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Chapter Text

If they weren't here celebrating Clary's first completed month of art school, Clary thinks she'd be more likely to feel bad that the tall boy with fair hair and tawny eyes is flirting with her instead of Simon, when her best friend has been indiscreetly checking the guy out since he first walked into the club.

As it is, she accepts another Cherry Coke from the blond guy and smiles at him, ducking her head a little so she can peek up at him from under her eyelashes.

She doesn't have to look at Simon, still at her side, to guess that he's rolling his eyes at her. She kicks him in the side of the leg with the toe of her Converse.

“Simon?” she says, smiling with put-on kindness. “It's sweet of you to stick around, but you don't have to hang out with me all night, you know. I'll be okay if you want to go dance.”

Simon hates dancing.

By the look he's giving her, right this second he might hate her just about as much.

“Oh,” he says sarcastically. “Really? It's okay if I go dance?”

Clary nods at him, her sweet smile still in place.

The smile Simon gives her in return is far less sweet. “Great,” he says. “Thanks so much, Clary.” But he's a good friend, and she doubts he'll mind finding a corner in which to play on his phone, anyway, so he goes. “I'll see you in a few hours, okay?” he says.

“Great,” Clary tells him. She looks back to the blond guy, giving him a shy little smile. Maybe if he seems like an okay dude and she gets his number, she'll give it to Simon. It's not like she wants anything more involved than some flirting and a little making out, anyway. Right now, her plan is to focus on school, her art, and enjoying the next few years with her mom, Luke, and Simon while she's still in New York before her future takes her wherever it will.

“So it's Clary, huh?” the blond guy says. He's not smiling, but there's a sort of spark in his eyes that makes him look faintly amused. “Pretty name.”

“Thanks,” Clary says. Coke in one hand, she reaches out with the other to touch his forearm. He's made it clear he's interested, but he's been letting her initiate all of their contact. Clary leans in a little closer, speaking towards his ear over the thump of the music. “Wanna dance?” she asks.

He grins at her, a predator's smile full of white teeth. “Absolutely,” he says, and lets her tug him towards the dance floor.

It is seven forty-eight in the morning, Clary has class in twelve minutes, her head is pounding and her eyelids feel gluey, and two weeks into her second month of school, she's about ready to give up.

Okay—truthfully, she knows that giving up is not her best option. Classes are hard, but not bad-hard: if she stopped staying up too late with Simon watching geeky movies until neither of them could keep their eyes open anymore, she wouldn't feel so much like death every Monday morning.

She manages to get her arms through the sleeves of a t-shirt, and she only puts her jeans on backwards once before she gets it right.

She pauses in her rush to class, trying to untangle her hair with her fingers, only to buy herself a Venti mocha from the coffee stand outside her dorm.

She manages to keep her eyes open through lecture. Mostly. She even takes some notes.

She drains her coffee, eats some cereal from a bag in her backpack. She has a paper to write before the end of the week, so she walks from class to the nearest coffee shop where she can sit and plug in her laptop.

She considers buying another coffee, but resists the temptation. Her hands are already more jittery than she'll admit to out loud.

She is halfway through her cup of tea and not nearly as far into her paper when the loud click of high heeled boots approaches her table, a startled, liltingly accented voice says, “Oh, goodness,” and a paper cup full of coffee lands on its side on Clary's table and bubbles rich liquid through the lid as a girl catches herself mid-trip, one hand on Clary's table, the other on the back of Clary's chair.

Clary is effectively boxed-in by the girl's arms. The girl is tall, has long, dark hair, and is wearing tight black jeans, insane heels, and a tight, short tank top that allows Clary a fabulous view of her muscled arms. When she smiles at Clary, not bothering to straighten and retreat, her nose crinkles, her grin full of teeth.

“Oh, gosh,” she says, still smiling. Slowly, her movements lazy and graceful and almost reluctant, she pushes herself away from Clary, standing solidly on her own two ridiculously-heeled feet. “I'm sorry.”

She picks up her coffee cup before it can leak any more—it missed Clary's laptop entirely, thank God, and the mess isn't even that big.

“Oh!” Clary says. “That's okay. It doesn't look like you did any damage.” She glances at her still-working laptop screen, then smiles at the girl.

“I'll go get some napkins,” the girl says. As she looks at Clary, her smile doesn't fade a watt. She speaks every word slowly and deliberately, and she walks the same way. Her hips sway a little with each step. Clary tries not to stare, but—wow. The girl walks and dresses and looks how Clary always wishes she could: in a way that makes it impossible not to be drawn to her.

The girl comes back with a handful of napkins and smile that oozes confidence. Dropping the napkins onto the sticky puddle of coffee, she sits in the chair across the small table from Clary.

Clary blinks. She closes her laptop, because it seems impolite to have it open between them.

Her phone buzzes beside her laptop on the table, and that seems impolite, too. With a wince and an apologetic smile, Clary swipes her phone open.

She scowls at the message she sees.

It's from that blond guy from the club: he seems really interested, even though Clary thought she'd been dropping plenty of hints about not wanting anything serious. She feels a little bad, but—she's just really not looking for a relationship right now. And he really seems to be.

“Something wrong?” the tall girl asks, her pretty features pulled by faint concern.

“Oh, just—a guy I met,” Clary says, setting down her phone and waving away the concern.

“Ah,” the girl says, nodding. Her smile has returned. “Boys, huh?” She dabs at the table with the now wet wad of napkins, not really doing anything but spreading the mess around. “Just can't take no for an answer, can they?”

“No, I guess not,” Clary agrees, exasperated.

“If I had any tricks I would share them with you,” the girl says, looking amused, “but even when I tell them I'm gay, they won't go away.”

With that, she pushes herself up from the table, her tongue between her teeth in her smile and her eyes glittering with amusement, and strides away. She leaves Clary sitting there, blinking, wondering if such a tall, sexy goddess really just flirted with her.

She doesn't finish that damn paper.

Clary has really got to stop spending so much time watching nerdy movies with Simon. If she spends one more weeknight marathoning the Captain America movies or allowing herself to be dragged to another late evening showing of The Force Awakens, there's a very good chance she's not going to pass her classes.

Thursday afternoon finds her bustling into her go-to coffee shop again, determined that this time, she'll grab some caffeine, sit down, and let nothing, not even a super cute girl whose flirting must be immediately discussed with Simon via text, distract her from finishing her stupid Art History paper.

Her resolve is tested almost as soon as she pushes through the glass doors.

Super-cute flirty girl is there.

Clary steps into line behind her, her heart beating quickly and her mouth dry. Suddenly anxious about her paint-splattered clothes and her tied back hair, she reaches up to adjust her bangs, grateful she'd at least curled them this morning before she left her dorm. Should she have put on more makeup? Oh, God, what if it shows that she hasn't been getting enough sleep?

