored concern? If he was real she didn't want to let him deceive her. Would he turn into a monster as the other one had?

As conflicted thoughts trundled about her brain like a freight train with no signs of stopping she noticed something on the back of his left hand. An outlandish symbol bearing the resemblance of an eye, just like the one presently donning her own. Before she was even aware of what she was doing, Whitley got to her feet, the voice of caution whispering softly not to rise so fast. Inexplicably drawn she found herself moving forward. The burst of heat that spread up her arm at his touch caught her off guard and she realized dimly that she'd taken his hand. She dropped it quickly, a strange mixture of fear and relief spreading through her at the very solid feeling appendage in her own. She might not be crazy and yet…. A nagging sensation gripped her and questions that had been there all along emerged from her heart of hearts. She asked the most prominent ones, "What is that? Why can't anyone else see you?"

The boy, who upon her touching him had gone deathly still, eyed her curiously. Probably trying to gauge whether or not she was genuine. Apparently appeased by what he found there, he inquisitively leaned forward. "Do you not know?"

Unnerved by the predacious gleam of the tawny eyes boring into her own, Whitley took shallow breaths to calm herself and backed up a little, cursing inwardly at how close she'd gotten. A bolt of dread coursed through her as a corner of his lips curled upward in amusement. With a start she realized he was enjoying her unease. A little incensed by this, she defiantly fought the impulse to flee and soldiered on. "Should I?"

The boy straightened and raised his left hand, bringing the strange mark closer. As if her staring at it longer would elicit some recognition."You don't know what this? What y— I am?" Sensing the gravity of the question she simply shook her head. He dropped his hand and stared down at her. His fair brows furrowed as examined her carefully and the predatory gleam in eyes seemed to intensify. Reflexively Whitley squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. The urge to fight is strong within her, even if it is for something as intangible as sanity. Unexpectedly the boy relaxes and smirks. "Interesting."

"What is?" It was strange talking to someone whom no one else could see but responding to a statement directed towards her was involuntary; she couldn't imagine herself being a rude person in the most unconventional situation.

"Nothing. Shall we go?"

"No. I'm not going anywhere with you. I don't even know your name. You haven't answered my question by the way. Why can't anyone else see you?"

"It's Jace." He said matter-of-factly, gesturing impatiently to the door. "I don't have time to explain everything to you. Shall we go?"

"No." Whitley said uncertainly. She still wasn't sure if any of this was real or not. She couldn't trust herself to make any sound life changing decisions right now. Her mind was at war and her emotions were teetering; every word, thought and action was conflicted. She didn't dare mention anything pertaining to demons aloud, saying something aloud, and thus acknowledging it, made it real in a way. She knew her approach was immature but who would want to believe in monsters, demons and the like. No one she knew and certainly no one sane.

Choosing to fixate on a something less dismal, Whitley looked around. For some reason everything appears to be muddled and puzzlingly disjointed. _No help there_. Her eyes went back to the boy—Jace—and she found herself studying him. Up close she sees how aristocratic his features are, even in a state of repose they manage to look haughty. He has a calm, almost uninterested demeanor and his manner of speaking is sarcastic, bordering on cryptic. Her gaze traveled farther down, resting on his strange scars and markings. Precipitously, she is struck by how thorough and otherworldly her hallucinations are. Yes she consumed anything fictional with fervent ardor, but she didn't think her imagination was this inventive. Of all the things she could have imagined, of all the fantasies to retreat into, why this one? Surely her mind was not_ that_ fractured and worn yet. "Where?" She heard herself ask.

"Hmm?" Jace did not seem so pressed for time as he had a moment ago. Every so often he glances at a small metallic object resting in his hand but other than that he's the picture of ease.

"If I were to go with you, where would you take me?"

"The Institute." He says readily, pocketing the weird item with a practiced flourish.

Whitley's response was instantaneous. Her blood runs cold as iciness spreads out from her core and engulfs her. Her mother, a person that had been_incredibly_ real, had mentioned the Institute. The mark on Jace's hand looked just like her's and Whitley had seen him talking to Clary before she'd gone missing… _It's too much coincidence for it not be connected somehow._Her legs almost gave out as the truth loomed over her, forcing itself upon her. She suddenly had to fight a battle of personal restraint as the juvenile urge to cry and scream nearly overtook her—not because anything hurt, but because all of this was real.

At this revelation any vestigial hope she had of regaining some semblance of normalcy vanished and her entire body sagged in defeat. She can feel herself begin to slip into unyielding despondency, then feel her mind automatically pull itself back from the brink. It was not just dejection she felt. What she felt was much more complex than that, something she couldn't even begin to comprehend. It occurred to her that this could all be a nightmare. Perhaps she ought to just play along until she woke up and then never think about it again. Or maybe if she refused to believe it her world would right itself. But Whitley knew she could no longer ignore the problem in hopes it would go away, the more she tried to ignore the truth, the more it would persist.

She became aware of a minute burning sensation on her left palm and is surprised to see vicious black liquid staining it. Irrefutable proof of the creature's existence. Mystified, she lifted her other hand to inspect the stain further and found her wrist encased in a strong grip. Yet again golden eyes met hers and she quickly retracted her hand. "What is it? You must know."

"Ichor."

"Ichor?" She repeated dubiously. "The blood of the gods?" She examines the thick plasma curiously, this isn't what she'd pictured the famed mythic blood looking like.

Jace grinned sardonically. "Something like that. You may want to wipe it off."

Whitley takes his advice and hastily wipes the ichor on her dress. She flexes her hand to suppress the unwanted tingling and grimaces at the foreign substance now sullying burgundy fabric, Luca was going to kill her. Impatiently Whitley shook her head, pulling her drifting thoughts together.

"You alright?" Jace asked, looking like he was waiting for her to fly off the handle again.

"No." She replies shakily, voice a wisp on the air. Her world was in tatters and she didn't know how to react. Every muscle felt tight, ready for action and she was too stunned to cry. She took a deep, steadying breaths but her head remains as light and airy as a balloon. Her pulse skittered and she leaned heavily on a nearby wall. She pressed her face against it, letting the frigid surface cool her feverish skin.

Lighting flares off blond hair in the corner of her eye and Jace fills her peripheral vision. "You're not going to pass out on me are you?"

Overlooking his mocking tone Whitley eyed the floor wearily through bleary eyes. It didn't _look _dirty and seems more comfortable than it should. "I hope not." She let loose a sigh and allowed herself to think. The relief she felt was overwhelming. Weeks of looking over her shoulder and being afraid of what could be lurking hidden in the shadows had left her tired. Tiredness borne of being anxious and scared she'd been losing her mind. But now that she knew she wasn't insane, she sincerely wished she didn't. These creatures shouldn't exist in anything but stories and film. She searched for the validity in it all but what if there was none? These creatures did exist and would continue to do so whether she believed or not. What was the point in going crazy over something she couldn't control?

Jace's voice cuts through her minds contemplative clamor. "You better not. I already had to carry one unconscious girl across two boroughs, I don't want to carry another." He pauses, considering. "Though since were already in Manhattan I suppose I can make an exception."

If he'd been trying to draw a reaction from her, he'd succeeded. The hairs on the back of her neck rise and she suddenly painfully aware of how unnatural this is. Discovering that he was real didn't make him any less dangerous. Fear and tension knotted themselves together inside her as she pushed away from the wall. It only took a moment for her to reorient herself and for her survival instinct to kick in. "You're talking about Clary aren't you? What did you do to her?" She asked, feeling around in her pockets for her pepper spray and coming up empty, she must have lost in the scuffle. She spots in the stall nearest the door and discreetly edges her way toward it.

Jace intercepts her effortlessly. "If you think I hurt her your wrong."

"Am I? I saw you with her last night and her friend Simon says she's gone missing. You just said you that carried an unconscious girl back to the Institute with you. Don't tell me my concern is unfounded."

"I didn't say the unconscious girl was Clary."

