Chapter Text
When Clary opens her eyes, she finds herself lying atop something hard. Well, not as hard as lying on a floor would be, but definitely harder than, let’s say, her bed at home.
It’s also warm. Warm, and familiar, and moving. Up and down in a steady, calm rhythm, as reassuring and soothing as the beating heart close to her ear.
She sits up with a start…only to find herself lying atop Jace–
(her Jace – her heart, breathing, wondrously and miraculously alive)
–his eyes still closed, his thick, golden lashes almost touching his high cheekbones and casting long shadows across his skin.
“Jace?” She restrains the urge to shake him and instead places a palm to his jaw, cupping it gently. “Jace?”
Leaning down, she presses her ear to his moving chest – just to make sure – and is again greeted by the sound of his beating heart. She doesn’t think she’s ever heard anything quite as wonderful. “Jace, wake up. Jace, we have to get back. We–“
Only then does she notice that the ground they’re resting on is not wet and cold, like the small beach surrounding Lake Lyn. No, instead, they seem to be lying on a soft carpet – a shame, really, since Jace has been bleeding all over it and Clary herself is covered in grime and wet sand.
She wonders, briefly, if she accidentally created a portal, stranding them both who-knows-where. But when she glances at the hole burned in Jace’s shirt from the rune she drew just above his heart, it looks nothing like the portal rune she’s used before.
The rune still glows faintly, as if freshly burned into his skin. She worries if it will fade, eventually, like some other runes, and thereby tear Jace from her again – before she quickly tells herself that she’ll just have to refresh it, if that is the case. As many times as need be.
She glances around. The place looks startlingly unremarkable for the rather dramatic event that had just taken place at Alicante and Lake Lyn. The soft carpet covers the entire floor, and comfortable couches and chairs are spread around the room. There is a door leading to a bathroom, as well as one leading to what looks like a kitchen.
The only thing (apart from the strange circumstances bringing them here) bothering Clary, is the fact that the building has no windows.
“Jace?” she tries again, and this time, he stirs. His eyes move beneath his closed lids, and his fingers twitch by his sides. She takes one of his hands in hers, squeezing it gently.
Where does all this courage come from? Touching him so liberally, so naturally, when only hours ago, she thought she could never love him, never be with him the way she wanted to?
But now…
Slowly, Jace opens his eyes. Clary never seems to get used to the colour – amber and gold, with specks of burnt umber and onyx black. He blinks once, twice, three times, before his gaze finally finds hers. His eyes widen as he takes her in, and he shoots into a sitting position, so fast that Clary would have lost her balance had he not caught her wrists just before she fell.
“Clary?” His voice is full of wonder, but also a tad of doubt. “I’m not dead…am I?”
She can’t help herself. She lets out a laugh – a laugh and a sob, creating a sound she would’ve been embarrassed by under different circumstances. “No, you’re not. And Jace?”
He looks at her.
“You’re not my brother.”
His eyes soften, and his mouth curls into a grin. His white teeth glint in the dim light, that small chip in his upper incisor showing. “I know.”
She knows they should probably discuss more important things – like how they got here and how they’re going to get back, or how their families are doing, currently fighting a war – but right then, she wants nothing more than to just have this moment with Jace.
Still, she knows that they can’t take too long.
Jace knows it too.
His expression turns serious, but just before he opens his mouth to say something, another strange thing happens.
Clary doesn’t quite know how to describe it. The closest thing she can come up with is that it looks like dozens of portals opening at the same time, illuminating the room in a bright, almost otherworldly light. Jace immediately pulls Clary closer, dragging her with him as he gets to his feet and reaches for a weapon…
…only to find that he’s unarmed.
Frantically, Clary searches for a stele, a seraph blade, anything, but comes up empty too. People start appearing from the portals, and Jace’s expression turns conflicted. Clary knows what he’s probably thinking – he’s the strongest Shadowhunter of his age, but even he can’t take on so many people at once, weaponless, and just after being brought back from literal death–
And then, Clary recognises the people stepping out of the closest portal. “…Simon? Mom? Luke?”
She stumbles towards them, but Jace holds her back, his face hard. “Clary. Something’s wrong.”
She freezes. Jace’s instincts are usually right. Her mind is flung in all directions, conjuring up imagines of what could be wrong.
What if they’re all dead? What if this cozy-looking living room is the afterlife?
Or, what if Valentine had somehow orchestrated this in case of his death, and sent all her loved ones to this place to finish them off? Or were they not the people she knew at all – were they perhaps a hoard of Eidolon demons, send to catch them off guard?
But no, that doesn’t explain the other people – the people she doesn’t recognise, stumbling out of the portals and looking like something straight out of a Victorian novel.