Hot Flirty Girl glances back while Clary is still fidgeting with her appearance, straightening the hem of her t-shirt nervously. At least she pulled on a white t-shirt that's more fitted than most she owns, but still. Flirty Girl is wearing tight black leggings and a jacket not fully zipped so that it shows her elegant blue sports bra—and kind of a lot of boob.

Ah, and now that she's spotted Clary, she also wears a smile.

“Hey!” she says. Her voice is smooth and soft-edged and pleased. “You're the girl I nearly spilled my coffee on!”

Clary gives a little wave and smile. “That's me,” she says.

“I should make it up to you,” the girl says. “Your coffee's on me.”

“Oh, gosh. You don't have to do that,” Clary assures her.

The girl waves a hand, gives a dazzling little giggle and grin. “Don't worry about it,” she insists. “I want to.”

Clary stares at her smile, the way her eyes twinkle. She's maybe a little starstruck. “O-okay,” she manages. She puts on a smile. “Um, thanks.”

“Sure,” the girl says. She thrusts out a hand. “I'm Isabelle,” she says. “Izzy.”

Feeling her pulse in her throat, Clary accepts Isabelle's hand. Her grasp is strong. Clary tries to grip back solidly. “I'm Clary,” she says. “Clary Fray.”

“Clary,” the girl says, feeling the lilt of the L with her tongue. Her smile seems to be a permanent fixture. “I like it.”

Together, they move a few steps forward in line.

“So, Clary,” Isabelle says. “Tell me. Are you a college student?”

“Yep,” Clary says. “Art major.” She bites her tongue before she rambles too much about her classes and her art and how much she loves it all. “What about you? Do you go to school here?”

“Yes,” Isabelle says, sharing a smile with Clary. “I'm taking business classes and fashion design.” She crinkles her nose in a huge grin. “I can't decide what I want to do with myself.”

“I'm sure you'll figure it out,” Clary tells her.

Isabelle's eyes and smile are warm. “Thank you, Clary,” she says. Then she glances away, tossing her long hair over her shoulder. “What's your coffee order?” she asks.

“Oh,” Clary says. “Uh—vanilla latte, please. Thanks.”

Isabelle orders Clary's latte and a mocha for herself.

They stand side by side waiting for the order. Uncertain what to do with herself, Clary finds herself looking down at her sneakers. Their white is dulled by dirt and flecked with colorful paint spots. Isabelle's black ankle boots are shiny and unmarred. The heel on them is bigger than anything Clary's ever been able to manage to walk in; Izzy's legs look surrealistically long. Clary's hand suddenly aches for a piece of charcoal. The long, graceful lines that form Isabelle belong on paper, Clary thinks.

Their coffees arrive, steam rising from Clary's mug. Isabelle grabs her to-go cup and passes the mug to Clary.

“Thanks,” Clary says. She smiles, a little shyly.

“Sure thing,” Isabelle tells her. She follows as Clary walks to a table and shrugs her backpack from her shoulder.

She seems hesitant to leave. Clary smiles at her. She leans against Clary's table.

“So, Clary,” she says. Clary loves the way her name sounds in Isabelle's mouth, lyrical with both syllables stressed. “Do you like your art classes?” She seems to take in Clary's appearance, the general paint-decoratedness of her being. “What are you, a painter, or...?”

Clary opens her mouth to answer, say that she loves paints but also loves to get chalk pastels all over her fingers—but then instead she bites into her lip, hard.

“Um,” she says. “Look, Isabelle... I actually have a paper to write. It's due tomorrow, and I've barely even started it, and—”

“Oh,” Isabelle says. “I get it.” She flashes a smile, just a little less vibrant than the ones it succeeds.

“No!” Clary says, as Isabelle pushes off from the table, looking as though she'll leave. “That's not—I didn't mean...” Clary bites her lip again. “I really have to write this paper. Can I...” She licks her lips, glances away. “I'd love to talk another time, though. If you want.” A smile, hopefully one that doesn't express any of her nervousness. “Can I—get your number, or something?”

“Oh,” Isabelle says. Her smile curls up again slowly. “Sure thing,” she purrs. She extends a hand, nails glittering with bright silver polish that manages to catch light any way she tilts her hand. “Let me see your phone.”

Clary hands it over, and Isabelle taps in her number with sparkling fingertips, grins at Clary, and leaves with just a final wiggle of her fingers once she's returned the phone.

Clary allows herself sixty seconds to put her hand over her smile, close her eyes, and freak out discreetly. Then she forces herself to open her Art History paper.

Beside her leg on Simon's bed, Clary's phone buzzes again.

Simon throws a piece of popcorn at her head. It bounces from her ear and falls to Simon's worn duvet.

Clary picks the kernel up, pops it in her mouth, and gives him a sarcastically sweet smile.

Simon lobs another piece of popcorn and hits her in the cheek. “Stop texting during movie night.”

“It's Izzy,” Clary says, eating the second piece of thrown popcorn.

Simon widens his eyes. “So?” he says. “I don't care how hot she is, Clary. You can't text during movie night. Those are the rules.”

“She's not just hot,” Clary says, irritation suddenly rising in her chest.

Simon blinks. He raises his eyebrows.

Clary feels her cheeks get warm.

“Oh?” says Simon. His mouth is twitching with thinly restrained amusement. “What else do you like about her?”

“What?” Clary says. She makes a face. “Nothing, it's—nothing. Forget I said anything. I'll turn my phone off, okay?” She grabs her phone and holds the power button with her thumb, raising the phone so Simon can see. She resists the urge to skim Isabelle's latest text before she shuts her phone off. “There. Happy?”

“So happy,” Simon says. He wears the scrunchy-eyed smile that makes him look like he's about to start laughing. “Are you falling for this girl? I thought you didn't want a relationship. Are you gonna ask her out? She's into you, right?”

“Simon.” Clary curls her hand into the duvet. She bites her lip, glancing away. “I don't know, okay?”

She notices absently that Simon pauses the movie playing on his laptop. He pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and resettles himself on the bed, twisting his torso to face her more directly.

“But you like her?” he asks. His smile has faded, his expression more gentle.

Clary shrugs. She looks at her hands in her lap. “I don't know,” she says. “Maybe.”

“'Kay,” says Simon. “Why?”

Clary peeks up at him. “Why do I like her?”

Simon nods.

“Um,” Clary says. She runs a hand back through her hair, blinking. “I don't know, she's—she's gorgeous. And she's so confident. She's really kind. She—she uses way too many smiley faces when she texts.” Clary finds her mouth curving up in spite of herself. “Um. She has three brothers, and she talks about them like she'd take on the world for them. I talk to her, and I feel—better, you know? Like I could be as confident as her. And like if she cared about me, she'd always have my back. And—she's someone you'd want to have your back.”