"Oh? I suppose her going missing after talking to you is just a coincidence then." If he thinks he can lull her into a false sense of security he's going to be disappointed. He doesn't stop her this time as she scoots around him and sprints over to the canister. She shakes it and finds it half empty, she must have already used it. She briefly wonders how effective mace is against the fiends of hell then concludes that it probably isn't effective at all. Her gaze ventured to where the shape shifting demon had been. _So how did I kill it?_

Jace interrupts her potential reverie before it can form. "_She_ came after _me_. It's not my fault curiosity overtakes her sense. She's fine."

"Is she? Why hasn't she contacted Simon then?" Her hand tightens around the canister as she bites the inside of her cheek. A nervous habit she'd adopted in middle school to soothe her frazzled nerves; which are currently all but shot. She looks down, catching the slight tremor in her hands and folds her arms across her chest to hide it. Showing weakness doesn't seem like a good idea right now.

He shrugs, a smirk teasing the corners of his mouth. "Your guess is as good as mine. She certainly left him behind readily enough." The smirk turns into a full on smile, seemingly in remembrance. "During his bumbling avowal of love no less."

"Is that so?" Whitley inquires cynically.

"You don't believe me?"

"Of course I don't. I've known you all of ten minutes." There's a reason her group of friends is small. Trust was a huge issue of significance for her, those she befriended and confided in were usually worthy of such open faith. There was always something about them that made her gravitate to them, a kindness in their eyes. Whitley didn't see that in Jace, instead she saw something far worse, an essence of danger restrained. A plan builds in her mind and she starts to make her way towards the door. If he was deliberately hiding his presence, he couldn't risk attacking her in public. While she wouldn't reveal his existence to others lest she imperil them, there is safety in numbers. Even if a large percent of those numbers are probably intoxicated in some way or another.

As she neared the door Jace spoke with a staid calmness. "I can take you to her, the Institute isn't that far away from here."

Whitley highly doubts that. It seems a little too convenient to her, and the thought of going off somewhere with a random stranger—much less one nobody else can see—is hardly assuring. In addition to the fact that he might be a demon and refuses to answer her questions, she was also fairly certain he'd been the last one to see Clary unharmed. She glances sidelong at him, he doesn't look like he's lying, though he is most likely a very good liar. Cunning is presumably one of the strongest attributes of a demon. Jace had said he wasn't one but…

A cynical inner voice cuts through her thoughts. _What if he's telling the truth?_ It was this question that stopped her. Against her better judgment she spun on her heel to face him, trying to get a glimpse of the intent behind that impassive veneer of his. He hadn't turned into a monster yet, but he could have just been binding his time. Conversely his actions and words suggested otherwise. He may have been enigmatic, but during their short association he'd had ample opportunity to harm her, she couldn't think of any other time in her life she'd been more vulnerable. There's a chance she was being overly optimistic, but her deductions were sensible. She is not so obstinate that refutes other possibilities.

"How do I know you're not lying? That Clary isn't face down in a dumpster somewhere?" There is defiance in her tone as well as a subtle challenge. Beneath all the distress and disquiet was someone who felt they had nothing to lose.

He met her accusing eyes unflinchingly. "You don't. And you won't—not unless you come to the Institute with me."

Irked by elusiveness Whitley released a sound of agitation. She contemplates what she knows is true and how bad an idea this is. The long and short of it was that she had questions, questions that needed answering. If he had those answers… In order to trust him, in order to believe in _any _of this, even a little she knew she had to shut off the logical, rational part of her mind. But for someone like Whitley, who was ruled by her head rather than her heart that would be hard, painfully so. Finally she pushed away her thoughts and therefore her uncertainty. "I'll go with you, but you have stay in my sight the _entire_ time. No detours or getting behind me."

"Fair enough."

Dutifully ignoring the smile still on his lips, Whitley stepped back and inclined her head towards the door. "After you."


	5. Rabbit Hole

_A/n: As you can see I've decided to change the title of the story. Lux ex Tenebris or Light from Darkness is a title I believe is more fitting of the description and my plans for this story. And the suggested connection to a certain Bangles song admittedly bothered me a little. Because my attempt at a Jace POV seems to have been well received I've taken another shot at it. Feel free to tell me if he's too OOC or share your thoughts about the CH. as a whole. Enough of my babbling, onward to CH. 5._

**RABBIT HOLE **

_**By a route obscure and lonely,**_

_**Haunted by ill angels only,**_

_**Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,**_

_**On a black throne reigns upright,**_

_**I have reached these lands but newly**_

_**From an ultimate dim Thule**_

**—Edgar Allan Poe**

Icy gusts of wind licked at Whitley's face and crept under her clothes, spreading across her skin like the lacy tide on a frigid winter beach. Her teeth chattered gently and she wrapped her blazer tighter around her. Several meters ahead Jace walks in front of her, strides long, purposeful and fluid. She watched him a little enviously, taking in his light clothing. Not once did a shiver wrack his frame. He'd even pulled the sleeves of his jacket up. "Aren't you cold?" she inquired.

"No." He held up an inked arm and she noticed one of the strange symbols on it resembled a warped flame stencil. In fact most of the markings he had resembled tattoo designs, the tribal font in particular. Whitley knew this because she'd accompanied a then auburn haired Luca to a tattoo parlor on the girl's eighteenth birthday. She briefly entertained the idea that his markings were indeed tattoos before reason dictated they were more than that. And although the gaps in her memory suggested contrastively, she easily would have remembered getting a tattoo. Especially if it had been placed in such a delicate area. At times her tolerance for pain was nonexistent. "Thermis. It keeps you warm in the coldest weather."

"So these markings of yours have various purposes." She concluded, looking down at the eccentric eye stamped boldly on her hand. "What's this one do?"

"Clairvoyance or simply Voyance, is a rune that enhances and focuses the Sight."

"The Sight?"

"One's ability to see past glamour to a being's true nature. Those who have it are born with it."

"That's why no one else can see you, their physically incapable of doing so." She took a moment to digest this knowledge and pieces of a discarded puzzle in her head started to come together. She remembered the peculiar way Geneva had reacted to the man who'd attacked them, before Whitley had seen the creature beneath his supposed glamour. Did her mother have this Sight when she'd been alive? The question chipped away at her and Whitley decided that she must have. Moments where her mother had been acting out of character suddenly made sense. At the time Whitley had thought her concerns and protective nature were that of average parent, but now she knew differently. How long had Geneva hidden these demons from her and bore the weight of her choice to do so? The thought barely crossed her mind afore another took residence and something Jace said previously clicked. "But I wasn't born with it, I only started seeing demons a few weeks ago."

If Jace was surprised by this information he didn't show it. "The presence of that mark indicates otherwise, most hunters don't receive their first rune until they come of age."

"And what age is that?" She allowed some relief to wash over her and lets her guard down a little. Him being a demon hunter was one believable explanation that could shed light on certain aspects of his disposition, the cloak and dagger ones to be specific. Unfortunately it didn't absolve him of any of the danger he posed. Exercising caution Whitley held her pepper spray tighter as she followed him further down snow ridden pavement.

"Ten."

"Ten?" Whitley echoed, appalled by the horrible implications. "You've been fighting demons since you were ten?" She began to picture a young Jace fighting demons; a hard but not, sadly, impossible image to behold.

"Thirteen."

"I… suppose that's a bit better. At least you're allowed to reach puberty first." Still a child in most ways yet adult in others. "Why the secrecy? I mean, I get why you hide your existence, but why literally be invisible? There's nothing supernatural about the way you look and if humans already can't see you…."

"You forget that I am human despite my abilities. If I were to be seen killing an invisible demon that would raise more than a few questions now wouldn't it?"

Though he talked to her as if she were a dim witted child, Whitley took no offence. After all she was someone who consistently thought in facts and getting angry would not help her situation. If anything it would delay her progress. "Well yes, but…"

"All inhabitants of the Shadow World are glamoured in some way to mundanes; they have an automatic filter for the abnormal. In most cases a hunter's glamour is purely precautionary. Exposing our presence is one risk we can't afford to take, and there are benefits. The least intellectual of demons think were helpless mundies unless we show our hand too soon."