Clary stops talking, glancing at Simon.

Simon raises his eyebrows. “You got all that from texting for a week and a half?”

Clary shrugs.

Simon is quiet for a moment. He chews a piece of popcorn thoughtfully.

Clary's hand itches to pick up her phone and read Isabelle's text, but she manages to keep herself under control.

Finally, Simon looks at her with slightly narrowed eyes, nods once decisively, and says, “I think you should ask her out.”

Clary bites her lip. “I was going to focus on school,” she says. “And you,” she adds, gesturing. “And Mom, and Luke. Because I don't know where I might move after I graduate.”

“Yeah,” says Simon, “I know. And if this Isabelle chick is half as incredible as you seem to think, she'll get it.” He rubs at the bottom of his chin, a gesture which Clary supposes might have more gravitas if his current attempt at growing a beard had yielded more than so much thin stubble. “It doesn't have to be anything serious, right? But you like her, and you think she likes you, so... why wouldn't you make the most of it?”

Clary glances down, uncurling her hand from Simon's duvet and smoothing out the fabric with her palm. A smile creeps onto her face. “I mean, when you put it like that...” she says.

“I know,” Simon says. “I'm a genius. I'm the Love Doctor.”

Clary looks up, grinning but scrunching her nose. “Please never call yourself that again,” she begs.

“You can't deny the truth,” says Simon, grinning back.

“I can,” Clary insists. “Don't say it.”

Simon's smile is gleeful. “I'm the looo-ve—”

“No!” Clary says. She grabs hastily for a handful of popcorn from the bowl between them on the bed, rising onto her knees to shove Simon's mouth too full of popcorn for him to finish his sentence.

He leans back, trying to avoid her, spilling popcorn as he goes. Laughing, Clary grabs for more and leans across Simon's waist to stop him twisting away from her next attack.

It takes a shockingly small amount of time before Simon's bed is entirely covered in loose popcorn, crunching faintly under their each and every movement.

“You're cleaning this up, Clary Fray,” says Simon, lying defeated on his back.

Sitting on the edge of the bed and sliding her feet into her shoes, Clary grabs her phone and powers it back on. “No,” she says, waiting for her cell to turn on so she can read what Isabelle said last. “But movie night was fun. And thanks for talking.”

As she leaves, she hears that Simon is mumbling something—she catches enough to understand that it's along the lines of her being a “bad friend” and “owing him.” Glancing down at her phone, though, she walks from his room with a poorly suppressed smile, considering how to reply to Isabelle's text that her brothers are driving her up the wall, Clary. Save me. ☹

At six thirty on a Friday night, Clary is just about to walk out the front door when her mother decides to let her know that they have dinner plans with Luke.

“Mom,” Clary says.

“I know. I'm sorry, sweetie. It slipped my mind. I didn't think you had plans.” Jocelyn takes a breath, pulling a band from her wrist and tying up her hair. She misses a few pieces; the wisps of misplaced copper fit with her somehow attractively ruffled appearance. “Simon can join us, if he wants to,” she offers.

Clary clenches her jaw. She forces herself to smile, but she knows it looks fake. “Mom,” she says, tipping her head to one side, “my plans tonight aren't with Simon.”

Her mother stills, ceasing each of her small, distracted motions. Her full attention is suddenly on Clary. “Oh?” she says. “Who do you have plans with?”

Clary sticks her jaw out. “I kind of... have a date,” she admits.

“A date?” her mother repeats. “Do I know them?”

“Yes,” Clary says. “And no, you don't.”

“Oh,” Jocelyn says. She seems flustered, distracted again.

Clary chews on her lip. Her mother's been absent-minded lately, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. Where that elsewhere is, exactly, is unclear to Clary.

It's beginning to get frustrating.

“You said Simon could come over,” Clary says. “If I have to stay for dinner, can I at least invite my date?”

Isabelle might be open to the idea. Clary told her when she asked if Isabelle was interested in her that she planned to prioritize school and family, and that they could dial their relationship back to friendship if it didn't seem to be working.

(So far, it mostly seems to be working. They've had four coffee dates and one trip to the movies, plus several study sessions in the campus library where Isabelle would bend her head over business math and Clary would read about the history of art until her eyes got blurry. Still—Isabelle has yet to meet Luke and Clary's mom.)

“I... guess that would be all right,” Jocelyn concedes, in a tone that sounds very much like it would not be all right.

“Great,” Clary says. She smiles. She's too tired of her mother acting weird and not telling her why and forgetting to tell her about their plans to listen to the subtext when she doesn't have to. It feels better to indulge the warm irritation in her chest, push back, say what she knows Jocelyn would prefer she didn't. “I'll go call her, then.” She pulls out her phone and slips away into her room before her mother can say anything else.

Isabelle shows up at the door with her hair back in high ponytail that hangs down between her shoulder blades, wearing a turtleneck thats modesty is undercut by its tightness. A red jewel pendant lies against her chest, hanging from a long silver chain.

Isabelle greets Clary with a smile more brilliant than the ruby, exclaiming, “Clary!” and grasping both of Clary's hands in her own. She gives a little squeeze. “I'm glad you invited me,” she says, her dark eyes glittering with pleasure.

Clary can't help but smile back. “I am, too,” she admits.

Isabelle chuckles lightly, a dainty sound, and releases one of Clary's hands. She keeps hold of the other, twining her fingers between Clary's as they walk together deeper into the loft, door swinging shut behind them.

“Mom,” Clary says, smiling as she leads Isabelle by the hand to their little wooden table. “This is Isabelle Lightwood.” She steals just a tiny glance at Isabelle, trying to keep her smile under control. “Izzy, this is my mom.”

Isabelle pulls her hand from Clary's to offer it to Jocelyn, smiling warmly, her eyes sparkly. “I've heard so much about you,” she says. Her voice is thick with warm, kind enthusiasm. “You sound like a wonderful friend to Clary.”

Jocelyn's lips part; she sets down on the table her burden of several water glasses and accepts Isabelle's handshake, glancing uncertainly at Clary. Clary shrugs, smiling a little.

It's true that she's talked with Isabelle a lot about her mother. Aside from Simon, she's Clary's best friend.

“Well, thank you, Isabelle,” Jocelyn says finally, pulling her hand away but giving Isabelle a small, forced smile. “I have to admit, I haven't heard a lot about you. I didn't realize Clary was seeing anyone.”

“Oh!” Isabelle says. Her smile doesn't slip a notch. “Clary and I agreed to keep things light so she can focus on school and family like she planned.”