"I'm not saying glamour is unnecessary, but try to see my side of things. If one 'mundie' can see you—a seemingly regular human—while another can't, doesn't that raise a few flags and therefore bring more attention to you, not less? Wouldn't it be more prudent for you not to use one at all? Or wait until a certain moment to do so and garner less suspicion?" Whitley knew she was probably over thinking it as she normally did, but when your brain was running a mile a minute and you were trying to process a hundred new things at once what else could you do?

"Garnering less suspicion isn't possible when you're carrying half a dozen weapons on you. And most, if not all, mundies that see something out of the ordinary will view the experience as an illusion or misinterpretation, they're not likely to mention it."

"Surely you can't rely in part on people seeing what they want to see and being willfully ignorant. Not everyone has a see, hear and speak no evil mentality. There are always people smart or curious enough to delve deeper. The greatest discoveries did not come from a mundane content to sit around and twiddle their thumbs. Frankly I think it's a miracle your world hasn't been discovered sooner." _Unless there's a crucial fact that I'm missing, and this is New York, home of the devil-may-care attitude. In a city this big people are bound not to notice everything._ Her mind went to the search she'd constructed this morning. To the many conspiracy theories and ramblings she'd so easily dismissed. Subconsciously she touched her scars. Had someone already delved and come back forever changed as she had? She remembered the man in the waiting room on Monday and knew the answer was yes.

Jace's walking slowed as he absorbed her supposition. "You do have a point there, but chances of that happening are scarce. The Sight is rare in mundanes and what we do has worked for centuries. It's not susceptible to change."

_And there it is._ The conversation lulled and she drew inward. Now was not the time to needle him with her endless questions. She contemplated what she'd just been told and slowly began to wrap her head around it. With the introduction of this Shadow World and its demonic denizens, the world she knew had become a much darker and inhospitable place than she had initially foreseen. The discovery was both surreal and terrifying to say the least, since it was something she'd stumbled upon unwittingly. Whatever bubble she'd ostensibly been living in had effectively been burst. Had it really only been mere weeks ago that she'd been a run-of-the-mill adolescent, somewhat frivolous and disengaged from most of the world around her? How had all this escaped her notice for so long? What had changed?

Her thoughts turned to her mother again. If she had known that demons existed, why hadn't she mentioned them? The age old answer to that question was of course to protect her. A noble inclination that often brought more harm than good. In layman's terms Whitley thought the motivation of protection was fallacious and futile. She could take care of herself should the need arise and one could never hide the truth for long. Granted, the mere idea of demons existing had been absurd to her not an hour ago, but she wasn't completely close minded when it came to such things. And if there was anyone who could get her to believe in such an irrational concept it would be Geneva, someone she'd trusted implicitly.

Whitley didn't know why this bothered her as much as it did. She knew her mother had secrets and a past—who didn't? She had never put much thought in her or other people's affairs as it was none of her business. But perhaps she should've, maybe then none of this would be such a shock. She felt like she'd stepped into the pages of a Dresden Files novel. Like she was spinning around in a cyclone about to land in Oz. The latter would certainly be the more welcome experience.

Her nails started to bite into her palms in frustration and she tucked away her infuriating thoughts, bringing her attention back to Jace. At first glance he seems like any other teenage boy, she can see why she'd almost mistaken him for one. He exudes confidence and his posture indicates that he's relaxed, but the slightest hint of rigidness in his form says he's the opposite. When he turns his head she sees the way his gaze roams the night for any sign of danger. A tenacious and vigilant hunter. She understood his scrupulousness, for she saw the way the shadows seemed to reach out and ever skyward, as if conspiring to block out all sources of light.

As she tries not to notice how uncommonly deserted the stretch of asphalt they were presently traipsing seems to be, a compact plume of coldness abruptly encompasses her. A series of low growls echoes out behind her and with a start she spun around.

Anxiety spurted through Whitley and her breathing accelerated as worst case scenarios borrowed their way into her mind. She saw nothing in the murky dimness and dared hope the sounds were just the result of her imagination getting the best her. As one can expect this hope did not last long. Out of the nearby gloom emerges several dark forms. Incipiently she thought they were ordinary dogs, feasible strays, but notices that their larger than the typical canine. Rivaling the build of a great dane, it was not just their size that marked them as unearthly. Matted fur as black as soot, eyes as red as blood and spiked tails instantly distinguished them from their tamer counterparts.

Taken aback by the savage cruelty in their eyes and their glinting rows of sharp teeth, Whitley promptly felt her stomach drop. Dread like she'd never known before settled over her like a blanket and her adrenaline spiked. She frantically tried to douse the abhorrence rising within her and every fiber of her being screamed at her to respond as the one of the doglike demons crouched, back legs bent low, readying itself to strike. It barks at her, teeth snapping at the air between them before it finally it leapt, extending one deadly paw. A blur of motion and Jace is in front of her. With agile reflexes, he puts up an arm to deflect, taking the brunt of the blow meant for her. The demon's claw rakes through his arm but the boy barely notices. Dagger already drawn he steps forward, a lethal tranquility in his eyes.

* * *

The girl was unusual to say the least. Shrouded in equal parts confusion, fear and mystery, she'd made quite the memorable first impression. After hurling a blasphemous accusation and numerous questions at him, Jace had convinced her to let him take her to the Institute. This action seemed to be one born more out of obligation and concern for Clary as opposed to trust in him. If there was any, it was going to be decimated the second she saw Clary. Though not an act he committed frequently, Jace had no qualms lying about the injured girl's condition. If he'd told the truth, she would not have been willing to accompany him. Judging by how cautious she was, he knew he was correct.

Used to the occasional gripe or joke from Alec and the constant click of Isabelle's heels, the girl's presence was a silent one. Not just in comparison. Her footfalls and breathing were light, almost imperceptible, an additional sign of her Shadowhunter heritage. If it weren't for his sharp hearing Jace would've assumed he was alone. Eventually she tried to make conversation. He was surprised by her absolute lack of knowledge on facets of the Shadow World. The conception that she was feigning ignorance crossed his mind, but was swiftly snuffed out as he concluded how ridiculous it was. She didn't strike him as someone who could pull off less than genuine reactions and what possible reason could she have to be doing so? More insight was gleaned as she talked and memory tampering presented itself as the most probable prospect for her cluelessness. Which begged the question of why? To his knowledge the practice wasn't done habitually in his world, and it appeared highly doubtful. Could she have seen something she shouldn't have?

He explained a couple of the basic workings. She sounded baffled by the premise of glamour and her ability to poke holes in it, marginally baseless as they were, demonstrated her mental acuity. A trait that could prove to be both helpful and maddening in the future. Earlier, a small part of him had admittedly gotten a kick out of the fear she'd radiated, misguided as it was. She'd wised up rather quickly, though Jace suspected she still thought him a demon. This suggestion while vexatious was intriguing. Everything about her raised questions, too many. It was then that he realized that he didn't even know her name. Before he could rectify this, he heard her inhale sharply.

Intuitively his hand closed around his weapon. He turned to see her staring at an alleyway with wide eyes. Jace scanned it and saw nothing as neared her, a retort ready on his lips. A low howl suddenly filled the air as his sensor suddenly picked up demonic frequencies. He pulled out a seraph blade, calling upon the angel _Israfiel_, as four figures emerged. Malevolent red eyes bore into him and dark, rough coats blended in with the fading dappled shadows as they hunkered low to the ground. Hellhounds.

Jace had expected this. Whoever this 'Valentine' was had previously gone to unabated lengths retrieve this girl, they would not give up easily. He did not however expect to be facing hellhounds of all things. Despite being known for their superior tracking and fighting talent, they did not often venture outside their home dimension of hell. Jace recalled what little he knew about them. Due to their murderous temperaments they were prone to take risks, he could use that to his advantage. One hellhound was particularly eager and lunged straight for the girl. Jace observed her, waiting to see how she would react. If she'd experienced any traditional Shadowhunter training, perhaps muscle memory would take effect and she'd instinctively find some way defend herself. But she remained stationary, hand clutched around at her throat in terror.

He interceded as the hound reached her and its claw sliced through his forearm. His body didn't register any pain and he lowered the bleeding limb. Seizing the opportunity the antsy hound's proximity bestowed, he sunk his blade into its torso, right where its heart resided. It reared back with a wounded yelp as it faded from view. Its companions released enraged growls, but they didn't assail him straight away, which indicated they had more intelligence than he thought. They watched him instead, waiting for the moment he'd make a mistake and leave himself open to attack. As their past opponents no doubt had. Clearly they'd never faced someone with his skill level before.

Finally another crouched then sprang, jaw stretched wide, eyes riveted on Jace's jugular. His dagger came up in an upward arc, slashing its muzzle and he dispatched that one as quickly as the last. The fight ended fairly soon after a rhythm was established. He dodged, parried and struck with fatal efficiency. Though slightly worse for wear, he emerged the victor. The last demon howled pitifully and dissolved as Jace wiped the blood off his weapon. His glanced at the girl, who was currently all but cowering. What was so special about her that someone would send denizens of hell after her, he wondered. Or was said person just showing how much power they wielded? Neither question hardly instilled cheerful thoughts in him. If anything they brought on more tedious questions.

"Still think I'm a demon?" He asked archly, placing the now stagnant blade in jacket.

"No." She says, voice terse and flustered. Moderately she collected herself. The fear seeped out of her eyes and trembling that had overtaken her stopped. Her shaking fingers released their white knuckled hold on a pendant around her neck as she looked down, features portraying shame and agitation. "I'm sorry I couldn't be of any help. I've never felt more useless."

Jace didn't know how to reply to her declaration. This was one of few times he was certain a trademark derisive quip would be misplaced. His eyes met hers and he saw something other than fright and uncertainty in them; a twin pain that mirrored his own. A wrought pain he'd thought long buried. Resolute he looked elsewhere, ignoring the odd, unsolicited twinge in his chest. "It's fine. I can handle myself." He wasn't necessarily cocky when he said this, for it was a fact he'd proven time and time again.

She didn't appear keen to disagree. "That's an understatement. Thank you."

"For what?"

"Jumping in front of me. I froze, it probably would have killed me had you not intervened."

"Not likely. The demon wasn't aiming for anything vital, it didn't seek to incapacitate you. Whoever is after you won't risk you being seriously harmed."

This fact seemed to be new to her and she was momentarily thrown. "Someone's after me, why?"

"I'm no more informed than you on that." He did have a sneaking suspicion but held his tongue. No need to spook her further. "I would say time is of the essence, but doubt they'll send anything else after you tonight." He surveyed the empty street around them. His gaze narrowed when he thought he saw a distinct shape move in the shadows, but it was gone before he could be sure. "And the Institute's over there." He pointed towards the familiar soaring spires in the distance. Already he could hear Hodges prolonged, well-meaning lecture in his head. He was positive another awaited him.

"Is that the reason this street seems so deserted?"

"Part of it. I wouldn't put it past them to set up an obstruction that keeps mundanes away. Plant a thought in their minds to deter them from coming this way."

Her expression became one of disbelief. "Like some sort of magical demonic roadblock? That seems so improbable."

"All things demons do are improbable, their very existence is. It's what makes them dangerous." The two of them lapsed into silence and Jace could virtually hear the cogs in her mind turn.

When they started to move again she spoke unexpectedly. "You're hurt." There was a note in her voice that he hadn't anticipated. Concern and presumably it was for him. Jace's eyes went to the cause of her distress and he dismissed it. He'd had injuries far worse and the amount of blood is nothing to get worked up over. A mere scratch that could be readily rectified. Even so he knew she would not be deterred. The girl in front of him was different from the one just half an hour before. The guarded look she had sported was overshadowed by something that spoke of her willingness to help. "It looks bad," she said quietly, stepping closer and examining the wound further. "Is there a way we can patch it up?"

Jace stifled a smile, lest she think he was mocking her, and removed a stele from his belt. He drew a healing rune above the torn skin and watched the wound heal. The girl observed the process with rapt attention, countenance somewhere between revulsion and abject fascination. "It may be an unpleasant sight but it's effective." She said nothing in reply, only offering conciliatory nod before they moved on. Though hesitance was still apparent, the last traces of resistance disappeared from her face and she appeared to trust him more. Too bad it wouldn't last.

* * *

_A/n: I wanted to begin establishing a rapport between Whitley and Jace, so if this did bore you, I apologize. I promise things will get more interesting soon. I know the verse above by Mr. Poe is more associated with dreaming than anything else, hence the title of the piece, but I associate it more with venturing into a nightmare world. One where you encounter darkness and fight demons—inner or otherwise. And thus it did seem fitting to for this CH. and the Shadow World itself._


	6. Dreamland

_A/n: Thanks for all the favorites, follows and reviews. It lets me know I'm doing something right. I present CH. 6. Enjoy._

* * *

**DREAMLAND**

_**"No man can reveal to you nothing but that which already lies half-asleep in the dawning of your knowledge."**_

**―****Khalil Gibran**

He'd bled red blood. That was good sign wasn't it? It reaffirmed that he was human? Whitley retracted that assessment a few seconds later and her head began to swim with weariness as he brought out a strange silver twig and pressed it to his arm. He drew another rune on it and she watched, almost entranced, as the marking _sunk_ into his arm and skin there repaired itself. While the wound appeared to go through the normal healing process, albeit sped up, uneasiness rose within her and prickled her scalp. Her slender hands twisted together nervously in an attempt to calm herself. _That's not natural_. _The human body is amazing but not that amazing. _A wave of dizziness and nausea came over her and she started to feel faint, but tamped the feeling down firmly. Nothing about her current situation was natural.

"What is this Institute exactly?" She tried to picture it in her mind's eye, but the only likeness she could raise was that of a psychiatric hospital. Unbidden images of sterile halls and chemically restrained patients came to her. At the reminder Whitley went ashen, remembering how hurriedly she had convinced herself that she was going insane. While there hadn't been any evidence to the contrary at the time, who knows how far her conviction could have taken her? The very possibility of spending years in a dampened state tore at her insides. Her steps slowed as she wondered how she was going to explain this to Dr. Hardeman. As a licensed and trained professional he couldn't very well just believe her if she abruptly declared she was sane. Not after her absurd confession. She attempted to contemplate other problems afflicting her, like why was someone after _her _of all people_, _and only succeeded in coming away with the onset of a headache. Maybe it was best not to think about such upsetting things.

"A sanctuary. A place where we train and prepare away from the eyes of our enemies."

"We as in demon hunters, yes?" Whitley didn't think she could handle seeing any more supernatural beings tonight.

"We prefer the lexeme Shadowhunter."

"_Shadow_hunter?"

"Do you have a problem with that as well?" To her surprise Jace sounded more resigned than exasperated. As if he was beginning to get used to her boundless questions and skepticism. Then again he seems to be adept at masking his emotions. As someone who can school their features in the blink of an eye, he's frustratingly difficult to read.

"No. It's a broader term that I presume fits your purposes." They rounded a corner together and he stopped. Before them stood a building erected from wood, iron and stone. Masonry such as pointed arched windows, pinnacles and flying buttresses instantly identified it as a house of worship. The word sanctuary was apparently extremely apt. Identical to cathedrals and churches around the city, its gothic architecture was at odds with the modern edifices around it. Despite being shaken up from her recent demonic encounters, Whitley marveled at its grandeur. _Eerie yet beautiful._ Next to her Jace reached beneath the collar of his shirt and retrieved a brass key. "I assume this is hallowed ground." There was no way it couldn't be. Even if none of the customary signs were in place—the achromatic dwelling didn't bear any crosses, nor did the glass depict any sacred Christian deity's—she didn't think these Shadowhunters would be an unprepared people in their fight against demons.