“And that doesn't bother you?” Jocelyn asks.

“Mom!” Clary says.

Jocelyn's expression is cordial, her mouth tipped a little upward, but the words are not just intrusive, they're designed to make Isabelle question her decision to become involved with Clary.

Clary's hands fist at her sides, her gaze hot on her mother. Why the hell would her mom be picking apart their relationship before she knows a thing about Isabelle?

“Anyway,” Clary says before Isabelle has to respond to her mother's uncalled for question, “I think Luke's in the kitchen. Come on. Luke is great; you'll like him.”

Isabelle beams when Clary takes her hand again. A warm feeling fizzles in Clary's chest.

Luke is indeed in the kitchen. His hands are occupied with spoon and sauce pan, a ceramic bowl on the counter ready to be filled with tomato sauce fresh from the stove.

“Hey, Luke,” Clary says. “Smells good.”

“Almost ready,” Luke says, white teeth showing in a familiar smile. Steam rises from the sauce as he begins to pour.

“Um, Luke—this is Isabelle,” Clary says, presenting Isabelle with a shy grin. “Isabelle Lightwood.”

Luke looks up sharply. His kind features are suddenly void of the smile from seconds ago; his eyes catch on Isabelle, his expression flat and inscrutable.

“Um,” Clary says, frowning. “She's joining us for dinner. That's not a problem, is it? There's enough pasta, right?”

Luke's eyes remain fixed on Isabelle, his hands frozen in their task. The rest of the sauce pours into the bowl; Luke gives no indication that he's noticed.

Finally, Luke shakes his head, just once. “No, that's fine,” he says. “Of course it's fine.” He refurbishes his smile, directing it at Clary, then Isabelle. “Glad to meet you, Isabelle,” he says easily, weirdness of a moment ago gone.

“Likewise,” Isabelle says.

“Um,” Clary says, thoroughly weirded out, “great. Okay, we should—go sit down, I guess.”

She takes Isabelle by the hand back to the table, tugging out the chair across from her own and gesturing to it before taking her seat. Isabelle smiles at her from across the Frays' little dining table, and Clary's stomach attempts to do a backflip. She glances down shyly, fixing her eyes to the fleck of turquoise paint at her place at the table, leftover from a painted jewelry box she'd made for mother two years ago.

“Thanks for coming,” she says, peeking up at Isabelle. Her brow furrows a little. “I'm sorry about Luke. I have no idea what that was about.”

“Don't worry about it,” Isabelle says, looking displeased at Clary's troubled expression. She stretches out a hand across the table, palm-up, and offers a kind smile along with it.

Clary sighs, letting her frustration at her family roll from her shoulders as she exhales. She feels lighter as she takes Isabelle's hand—it's warm with a strong grip; Clary loves holding Isabelle's hand—and smiles back at her.

“Dinner,” Luke says loudly and grandly, stepping out from the kitchen with a bowl of pasta in one hand and sauce in the other, “is served.”

And that's when Jocelyn screams from the kitchen.

Chapter Text

“Mom!?” Clary yells. She stands, chair legs scraping against the floor.

Luke whirls, still holding bowls of dinner. “Jocelyn!” he calls.

Clary rushes forward, pressing behind Luke into the kitchen.

And makes a strangled noise, a scream sticking in her throat.

There's—there's a horrible, monstrous creature approaching Jocelyn. It has a barbed tail, a multitude of legs, an awful, scaly body.

Jocelyn is crouched on the counter. Her eyes meet Luke's.

“Luke!” she says, sounding considerably less in-shock than Clary thinks she should. “I don't have a weapon; I don't have—”

“It's all right, Jocelyn,” says Luke.

The awful, long, fat creature turns to look their direction. Clary releases a disgusted whimper. It has lots of eyes, a whole cluster of them, flat and black in the center of its skull.

Someone pushes past Clary into the kitchen. But—the only person behind her was...

“Isabelle?”

Isabelle doesn't so much as glance at her. “Stay back, Clary,” she says. Something glints from her wrist: a coiled bracelet seems to be moving of its own accord, slithering down into her hand.

“Izzy—” Clary starts, uncertain what's going on.

“Stay back, Clary!” Isabelle says again, her voice bearing a sharp edge.

She flicks her wrist, and it's suddenly clear that her bracelet has become a whip, long and silvery. It catches the tail of the monster on the Frays' kitchen floor. It leaves behind a wet line of injury, shining with black blood.

“Who sent you, demon?” Isabelle yells.

Does Isabelle think the thing can talk?

Clary stares, struck speechless by every part of the current situation.

The thing narrows its many, many eyes. Then it seems to decide that despite her whip, Isabelle is not the person of most interest to it. It turns back to Jocelyn.

Its legs bunch as if it will spring.

Clary can hear now what she didn't notice before: the thing is speaking, repeating in a disgusting gurgly hiss of a voice: “Flesh. Blood. To take, to take, to bring, to bring.”

It launches itself upwards, propelling its horrible crocodile body toward Clary's mother.

A spark of silver cuts the air. It glitters at the throat of the nasty thing. Then Isabelle yanks, and the disgusting creature falls heavily to the side, crashing into a panel of cabinets.

“Mom!” says Clary. Path to Jocelyn no longer blocked, she ignores the bizarre thing still twisting on the ground and runs forward. “Mom, what—Are you okay? What was—What's going on?”

“What's going on,” says Isabelle's voice, “is that he's found you, Jocelyn.”

Clary spins to look at Isabelle; Isabelle is looking at Clary's mother, her face a cold, unfamiliar mask of disapproval.

“What?” Clary says. She looks to Luke, feeling a tremble in her hands, her heart racing in her throat, her skin cold-hot with panic. “What's going on?” she demands again. “In words that I can understand, please.” She presses her lips together to hide their shaking, setting her jaw stubbornly.

Her mother sighs; Clary turns to see Jocelyn's shoulders sag.

“It's time to tell her, Jocelyn,” Luke says.

“Uh, way past time, I'd say.” This from Isabelle, her gaze at Jocelyn tense with anger. The monster at her feet manges to get its many feet underneath itself; it gives a hiss toward Isabelle, its disgusting mouth opening to reveal an army of spiky teeth. The red jewel pendant of Isabelle's necklace pulses with soft magenta light.

Looking vaguely bored, Isabelle flicks her whip another time. Its glittering silvery length coils around the monster's neck. She tugs, hard, the firm muscles in her arm flexing visibly. Black blood burbles around the whip; the monster's tongue lolls.

Clary does her best not to gag, biting into the side of her cheek until she tastes metallic blood.