"You assume correctly. Its built protective spells to keep out our adversaries."

"Like Downworlders?" She asked, thinking of another peculiar word she'd heard. "Is that a different word for demons?"

"No. To the uninformed Downworlder's and demons are often one and the same, but the former have souls. This bars us from gravely injuring them. It's the nicest term one can use for them. I'm certain they use less courteous ones for us." He fit the key in the lock and the door swung open to reveal a tenebrous entryway. Jace led the way up a staircase and Whitley paused for a moment to examine symbols etched into smooth stone. If this much consideration had gone into a fixture as simple as stairs, she could only imagine what the rest of the interior was like. A few steps above her Jace stopped, "Do you want to see if I'm telling the truth about Clary or not?"

"Right, sorry." She followed him towards an elevator at top. The ride up was wrapped in silence, only the earsplitting screech of gears beneath them audible. A black gate creaked open and they stepped out onto a marble foyer, footsteps echoing in the large corridor. The hall in front of them had high ornate vaulted ceilings and statues of angels inlaid on the walls. Her mother had wanted to take her here. Why?

"After you've seen Clary, I'll take you to Hodge."

"Hodge? Is he your leader?"

"Tutor. He's watching over the Institute while Maryse and Robert are in Idris." Whitley filed those names away for future questioning as door opened in the distance. Two figures emerged and came closer, both tall and slim.

"Jace!" The shorter shadow shouted as it came closer, voice distinctly female. A reed like girl passed in front of a window and Whitley saw that she was quite stunning. A wealth of long, straight jet black hair tumbled over her shoulders and down her back. Her ivory skin was flawless and she looks at Jace with dark eyes the same shade of brown as rich soil. "Where have you—" She cut off as she noticed Whitley. "Who's this? Please don't tell me you felt the need to bring another mundane here." She says, tone slightly biting.

Previously said girl fidgeted awkwardly under her probing stare. "I'm Whitley."

"She's a Shadowhunter Isabelle." Jace said by way of explanation.

_I am?_ Whitley queried inwardly. Too startled by his suggestion to object, she listlessly supposed that would make sense. But that would solely depend on how Shadowhunter's came to be. She definitely couldn't recall any memories of such a life, so a connection to these people seemed unlikely. Her lips thinned with vexation as ire coursed through her. What else had been hidden from her?

Isabelle caught sight of the mark on the back of Whitley's hand and visibly relaxed, but the unidentified boy behind her still appeared cautious. Isabelle glanced in Jace's direction, countenance portraying annoyance. "Were starving. You were supposed to bring back food, not another Shadowhunter."

Jace shrugged dismissively, though the humor in his eyes was evident. "I aim to impress." He started towards the hallway and Whitley took that as the cue to follow him. But her attention wasn't on Jace. It was on the boy behind Isabelle, easily the tallest of the triumvirate. As was the case with most relatives, siblings assumedly, the resemblance between him and Isabelle could effortlessly be seen.

Equally arresting as she, if not more, with his classically handsome face. His fair complexion and dark hair magnified the only variance. His eyes—which were even darker than sapphires, a brilliant cobalt blue—observed her openly with suspicion. "What Institute do you hail from? Why are you here?"

Unsure of how to respond to the question, Whitley shifted hesitantly. "I-"

Jace's face stilled and grew uncharacteristically serious. "The answer to that isn't simple, Alec."

Obviously this was the last thing Alec wanted to hear. His demeanor settled into one of congested indignation. "Well make it simple. We don't need any more complications. There's already a dying mundane in the infirmary—"

At this information Whitley felt her body tense. Her gaze darted to Jace, jaw clamped tight. "You said she was fine."

"I lied." He stated brazenly, unabashed. "A word Alec." His visage showed faint amusement, which quickly turned into something else as he pulled the boy off to the side and Whitley swiftly averted her eyes. While the conversation they were having didn't give off the impression of being heated, it had underlying tension. Her eyes landed on Isabelle, who is surveying her with something that Whitley doesn't know how to describe. Only that it looks like she isn't sure what to make of her.

Something brushed against Whitley's legs and she instinctively jerked away from the foreign sensation. She looked down to see a chubby Persian cat peering at her with yellow eyes. As someone who wasn't a pet person Whitley's hackles rose. Her past experiences with domestic animals were not good ones. She glanced at the cat again, it didn't look like it wanted to sink its nails into her flesh. Compelled by some strange force she picked the tabby up gingerly and when it didn't resist, brought into the circle of her arms. It pawed at her pendant as her fingers wove through its coarse pelt and she took comfort in the warmth it emitted. Feeling eyes on her, she raised her own to see the three Shadowhunter's staring at her with expressions similar to shock. "What?"

"You're holding him." Alec said dubiously, as if that should elucidate everything.

"Yes… isn't that what you normally do with pets?" The staring persisted and Whitley thrusted the cat outward. "Does he have ticks? Scabies?" She scanned the cat's blue tinted fur and hastily set it down, vainly wiping her palms on her dress.

Jace recovered first. "No, he just normally doesn't like being held. Even the smallest of touches on a good day requires a great deal of coaxing."

"Oh." That _was_ strange. Why would he let a complete stranger hold him then? "What's his name?"

"Church."

"Wow." She remarked dryly. "You Shadowhunter's aren't a very creative bunch are you? What did you do, name him after the first thing you saw?"

"Don't look at us. He had his name long before we met him." Jace said as Alec walked towards the elevator.

"Where are you going?" Isabelle asked her brother.

"I'm going for a walk and I'm going to do what Jace failed to." He pressed the call button for the lift with barely suppressed agitation and Isabelle glided near him, brows drawing together in concern.

She placed a hand on his back. "I'll go with you."

"Wait." Whitley reached into her blazer and pulled out some of the cash Luca had given her when she'd left the party. She extended the wad of bills in Alec's direction and he eyed them speculatively. "It's my fault he didn't get anything."

"Keep it." He said curtly as the gate closed with a definitive creak.

Disheartened Whitley lowered the bills and pocketed them. Jace stared after the siblings with an unreadable expression before heading down the passageway. Ignoring the sour taste in her mouth she followed mutely, Church at her heels. Astoundingly, the interior resembled a hotel more than a church. She'd expected pews, people in clerical vestments and heaven themed stained glass windows. Not dozens of empty rooms. New York City was a vast labyrinth filled with noisy people and streets. Its landscape was unapologetically urban. Colossal monoliths of concrete, glass and steel that soared out of the ground in no particular paradigm. Though she would always prefer life in a modest, less crowded setting, there were certain things she loved about the city. Like only needing a metro card to travel and meeting interesting individuals from all walks of life. In comparison to such vibrancy the Institute was cold… desolate. Why was it so empty?

Absently Whitley trails after her companion, who stays a few paces ahead of her, nimbly steering around corners. They stopped at an open doorway and she was greeted by a room that had angelic emblems painted on the walls. One was a motif on the ceiling of birds and cherubs gliding through the clouds. Most likely painted during a period when artists couldn't stop depicting their interpretation of heaven. In various portions of the room sat iron railed beds placed in rows on either side of the room. Clary lay tucked in one these, small body seemingly frail and freckled face sporting bruises. Red hair a stark contrast against her insipid pallor and the white bedspread. "What happened to her?" Whitley whispered horror struck.

"Ravener demon."

"Ravener?"

"Ugly little insectile demon with a barbed tail and lethal venom."

Whitley shuddered at the description, certain what she was picturing didn't hold a candle to what it actually looked like. She glanced at Clary again and released the breath she'd been holding as she noticed the movements of her chest. She was breathing, which meant her heart was beating. That was something at least; a small mercy. Jace hadn't been completely lying after all, Whitley believed Clary was as fine as one could be in her situation. Still, any trust they'd established was gone. "What now?" She asked, knowing he'd kept up his end of the bargain.

"This way." Jace led her through another series of corridors and they reached the base of a different set of stairs. Moonlight shone through high windows above and Whitley could see the intricate plant designs carved into the teak wood of a pair of double doors. Jace opened one and familiar smells surrounded her; the fragrance of summer grasses and spring flowers. The gentle scents kindled memories of summers spent running through parks as a child. Whitley clung to those memories as one would to a life preserver in a stormy sea as they entered an atrium. Astonishment gripped her as she recognized it as a greenhouse, one which in scale resembled a garden. Like the one her mother used to tend to.

It was beautiful. Rows of multifarious plants and trees as far as the eye could see. When she'd moved to the city, its smells had been alien to her and its chaotic, prevalent scents put her on edge. She'd spent her first few days here curled up in bed. And it'd been like she was fighting off a cold or stomach virus every six weeks. In the long run she hadn't minded as much as she used to, her immune system was better for it.

Yet part of her would always miss the fresh tinge to the breeze, the heady warning in the air when rain was due from an overcast sky. Strong odors and the fumes from light pollution suppressed anything natural. But now it came sharply into focus and eighteen months of smelling stale air had her inhaling greedily. The condensation was thick as she breathed it in, coating the inside of her throat. A pang of longing twists through her. For a moment she worried it would ebb away like it always did and be replaced with something foul, but to her great relief the sweet vivid aromas remained. With each step forward the temperature rose. She both heard and felt the steady hum of a heater beneath her feet. Just walking through the humid and nearly oppressive air, she could feel moisture clinging to her clothes.

A thin man stood between neatly trimmed grass beds in the back, well-groomed appearance suggesting that he was confident. In spite of this, there was an unmistakable air of loneliness and sadness about his tall figure. His dark hair, sideburns and temples were streaked through with grey, hinting at his age. Incisive, studious eyes of the same colour, much like her own, focused intently on their task. As Whitley reached out and touched the leaves of a nearby biennial Jace addressed him firmly. "Hodge."

Hodge looked up and all traces of vulnerability vanished. Whitley saw the paternal fretfulness that briefly crossed his face. As well as the thick scar marring the right side of it. "Jace." His eyes cut to Whitley. "Is this?"

"Yes."

Hodge set down the pair of gardening pliers he'd been using and smiled at her, mien somewhat beleaguered but not unkind. He extended a calloused, tapered hand. "Pleasure to meet you."

Whitley met the smile unconsciously and took the offered hand. "I'm sorry to say that the feeling isn't mutual." If someone had told her two months ago that demons were real, she would have questioned their sanity. Now she had to stop herself from once more questioning her own. It felt like she was in a hazy and lucid dream, stuck somewhere between reality and fantasy. Uncertainty riddled her, for to her this Shadow World was a world of not knowing what would come next, of not knowing what is normal and what's not.

"Understandable. But it's not every day we encounter others outside our world with the Sight. Naturally there will be some upheaval." Hodge gathered some of the wheatgrass he'd harvested and dropped it in a glass jar, making for the stairs. "Follow me."

* * *

They ended up in the library. Upon seeing row upon row of shelves of neatly shelved tomes with their gilded spines facing outward, excitement enshrouded Whitley. She yearned to pore assiduously through their leather bound contents. Having momentarily forgotten herself, a soft caw brought her back to earth. She gawked at the raven perched on the edge of a desk in the center of the floor. Its black eyes bore into her inquisitively as it shifted, ebony kaleidoscopic plumage catching the light's rays. It stares at her curiously, stance steady and sure. It tilts its head here and there in slight graceful movements before it buries its beak in its feathers and begins preening.

"Hugo." Hodge greeted the avian and sat behind his work space, which was home to a mess of papers, stationary and bulky books. As Jace gives a quick recount of the night's events, Whitley shivers from a chill present in the air. She moves closer to the dwindling fire in the nearby gated hearth for warmth and finds herself studying the patterned inlay in the floor. Vaguely she recognized the patterns as that of constellations. Recalling her mother's astronomy lessons, her gaze traveled from one dot to another and distinct shapes emerged. The sturdy bow of Orion, the elegant wings of Phoenix, the supple feline form of Lynx…. The familiarity of it all infused some aplomb in her and she was grounded. "Couldn't help yourself could you?" Hodge said, pulling her out of her reverie. His manner indicated they'd had this conversation before.

"I didn't seek her out purposefully Hodge." Jace said, brushing off his tutor's rebuke. "The warlock was clearly up to something, you can't fault me for following him. And it's a good thing I did find her, inexperienced and skittish as he was, he's answering to someone. Someone that's after her."

"Do you know why this person might be after you?" Hodge inquired, regarding her with eyes hooded like those of a hawk.

"I'm as baffled as you are." She said candidly. "Before today I wasn't even aware demons existed."

Hodge sat up at that and Hugo took the opportunity to rest on his master's left shoulder. The educator reached up to stroke the birds head, expression one of rumination. "Most curious."

"That's another thing Hodge. I think her memories have been altered."

Hodge and Whitley's brows rose simultaneously. "And what would make you think that?" She asked incredulously. If he was going to claim parts of her life were a lie, she'd like to know why.

"The rune on the back of your hand for one. And your utter lack of knowledge on Shadow World for two."

"Couldn't my _utter_ lack of knowledge just as easily be because I'm not a Shadowhunter?" She looked at Hodge imploringly, certain he'd be the voice of reason here. "Is there any way your marks can replicated somehow—magic? That exists in your world, right? It's how your runes and glamour work?" The words came out of her at an alarming rate but she couldn't help it. The idea of being a Shadowhunter and all it entailed did not appeal to her. In fact it terrified her, like so many things in this world did.

Sensing her internal plight, Hodge stared at Whitley sympathetically but absolute credence shone in his eyes. "Yes, our runes can be replicated. But we have precautions in place, unless they were put there by an angelic hand and stele, they won't work. And a simulated Voyance rune doubtless wouldn't give an unseeing mundane the Sight. You _have_ to be born with it. Marks merely enhance what's already there and a mundane cannot bear them. They will surely fall to madness if they try."

Whilst he said this something in Whitley broke. Trembling, she collapsed into one of the chairs in front of him. As heaviness settles in her chest Jace spoke. "Show us your arms."

At his weird request she spun to face him, countenance growing more stricken. "Why do you want to see my arms?" She questioned, thinking about her scar.

"Though you've shown no signs of training, there's an additional way to be certain you've led the life of a Shadowhunter. Our kind have more than a few unique battle scars and our arms are one of the first places we put runes."

"You don't think I would have noticed these scars?" She shot back, more than a little unsettled by the thought of showing someone the objectionable blemish. The only people that had seen it were her and medical staff. And she'd been rightfully out of it during the inspection.

"Not if you've only recently acquired the Sight."

Never one to dismiss sensible logic, Whitley fell silent and stared indecisively down at her right arm. "Fine." She said reluctantly. _Best to get this over with. _She yanked her left sleeve up, as she'd expected the skin there was clean and relatively blemish free. Save for one birthmark and two long healed scars.

"Now the other one." Jace prodded and she resisted the urge to glare at him. With a shaking hand she slowly pulled her right sleeve up, displaying the damaged tissue. Immediately she pulled it back down, face a mask of stone.

"There." She said, voice breathless and tight. "Happy?"

"No need to be ashamed." Hodge said, voice holding something infinitely compassionate. "Like he said, we all have our scars." Silence descended upon them and Whitley sagged against the armchairs hassock, mind benumbed and body weary. This cross-examination and the night's events were starting to take their toll on her. Exhaustion seeped into every pore. Through sonorous ears she heard Hodge speak, "I think that's enough excitement for tonight."

Light headed Whitley looked up at him. "Are you sure?"

"I'm certain this is quite the taxing ordeal for you. And your health is more important than information. We'll continue this in the morning."

Grateful, she stood up, holding the back of her chair for support. "So I can go home then?" Though she definitely wouldn't get any sleep, it would be nice to lay down in her bed.