Isabelle yanks harder on the whip. Her mouth is a determined line, ends of her lips tilted ever so slightly upward. She keeps pulling, and the awful monster's head separates more and more from its body, and Clary has to look away, breathing shallowly and hoping she doesn't throw up.

For another few moments she can hear the monster's labored breathing, horribly wetter than it was before Isabelle began to sever its neck.

And then there is silence.

Warily, Clary casts her eyes in Isabelle's direction. She stares.

The thing that attacked her mother is no longer there. It's just—gone. No trace of it remains aside from the lingering black blood that drips from Isabelle's whip, hanging limp from her hand.

Shaking his head as he watches Isabelle, Luke says, “You really do look just like your mother.”

Wide-eyed, Clary looks to Isabelle, to Luke, to her own mother. “Please,” she says, “someone tell me what the hell is going on!”

Clary is on the couch, still wearing the snug jeans and her favorite green sweater that almost makes it look like she has curves. She'd picked out the outfit when she'd been headed to a dinner date with Isabelle; now Isabelle is here, but they haven't eaten—oh, and, uh, Isabelle grew a whip from her bracelet and used it to kill a vile monster that was after Clary's mother.

But like, other than that, the date isn't going too bad?

No, that's not true. The date is going terribly.

Clary sits with her hands in her lap, watching her mother pace on the other side of the coffee table while Luke stands brooding by the window and Isabelle stands near the end of the couch, one hip cocked, checking the time on her phone periodically.

Clary feels numb around the edges. Her mother just spilled out some wild fantasy of a story, telling her of demons and vampires and werewolves and “Shadowhunters,” which is apparently the term for people like Isabelle, people who are half angel, people who protect humanity from demons.

Clary tried to walk right out the front door, but her mother grabbed her by the arm and sat her back down.

“You have to believe me, Clary,” she said, eyes earnest. “I've been hiding it from you, but it's true.”

“It is,” Isabelle put in helpfully, her tone flat and rather uninterested. “If it helps, Jocelyn's been hiding from the entire Shadow World for a long time. You're not the only one she fooled.”

“Doesn't help,” Clary said, her smile curving up insincerely sweet. She'd then descended into stubborn silence while Jocelyn and Luke and Isabelle kept talking about some “Valentine” having found them and a bunch of other mumbo-jumbo about “the Clave” and the “Shadow World” and other unfamiliar terms that flow meaninglessly past Clary's ears. She does understand that everyone seems to be looking for some cup, and that they all seem to think her mother has it.

Isabelle said she'd contacted more of her people, and that she was waiting for them to arrive before taking Clary and Jocelyn to “the Institute,” yet another thing Clary's never heard of.

Personally, Clary is not waiting for Isabelle's “people”; she's waiting for Simon, who she'd texted quietly as soon as she had a chance. She doesn't know what she thinks they'll do, where she thinks she'll go—but she wants Simon at her side, whatever's coming. Maybe when he knocks, Clary can offer to get the door, and then slip out before anyone can stop her.

Only, the front door swings open without a knock, admitting two tall figures, one dark-haired and one light.

Clary stands from the couch, turning to face the door.

The fair-haired boy grips the other one tightly by the arm. Clary stares as he tries unsuccessfully to pull free. “Simon?” she says.

Then she looks closer, focusing not on Simon but on the boy jerking Simon forward into the room by the upper arm.

“Jace?” she says.

He inclines his head in acknowledgement of her, his face faintly regretful. “Clary.”

Clary stares at him, her lips apart. “What the hell are you doing here?” she asks, her voice coming out high-pitched than she would've wished. “And let go of Simon!” she adds before he can respond.

“You know this guy?” Jace asks.

“Of course I do!” Clary says, exasperated. “Let him go!”

Raising his eyebrows, Jace relaxes his grip on Simon's arm, shoving him gently forward.

Simon stumbles a few steps, then rights himself and hurries to Clary's side. “Are you okay?” he asks anxiously. “What's happening? Your text made it sound like something bad was going on.”

Clary bites her bottom lip, her eyes still distrustfully on Jace. “I think it is,” she says.

“Hey, isn't that—isn't that that guy from the club?” Simon asks, his eyes now on Jace, too. “Yeah, it is!” He points at Jace, a new vigor in his motions. “I couldn't see your face when you jumped me out there, but you're him! You're the guy from the club who made out with Clary and then wouldn't stop texting her!”

“Simon,” Clary says.

Jace's mouth cracks with a grin; he runs a hand back through his hair. “I have to say, this would've been a lot easier on all of us if Clary would've just gone out with me.”

Clary frowns. Simon opens his mouth, but no words emerge.

“What?” Clary says. “What do you mean?”

“He means,” Isabelle says, stepping forward, “that if you had just dated Jace in the first place, we would've gotten to Jocelyn sooner, and we likely would have known that Valentine was going to attack.”

Clary turns her disbelieving face from Jace to Isabelle, blinking as she begins to process the meaning of Isabelle's words.

To Jace, she says finally, slowly, as understanding dawns: “You wanted to date me to get close to me and my mother? To—to find out if we'd been in contact with Valentine?”

Jace gives a one-shouldered shrug. His smile is apologetic, but only a little. “You got me,” he says.

Clary forces herself to look at Isabelle, moving slowly.

“And you,” she says.

This might be the first time Clary has see Isabelle without at least a hint of a smile on her face. Her lips are a small, sad line, pressed together regretfully. Her eyes are large and sorrowful. Clary feels an ache deep within her chest.

“You tripped on purpose, didn't you. You were, what, plan B when I wasn't interested in Jace?” Her voice is rising, but she can't bring herself to care. “If I wouldn't date him, maybe I'd at least befriend you, and you'd still be in with my family, is that it?”

“Clary...” Isabelle says, but Clary shakes her head and turns away.

There is quiet for a moment until Simon says, “Um... Sorry, could we—could we backtrack to the part where someone explains who Valentine is and what's going on?”

Clary sighs. “I'll explain it,” she offers. “Come on, Simon.” She reaches for his hand, turning for her room.

“Whoa there,” Jace says.

Clary turns, one eyebrow raised and her mouth a displeased frown.

“You need to come with us,” Jace says. “Back to the Institute. You, and your mother, and the werewolf.”

By “werewolf” he means Luke, which is just another piece of this absolutely nutty puzzle.

“Whatever,” Clary says. “Take my mom, if you need to talk to her so bad. But I'm not going anywhere.” She sets her jaw, daring him to argue.

The argument doesn't come from Jace, but from Isabelle. “You aren't safe here, Clary.” Her voice is gentle. “You need to come with us.”

Clary doesn't look at her. “I think I'm as safe here as your damn Institute. I've had enough of you lying to me. I'm not going anywhere with you people.”