"That would not be wise. You're in danger and night is prime hunting time for demons. Here you'll be safe."

Too tired to disagree, she made way for the door, distantly aware of Jace behind her. The floodgates she'd closed to lock away her emotions bursted open. Time seemingly slowed down for her and numbness set in. She could barely make sense of anything that had occured. The floor beneath her disappeared and it was hard to make out the details of her surroundings. She staggered backward, mind whirling as she fell into a heap on the floor. Darkness engulfed her.


	7. Hunters of Shadow

_A/n: Sincerest apologies for taking so long—over a year, yikes!—to get this update to you. Despite having most of this fic planned out, writers block still managed to take hold of me. I also tend to get swept away by ten different other ideas, heh… But I was determined to get this update to you all today. Thanks to all who followed, favorited and reviewed during my lengthy absence. And to those who stayed during it, words cannot accurately express how grateful I am for your patience, but know it is much appreciated. _

_By the way, the quote below should be credited to the Greek poet Homer. But I choose not to cite him because I amended it to fit more than one person. Therefore it felt wrong to ascribe what isn't quite his original meaning. Nonetheless, onward to chapter 7!_

* * *

**HUNTERS OF SHADOW**

**_"They are but hunters of shadow, themselves a shade._****_" _**

When Whitley wakes it isn't to the muted expanse of the library. Instead it is to pale sunlight piercing her eyes, signaling the arrival of dawn. Instantly she shoots up from the bed she's positioned in, the events of last night jerking her into full consciousness.

_How long have I been out?_ she wonders idly, before gasping and clutching her head. Now acutely aware of a sharp pain in it, she blinked away the last dregs of sleep and examined the room around her through bleary eyes. Like others she'd gotten a glimpse of, it was austere in design. Empty save for the bed, nightstand and wardrobe, it was completely nondescript and impersonal. As she perceived the buzzing drone of an old radiator, slight movement out the corner of her vision drew her attention to the foot of the mattress. Astonishment seized her when she saw Church curled up there, having succumbed to the Sandman.

Quelling frightful images lingering in the back of her mind—results of yet another nightmare—she unsteadily rose to her feet. Careful not to jostle the slumbering feline, she cautiously starts to explore the room further.

She opens one of two doors, finding a simple bathroom and flicks on the light switch. Immediately she noticed that it was occupied by nothing but the bare necessities: a bar of soap and a few towels. Seeing her makeup smeared features in the mirror, she hastily grabbed one, scrutinizing herself disapprovingly as she soaked the cloth. What had she been thinking? Her melancholic stupor and dubiety had made her desperate. She should have stayed home as she'd been doing every day for the past few weeks. Surely then she wouldn't have found herself in this predicament.

Wiping her face until it was utterly devoid of the substance, she frowns. The fatigue settled in pockets under her eyes had grown a tad less prominent thankfully. Though that doesn't stop her from touching them absently before pinching a stray strand of hair. Presently resembling something between a haystack and tumbleweed, it was wild as it had ever been. Indisputably due to her time in the greenhouse and a rather unpleasant bout of tossing and turning. Crouching, she searched cabinets below the sink for an article to hold it back with. In a stroke of luck, she found a thin rubber band behind an empty container of cleaning detergent and fastened it carefully round the untamed mass. Stepping back, the only thing that couldn't be helped, sadly, was her clothes. Being wrinkled and rumpled as they were did her no favors.

Frown deepening, Whitley chooses to ignore this lesser trouble as she exits the lavatory. Spotting a now awake Church sitting by a door to what could only be the hallway, she turned the knob and stepped out—skin prickling from a sudden drop in temperature. Unfamiliar with the winding passages, she ventured here and there for a moment before stopping in exasperation. Attempting to remember the route Jace had taken her the evening prior, she surveyed the area around her for anything remotely recognizable. Seeing nothing, she took shoes she'd barely become accustomed to off her feet, and let her inmost concerns surface as she diffidently continued onward. Did she even know where she wanted to go?

_Home_, flittered across her awareness instinctively, but she quickly forced herself to oust the idea. With someone after it wasn't as safe and secure as it should be. Her stomach knotted as she considered her father. Would he be in danger merely because he was close to her? Did the same apply to her friends?

The very real possibility of losing someone else she loved so soon abhorred her, and as a result of her troubling cogitations, she struggled yet still to make sense of the Institute's huge layout. She paused for a second time and Church bumped into her ankles, tactlessly reminding her of his presence.

Hesitantly, Whitley reaches out and rubs his ears, receiving an appreciative purr in return. "I assume _you_ know where you're going?"

She didn't expect any sort of helpful response, but her words had undeniably spurred one. The cat begins walking leisurely ahead of her and Whitley follows somewhat diligently, faintly diverted by the pomposity in his small strides. They came across another door and Church pawed and clawed at it lightly, seemingly turning it into his own personal scratching post. Alarmed, Whitley started to pull him away from it just as it opened.

She was surprised when it swung in to reveal Jace, who grinned at her roguishly, demeanor the very definition of amusement.

"Well look who it is, our resident Christine." Smirk growing wider, he leaned against the door frame casually. "What brings you to my door? Wait, don't tell me. You were so dazzled by my attractiveness that I had to be one of the first things you see." He sighed theatrically. "No one can blame you of course. I _am_ a sight to behold."

Nonplussed by his words, Whitley swiftly felt her mind start to go blank. Struggling to form a response, she wondered how someone could be conceited to near capacity before finally managing to string her thoughts together. Not wanting to risk inadvertently stroking his already inflated ego, her gaze returned to Church. "You couldn't have brought me to anyone else? _Anyone_?" she stressed, thinking of Alec, and his blatant rebuff of her.

Seemingly unaffected by her discontentment, the cat slowly but surely wandered elsewhere. _Traitor, _Whitley thought witheringly, watching him depart.

Jace straightened, expression one of offense. "I'm not good enough?"

"No," she said bluntly and, admittedly, churlishly. It was safe to say she didn't care for those who were overly confident. This fact did not stop her from trying to curb the juvenile satisfaction she felt when something akin to surprise registered on his face. Being humbled, or something close to it, must not happen to him often. "Where can I find Hodge?" The tutor seemed the most experienced and reasonably clear headed of the group. Maybe he could assuage her worries and impart wisdom on her.

"I suspect in one of his regular haunts. The library or greenhouse. Why?"

"I need to talk to him, why else?" She started for the conservatory, liking the idea of being around nature in the morning. Perhaps Hodge did as well.

"Do you even know which way to go?" Jace asked righteously.

Whitley didn't break stride. It was far too early to deal with a person of his caliber. Resolute she said, "No, but Church appears a reliable guide. If not, I'm sure I'll come across it sooner or later."

As she rounded a corner Jace spoke again, voice infuriatingly close. She turned to find him right behind her. "Are you really going to wander the Institute aimlessly just to spite me?"

Combating the childish urge to say yes, Whitley opted for honesty. "Of course not. You're simply that insufferable," she stated, crossing her arms rather defensively. Silently, she pleaded he go elsewhere.

Jace simply smiled. "I've been called worse."

Maddeningly undeterred by her surliness, he fell into step beside her and made way towards what was likely only be the greenhouse. As he obviously wasn't going to leave her anytime soon, Whitley grudgingly followed. But this didn't stop her from attempting to rid herself of her absurdly vain companion once more. "Don't you have a bed to return to? Sheep to count and what not?" she asked, taking in his sleeping garments. They didn't look nearly as rumpled as her present attire. And despite his bright blond hair showing signs of the shifting that normally came with rest, his nightclothes decidedly did not. Had he not slept?

Jace smiled in reply and looked back at her, an ever teasing glint in his eyes. "I'll have you know I keep firm track of my livestock." He began walking in reverse, expertly changing the subject. "Are you always this cranky during the day? You were much different last night. An inquisitive but decorous girl. I'll miss her," he said, tone caustically wistful.

"If I seem different or ornery it's because I'm no longer completely flabbergasted. And you didn't know me before… this." _Before I knew demons and crude monsters roamed the earth._ Gesturing to the space around them, a stubborn smidgen of her persistently hoped this was all some horribly vivid dream. It was an inane, pointless hope—a thing with feathers, a treacherous blade that stabbed her again and again—but a strong one nonetheless. "For all you know I could be the world's most obnoxious person."

Jace laughed facetiously. "Well..."

Now thoroughly irritated, Whitley rubbed her temples. Mercifully the pain in her head had begun to dull. Yet she would grimace when it reared every now and again, feeling like a ship without a sail.

They entered the greenhouse and she savored the clean, unsullied air whilst her eyes sought out Hodge. She found him sitting on a stone bench by a small, clear pond. Face distant and solemn as he stared down at an object in his hand. At their approach he pocketed it, pensive appearance smoothing over into something more convivial.

"Glad to see you're awake. You had us quite worried. We'd hate to have another bedridden girl in our midst."

"I'm sorry," she said contritely. "I've never passed out before." Distantly, she was embarrassed that she hadn't lasted very long during their line of questioning.

Jace piped up from his position near a large colony of muguet's. "I wouldn't be so quick to label the act as passing out. When most faint they wake within minutes."

Hodge nodded his head in agreement, placing his hands in the pockets of his suit. "He's correct. The length of your insensibility was unexpected." His sharp gaze landed on the circles under her eyes. "Tell me. Have you been sleeping as of late?"

Normally, she would've resisted answering such a question but as a result of how gentle his probing was, she spoke without pretense. "No. These days my dreams are every bit as daunting as the waking world."

At her confession Hodge frowned, a touch of empathy intersecting his visage. "May I inquire as to why?"

Whitley bit the inside of her cheek, scarcely stopping her mind from entering the tumultuous dark space it so often traversed lately. Haltingly, she forced herself to say, "It's believed that I have PTSD. Or some variant of it."

Understanding dawned on Hodge's face. "That would explain your blackout. I apologize if we caused you any undue stress."

She smiled thinly. "No need. I came here of my own volition. I knew what that could possibly entail." She glanced at Jace, who had fallen strangely silent behind her. "Though a certain someone wasn't exactly forthright."

Jace blinked at her, seemingly coming back to himself. His eyes bore into her momentarily, countenance unusually ruminative. But once he notices the trajectory of her gaze, it quickly shifts into a contrived nonchalance. "My little falsehood was necessary. You wouldn't have come otherwise."

In reply to his factual statement, she regarded him blankly before the sound of flapping wings brought her eyes to Hugo circling overhead. He landed gracefully next to her, eating a handful of berries that Whitley presumed had been laid out for him. She found herself watching the feathered creature—wary of its beady eyes—then looked back at Hodge. Suddenly recalling what he'd said last night, her expression became one of curiosity. "You said that runes only work when placed by an angelic hand. Does that mean…?" Her near addled brain finally connected the dots and she trailed off, uncertain as to whether she still wanted the question answered. Using terms like demons and angels in a serious context would take some getting used to. If she stayed around long enough to do so, that is. Though at this point she supposed she didn't have much choice in the matter.

Hodge faced her fully, wire rimmed glasses slightly askew. "I assume you've heard of Nephilim."

"Certainly." At the term she dredged up one of the few Bible passages she'd read. _The Nephilim were on the earth in those days, and also afterward, when the sons of God came in to the daughters of men, and they bore children to them. Those were the mighty men who were of old, men of renown._ "Products of a union between angels and men." Though there was some contest as to whether these so called "sons of God" were indeed divine messengers, it was generally assumed to be the case. At least artistic license wise.

"Accurate. But the truth is not as definite as that."

"Well you obviously aren't giants," she interjected, remembering the Hebrew interpretation of the word.

Hodge chuckled wryly. "Obviously not. What I mean is, we are in fact descendants of a union between angels and men, but not by the traditional means of which mundanes think."

Perplexed, Whitley frowned. "What other way is there?" she asked obtusely, before concluding that his impending explanation might be a good thing. Being bombarded with secret after secret—skeleton after skeleton—in such a short span was harrowing to say the least. Inward a tempest of emotions started to rage, but she chooses to hold it in. A visceral reaction wouldn't be of much help to her now. And the one person Whitley felt she could be angry at was no longer here. Dully, she blinks away bitter tears beginning to form in her eyes.

"The Mortal Cup," Hodge informed her evenly. "Gifted to us by the angel Raziel, it enables us to make more of our kind. Those who drink from it and survive ascension become Shadowhunters."

"It's possible not to survive?" she asked, paling at the enormity of this information.

"Certain attributes factor into survival: strength, resilience, age. The risks for undergoing ascension are very high."

"Evidently," she said, brain working overtime as she wondered if these risks were worth it. Dying for the mere _chance_ of being a Shadowhunter seemed a little skewed rationally, but she stopped herself from truly questioning it. There were doubtless some details she was missing. And perhaps all Shadowhunters believed ridding the world of demons and other threats was worthy of such a risk. A gallant standpoint; one she distantly admired. But it was one she thought should only be good in theory not practice.

Hodge studied her face astutely. Honing in on the leeriness displayed there. "It's not as careless as I make it sound. Extensive testing is done in an effort to ensure survival. It isn't an infallible process of course, but we Shadowhunters aren't a negligent people."

_That remains to be seen_, thought Whitley. Aporetic as ever, an image of the debilitated Clary came to her and she shifted restlessly. "Has Clary woken up yet?"

Belatedly Whitley asked herself why she was focusing on her. Was it because it's natural for her to worry about the welfare of those around her? Or could there be a deeper reason? Clary was the only familiar thing in this recondite world. Thus the need to ensure her well-being could stem from the fear of absolute seclusion in an untried setting rather than altruism. But regardless of the rationale, it was decidedly better than succumbing to her head's increasingly bothersome stream of consciousness. Perhaps focusing on someone else's problems could help her forget her own for the moment.

"No. Her body's still fighting the venom. Give her another day or two."

"But she _will_ wake up, right?"

"Exposure to demonic pathogens garners various results, especially in mundanes. Sadly, death is the most common."

"You're saying it's impossible."

For the first time since she'd known him, Hodge appeared uncertain. "Not necessarily. It should be—mundanes aren't equipped to survive encounters with the infernal. But she has shown an astonishing amount of resilience for one."

At his remark, Jace made a strange sound—as if disagreeing with the sentiment—but didn't actually comment.

Preoccupied by pragmatic thoughts, Whitley choose not to address him. "What are you going to do if she doesn't wake up? Is there a way to notify her mother without revealing yourselves?" she inquired, picturing the copper haired woman with whom Clary shared a likeness. She'd only met Mrs. Fray once at Java Jones, but could easily imagine how distraught she must be. Surely she—as well as Simon—had reported Clary missing by now.

"I'm afraid not," Hodge said. "Even so, it would be a futile endeavor. Clary's mother is nowhere to be found."

"She's missing?" Whitley's heart contracted at that.

"It would appear so. Their home was ransacked."

Remembering how Jace said Clary had received her wounds, and his description of what had attacked her, Whitley promptly shuddered. "And do demons normally pillage homes?" If so, it seemed an odd disposition. What need could demons possibly have for mundane possessions?

Hodge seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "No. This seems to be a special occurrence."

"Any idea why?"

"None. Hopefully Clary can give us more insight," Hodge stated. Walking the length of the room, he eventually turned to her once again, face a marble effigy of thought. "I'd like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind."

Whitley shifted, expression abundantly cautious but said, "Go ahead." Hopefully she wouldn't pass out this time.

At her assent, Hodge reached into his breast pocket, hand coming away with something silver. As it gleamed dully there in his palm, Whitley noted absently that it didn't look anything like the item she'd seen him holding minutes ago, before her body went rigid. She recognized it. Recognized the dark stain on the inside of it.

Blood. _Her_ blood.


End file.