“Clary, Valentine might send another demon for your mother.” Isabelle's face is pained; Clary looks away quickly. “We can't stay here.”

“I don't care,” Clary says stubbornly. “I'm not going with you.”

Rolling his eyes, Jace starts forward. “Yeah, you are, sweetheart. I'll carry you out of here if you make me.” He continues to approach her.

As soon as he's close enough, Clary stomps on his foot, as hard as she can.

Jace swears colorfully. Mouth hard, he folds his arms across his chest. “Jocelyn?” he says. “A little help?”

Jocelyn looks from him to Clary, her eyes wide and her smile sad. “Clary, honey,” she says. “They're right. We need to go.”

“No way,” Clary says. “Simon, come on.” She heads for her room.

She hears footsteps behind her, and then a muscly arm wraps around her waist and the world spins as she's tipped upside down over Jace's shoulder.

She yells in annoyance, batting at his back with her fists. He doesn't seem to care.

“Let go of me!” Clary yells. She kicks her feet uselessly.

She hears someone sigh. Then Isabelle says, “Jace, put her down.”

Jace does not immediately comply. Clary tries unsuccessfully to drive her knee into his chest with enough force to make him drop her.

“Jace,” says Isabelle.

Clary swears she feels Jace's shoulders slump. “Fine,” he says, and sets Clary on her feet.

She glares at him, eyes hot. He gives her a smirk, then looks to Isabelle.

“What now?”

“I'll stay with her,” Isabelle says, her face flat. “Take Jocelyn and Luke to the Institute and see what they know about the Cup. I'll stay with Clary and Simon.”

“No way,” Clary says at the same time that Jace scoffs and says “Hell no.”

They look at each other. Then back to Isabelle.

“Yes,” says Isabelle. “It's the best deal either of you are going to get. Clary is protected, she doesn't have to go to the Institute, and we have Jocelyn tell us everything she knows.” She gives Clary's mother a sharp look. “I hope you're not as stubborn as your daughter,” she says. “And if you are, know this: he is back, and the whole Shadow World is in trouble. We need your help.”

Jocelyn inclines her head. “I know,” is all she says. Clary is real fucking underwhelmed.

“Well, sorry,” she snaps, “but no deal. I'm not staying here with you after you lied to me.” She has to look away from Isabelle, her eyes burning with angry tears.

“Yes,” says Isabelle calmly. “You are.”

She does.

Stay home with Isabelle and Simon, that is.

Everyone except for Clary comes around to agreeing with Isabelle's plan; ignoring Clary's continued protestation, Jace, Jocelyn, and Luke leave the apartment.

Clary sits with Simon on the couch and does her best at two difficult tasks simultaneously: relaying the mass amounts of loony information her mother just shared with her to Simon; and ignoring Isabelle, who stands nearby with a blank expression, glittery fingers tapping at her phone.

“So Jace was at that club on a mission to get close to you?” says Simon, nodding as he begins to understand the story. “So that the Shadowhunters could see if you and your mom knew anything about what Valentine's up to?”

Clary nods. “Seems like it, yeah.” A small smile curves her mouth; she hits Simon's arm lightly with the back of her hand. “Why, does that make you feel better about him not hitting on you at all?”

Simon nods, his expression serious. “It does, a little, yeah.”

Clary laughs, her grin wide enough to stretch her cheeks. For a split second, things almost feel normal—

which only makes her fall harder back into reality, as solid and stinging and suddenly overwhelming as the time she'd accidentally done a belly flop from the high diving board.

Her smile fades.

Not only has pretty much her entire life up to this point has been a lie, her memories stolen by a warlock at the behest of her mother, but Isabelle was a lie, too. Her mother belongs to some sort of demon-fighting warrior gang, her dad isn't John Clark but actually some supervillain named “Valentine,” Luke is a werewolf, and, oh, Clary's girlfriend is a demon hunter, too, and she's only been dating Clary to get to her mom.

At least Simon is still the same Simon she's always known.

Sighing, Clary leans into Simon, trying not to look at Isabelle. The bursts of adrenaline and anger she's been riding have worn off, and she's suddenly aware that her whole body feels heavy with fatigue.

It occurs to her that she's hungry, too. In all the chaos, they never had dinner.

“Hey. Luke made spaghetti sauce,” she tells Simon. “I think it's still in the kitchen.”

She doesn't have to say a thing more.

Simon rises, headed for the kitchen. “Why didn't you say so?”

Smiling, Clary follows him.

Simon grabs two plates from the cabinet without having to ask where they are; he and Clary have each spent about as much time at each other's houses as at their own. He hands one to Clary, and they pile cold pasta onto their plates in companionable silence.

They eat sitting on the couch, Clary leaning back against one of its arms with her toes poked underneath Simon's leg. Luke's red sauce is familiar and delicious, even cold.

Clary looks at her plate, at Simon, at the wall—her eyes feel tugged to Isabelle, but Clary does her damnedest to keep her attention elsewhere.

Isabelle's whip has re-coiled itself around her wrist, once more a small, delicate snake. The red pendant against her chest is no longer pulsing strangely. Though her dark turtleneck and black pants are more refined than many outfits Clary has seen her wear, Isabelle's fingertips still twinkle with her favorite glittery silver polish, which significantly undercuts the sophistication of her look. Clary doesn't think this matters much though, because one look at Isabelle is still enough to know that she could kick your ass.

Ah, crap. She's staring at Isabelle again.

Pressing her lips together, Clary looks at Simon instead. Simon's eyes are already on her, sad and apologetic.

Clary swallows, casting her gaze down to her plate of half-eaten pasta. She pokes at a lump of noodles with her fork.

“It's pretty lame that Jace was hitting on you just because he thinks your dad is some evil mastermind, huh?” says Simon, his grainy voice a familiar light-hearted tone. “Do you want me to kick his ass if he shows up again?” He seems to decide on an answer for Clary before she can respond, nodding to himself. “I'm gonna kick his ass the next time I see him.”

Clary gives a thin smile, though her heart still feels heavy and her mind still races.

“And Isabelle, too? That's just—that's a dick move, man.”

Clary tosses a quick glance at Isabelle. Isabelle's lips tighten, but other than that she doesn't react to Simon's words, still standing in silence, looking down at her cell phone.

Simon shovels a bite of pasta into his mouth, getting red sauce on his lips.

Clary rolls her eyes, finding a smile on her mouth that's real, if small. “I swear, Simon. You've gotta work on your manners, or nobody's ever going to date you.”

Simon swallows before he speaks, thankfully. “Hey, I'll have you know there are plenty of people interested in me.”

Clary grins. “Whatever you say, Simon.” Pulling her feet back from Simon's leg, she gets up from the couch. “Hang on. I'm getting you a napkin.”

When she comes back from the kitchen, paper towel in hand, Simon is giving her a look she can't quite read.

“Izzy tripped and spilled her coffee when you met, right? Had to go get napkins to clean it up?” He looks mostly at Clary, but his eyes flick to Isabelle several times.

Clary hesitates.

“But it was all fake, huh?” Simon shakes his head. “Man, that's awful. I can't imagine ever doing that to someone.”

“Simon...” Clary says. She's too tired to make her voice properly reproachful.

“No, I'm just saying! It was a shitty thing to do, lying to your face like that. She should be ashamed of herself.”

“All right, that's enough,” Isabelle snaps.

Clary looks to her, startled. Her phone is away, her lips pressed together and her eyes sharp.

“I was trying to protect Clary, all right? I was trying to protect all of us.” Her dark eyes hold Simon motionless on the couch. “We had no leads on Valentine, and Jocelyn was too smart and too secretive to let us get to her. Clary was our only chance.” Her eyes shift to Clary, wide and sad. Her mouth trembles ever so slightly.

“And what was I supposed to do, say no? When the whole Shadow World is in danger? When I'm finally being trusted to do something right? When I finally get to make use of the fact that I'm going to mundie college even though everyone disapproves? When I get to ask out the cute mundie girl who always studies at the coffee shop? When I get to make sure she's safe?” Isabelle falls silent abruptly, her chest rising and falling quickly. Her dark eyes shine with sadness and frustration.

“So, yes, it was an awful thing that I did. But what else was I supposed to do, Simon? Please, tell me. If a pretty girl was suddenly no longer off-limits and by getting to know her, you could help stop a violent man with an obsession from destroying countless lives, what would you have done?” She stares at Simon for a long second, her eyes wide with emotion and her red lips pressed in a tight line.

Then she turns and heads for the kitchen without waiting for him to respond.

“Yell if you see a demon, mundies,” she calls, and steps out of sight.

Clary sits on her bed, her legs folded and hands in her lap. Her desk chair is pulled out from its desk, occupied by Isabelle, whose legs are crossed neatly. Once again Clary finds herself wanting to feel out the shape of Isabelle's long legs with graphite against paper.

Clary's bedroom door is closed, Simon on the far side with Clary's mother, Luke, and Jace. Simon is taking all of this supernatural stuff better than Clary expected; he seems fascinated, actually, already eager to drill Jace and the adults with questions.

“Did you really mean that?” Clary says quietly. “What you said earlier, about noticing me at the coffee shop even before your mission?”

“Yes,” says Isabelle. Her eyes are steady on Clary, her expression calm and neutral.

Clary's head swims with thoughts and her body with conflicting feelings. She's hurt to know that Isabelle lied to her, had ulterior motives the whole time they were going out. She's still weirdly touched, pleased, butterfly-stomached at the thought that Isabelle had noticed her even when she was forbidden fruit.

She sighs, doing her best to shove all that aside, at least momentarily.

All that does is make room for another thought, accompanied by more hurt and anger and confusion. “I still don't understand why my mom's been lying to me all this time,” she tells Isabelle. She crosses her arms, staring at the wall. “I mean—this is a part of me. It's in my blood. Why would she try to keep that from me?” She flicks her eyes to Isabelle, not sure exactly what reassurance she's hoping for.

Isabelle's smile is small, her gaze soft. “She was trying to protect you, Clary.”

Clary snorts. “You know? I've had it with people lying to me to 'protect' me. First my mom, and then you? I could protect myself if I just knew what was going on!”

“I'm sorry, Clary,” Isabelle says. Her face is again without hint of amusement; her dark eyes seem to have depths as impenetrable as the oceans'. Her mouth presses into a small, sad line. “For what it's worth, I promise I won't ever lie to you again.” The corners of her mouth tick up.

Clary feels a warmth in her chest. She smiles back slightly.

On an impulse, she unfolds her legs and gets up from her bed. It only takes a few steps to reach Isabelle's chair.

Taking a breath, Clary leans into Isabelle's space, a hand on the desk behind Isabelle for support. She brushes her lips against Isabelle's. Clary sees that Isabelle's eyes are open; then she closes her own eyes. Isabelle's lips are unresponsive, but she also doesn't pull back. Her lips feel soft against Clary's, her lipstick not as sticky as Clary thought it might be.

Breaking away abruptly, Clary backtracks to her bed, sitting down on its edge, hands loose in her lap again.

Isabelle's watching her closely, her eyes round, expression unreadable.

Clary bites her lip. “Sorry,” she says.

Isabelle shakes her head. “No. Don't be.”

“It's just—you look... like maybe I shouldn't have done that.”

Isabelle shakes her head again, her brow creasing. “No, I'm just—surprised. That's all.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Isabelle echoes. “After everything that happened, I didn't think that you would still... you know.” She waves a hand. “Like me. Want to kiss me.”

“Well,” Clary says slowly, crossing her legs. “How much of it was a lie?” She shakes her head. “I mean, the part where you forgot to tell me you were a Shadowhunter and that my super evil dad might be at large, obviously, but—what about the rest of it?” She curls her right hand into a fist, keeping it from view underneath her left. She digs her nails into her palm.

She feels as though she might splinter into little tiny Clary-pieces if Isabelle tells her most of their relationship has been fake. Which is ridiculous—Clary told herself and Isabelle that they were going to take things slow and keep it lighthearted, because Clary had other focuses.

But that doesn't stop her heart from hammering choking-hard in her throat, or her palms from feeling sticky.

“The part where you said you loved my sketchbook?” Her voice is a little thin; she sets her jaw. “What about when you told me you'd do anything for your brothers? And what about the first time you kissed me, after we were studying for four hours straight and then we ate way too much pizza and I almost fell asleep in the restaurant—” Clary takes a quick breath, trying to keep herself steady. “Was that a lie?”

Isabelle bites her lip, her eyes wide and nervous. She says, quietly but firmly, “No. None of that was a lie.”

Clary exhales, her hands feeling shaky with relief.

“I only lied by not telling you I was on a mission for the Clave. And that's a huge lie, I know it is.” Isabelle's eyes are earnest. “But it's the only part that wasn't true—everything else was honest. Even if you don't want to see me anymore, I want you to know that, Clary.”

Clary catches her lower lip in her teeth, biting down hard. Her fingers ache, her fist still clenched tightly.

She makes herself release the tension in her body, blowing out a slow breath. She nods once. She says, “Okay, then.” She puts on a small smile.

Isabelle watches her uncertainly. “Okay then?” she repeats.

“Yeah,” Clary says. “Okay.” She stands from her bed, extending a hand to Isabelle.

Isabelle stares at her.

Clary makes her smile as soft as she can. “Come on,” she says, leaving her hand out in offering. “We should probably go see what's going on out there, don't you think?”

And, rising, Isabelle accepts Clary's hand.

Clary, her mother, Luke, and Simon end up going with the Shadowhunters to a place called the Institute, a building that looks like an ancient, crumbling church until Clary looks closer and sees its true, intact structure beyond the glamour that hides it from mundanes. Isabelle's other brother—related by blood, unlike Jace—greets them at the door with a “Hello” and an expression of mild annoyance.

Clary learns that they all live at the Institute here in New York, training with a tutor even while their parents split their time between New York and Idris. Clary doesn't know where or what the hell “Idris” is, but she gathers that it's far away.

Jocelyn has agreed to accept the Shadowhunters' help protecting the Mortal Cup, which is some, like, uber-important magical artifact that could do a heck of a lot of damage in Valentine's evil hands. For safekeeping, Jocelyn had apparently painted it into a deck of tarot cards she made for Dorothea.

The adult Lightwoods are to arrive soon, but for now it's just the Frays, Luke, Simon, and the three Lightwood siblings. The three of them have a younger brother as well, Clary knows—Isabelle told her about Max, away with his parents, although of course Clary didn't know at the time that they were away in freaking Shadowhunter homeland on Clave business.

Luke and Clary's mom have disappeared somewhere with the Lightwoods' tutor, Hodge, whom they apparently know from their mysterious past. Once content that the Cup was secure for the moment, Alec left to visit a warlock to confirm arrangements for his parents' return the next morning via magical Portal. Isabelle said this with a huge smirk, though Clary has no idea why.

Jace and Simon are talking. Clary thinks they were headed to a “weapons room,” the mention of which made both of the boys' eyes gleam. Simon had offered to make good on his word about kicking Jace's ass upon their next meeting, but Clary convinced him to let it go. Besides, his invitation to fight was something along the lines of, “You wanna go, Captain America?” which is silly in any case, but especially if you know, as Clary does, that Simon Lewis has had a gigantic crush on Steve Rogers since he was a boy. So—they're occupied. With weapons, or each other, or something.

This leaves Clary alone with Isabelle, sitting in a bedroom with a huge, cluttered vanity, a sizable canopied bed, and black-painted walls decorated with a heavy-handed accent of glittering silver swirls.

It's very Isabelle.

Clary picks at the seam in her jeans on the inside of her knee, sitting next to Isabelle on her bed. They aren't quite touching. Isabelle sits cross-legged to Clary's left, her right knee separated from Clary's thigh by an immense few inches of empty space.

Isabelle has changed out of the turtleneck she wore to Clary's, replacing it with a black tank top that isn't flecked with demon blood.

On her bare arms, neck, and chest, if she focuses, Clary can now see what she couldn't before: underneath a glamour, Isabelle's skin is patterned with elegant designs in black. She told Clary they're called “runes,” and that they grant Shadowhunters extra gifts in battle—extra strength, speed, stealth, stamina.

Clary wonders if that's why Isabelle wore the turtleneck tonight: so that Jocelyn and Luke couldn't see her runes.

“So—what now?” Clary says finally, her voice strangely loud breaking the silence. She turns to look at Isabelle. “Your parents talk to my mom about the Cup when they get here, and then we just... go home? Pretend like none of this ever happened even though now I know there're demons out there?”

Isabelle shrugs one shoulder, leaning back on her hands. “If that's what you want, then yes.”

Clary watches Isabelle closely. Catching the qualification in Isabelle's statement, she says, “And if that's not what I want?”

Isabelle fixes her with a serious look. She leans forward, propping her elbows on her knees. “It's up to you, Clary.” She presses her lips together. “But—you said it yourself. This is in your blood. Your mother tried to hide it from you, but this is who you are.” She hesitates; her hand twitches, and for a second, Clary thinks she's going to reach out and touch her, take her hand or brush her hair back from her face.

She doesn't.

“Look,” she says. “I saw you try to stop Jace from picking you up. I saw you run right past that demon like it was nothing to get to your mother. This is who you are, Clary, if you want it. A Shadowhunter. You're one of us, I know you are. I can see it.”

Clary bites her lip, folding her hands together in her lap to resist the urge to reach toward Isabelle.

“We're here for you, Clary, if you want,” Isabelle says gently. Her red lips curve in a tender smile. “The Institute will always be here if you want to learn more, if you want to know who you are. If you want to start training. The Institute is open to all those who have the Angel's blood.”

Clary takes a breath, her eyes unwavering from Isabelle, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. There's a rising feeling behind her breastbone that's getting more and more difficult to ignore—a feeling as if... as if something has just clicked firmly into place. As if things are suddenly, entirely right.

As if she belongs here.

“You mean that?” she asks Isabelle.

Isabelle nods.

Clary bites into her lip again. “And what about you?” she adds. “Are you here, if that's what I want?”

Isabelle's mouth is serious, unsmiling. “What are you asking, Clary?”

Clary takes a breath. “I'm asking if... I can still see you. If you're still interested in dating me, if that's what I want.” She quirks her mouth up in a small smile. “I'm asking—if I want to learn more... will you be here with me?”

Isabelle reaches a hand out to Clary, resting her fingers gently against Clary's cheek. “Of course,” she says, her dark eyes glittering as prettily as the swoops of sparkly silver that adorn her walls. Her smile is slight, but abundantly happy.

Clary leans in to kiss the smile away.

(So far, things are going pretty well, Clary thinks. She and Isabelle have had several more coffee dates and trips to the movies, as well as continuing their practice of studying in the library until their brains are hazy.

When not in class, Clary spends a lot of time at the Institute. Things with her mother are a little weird, but they're getting somewhere; Clary is still mad about the whole “lying to her for her entire life” thing, but as she learns more about herself, they're beginning to find a new normal.

Alec has been teaching her how to fight; Isabelle has been teaching her about runes and Shadowhunter history. Jace tends to entertain Simon more than he interacts with Clary. She's still not entirely sure what's going on there—their relationship is a funny balance of antagonistic and flirty.

Luke has introduced her to the werewolf pack in town. Isabelle invited her to a Seelie party last week. The boy with the ever-glittering appearance and strange cat-eyes who hangs around Alec is a Warlock, Clary learns—his name is Magnus, and he's very strange, but she likes him, she decides.

Things are weird, but feel undeniably right.

Especially so when Isabelle gives her a bright smile with a crinkled nose and a giggle and tugs her into the training room to practice her hand-to-hand combat, and their matches end consistently with shy smiles and quiet laughter, pressed-together bodies and tiny kisses.)