She spots a tall, brown-haired young woman, a thin, mild-looking young man with silver hair and eyes, and a devastatingly handsome young man who looks, inexplicably, like a mix between Jace and Alec. They’re closely followed by a younger girl who could have been his sister, a blonde, petite girl with a haughty expression and a parasol dangling on her arm, and a young woman clad in a maid uniform.
They’re accompanied by a woman who, despite her small stature, manages to look like she’s looking down on people – a skill Clary finds herself highly jealous of – as well as a tall man with ginger hair. The last people to emerge through the portal before it closes are two young, well-built men with sandy-blonde hair and wary expressions.
Another group of people appear at the other end of the room. Clary spots a young woman with dark skin and red hair, another beautiful young man – what is it even with these insane genes – someone who could be his sister, and a handsome blonde.
More people follow behind them, but Clary is distracted by a new group emerging. A boy and a girl appear a bit further away; the boy with dark, curly hair, the girl a pale blonde. There’s something about them that makes Clary look twice. They move around each other like a moon orbiting a planet – or maybe a planet orbiting a sun. It reminds her a bit of how she’s seen parabatai move around each other, yet somehow, this seems like something more.
Finally, Clary allows herself to study the people she does know. The Lightwood family have appeared, Maryse and Robert flanking their children and eyeing their surroundings with a vigilance honed by decades working as Shadowhunters.
Meanwhile, her mother, Luke, and Simon are standing huddled together in a corner. Almost as if her family can sense her gaze on them, they turn, as one, towards her and Jace.
Her mother’s eyes widen, almost comically, and her lips part in shock. Luke mostly looks worried, and he steadies Jocelyn when it seems like she’s about to faint.
Clary suddenly realises how she must look – bloodied and dirty, with Jace beside her in his blood-soaked shirt and the glowing rune on his chest.
Still, they should expect that, shouldn’t they? Of course Clary and Jace would look injured and battle-worn. They’d been in a war, by the Angel, and– and now that she thinks about it, why is her mother in her paint-stained overalls instead of battle gear?
“Clary? Clary?” It’s Simon. He looks white as a sheet, but his mouth is set into a determined line as he bolts towards her. He almost trips over his own shoelaces, and there’s something about that little act of clumsiness that sets alarm bells ringing in the back of her head.
A bead of sweat is forming near his temple, and his breathing is ragged as he reaches her. As happy as Clary is to see him unharmed, she can’t help but think that something is wrong.
“Simon, do you know what’s going on right now?” Jace asks.
Clary is startled to see him act so civil – using Simon’s name, asking him a question without a hint of the sarcasm or disdain usually dripping from his voice.
To her surprise, Simon responds with a glare so venomous that she almost wants to flinch – but she doesn’t. Because this is Simon. “Maybe, you should tell me what’s going on. Who are you even? How do you know my name and…” Anger flares in his eyes, and he struggles to pull Clary away from Jace’s hold. He fails spectacularly. “What did you do to her? Huh?”
Simon puts up a front, but Clary can feel him shaking.
And then, it hits her.
Simon’s clumsiness, all gangly arms and legs. His sweaty, flushed skin, no longer pale and flawless, and the glasses threatening to slip down the tip of his nose. His breathing, ragged and loud, from running and from the stress of the situation.
Somehow…somehow – in ways Clary could not possibly explain, just as she can’t explain why all these people are gathered here, or how she brought back Jace from the dead – Simon is no longer a vampire.
He’s not even the Simon who followed her to the New York Institute, the one Jace helped her rescue from a gang of vampires, or who brought down a Greater Demon.
This Simon has no idea who Jace is.
She catches Jace’s attention, and she knows that he has noticed it too. “Simon,” he says, calmly, a barely controlled emotion judging from the way his jaw clenches and his grip on Clary tightens, “Simon, what date is it today?”
Simon looks at Jace with narrowed eyes. “What kind of question is that?”
“Just answer him, Simon.” Clary places a hand on his shoulder.
Simon frowns, but her touch seems to calm him down. Just a little. “It’s August 16th.”
“And the year?” Clary asks, biting her lip.
“2007.”
Thank the Angel, Clary thinks, letting out a small breath of relief. At least Simon isn’t too far from the Simon she knows.
And yet, a small voice says at the back of her head. He did change a lot in a short amount of time. You both did.
She shakes her head, pushing away the intrusive thoughts. This is Simon, and even if he hasn’t experienced the same things Simon the Vampire, Simon the Daylighter, has lived, he’s still her Simon.
Finally, more people seem to gather their senses. Her mother, Luke, the Lightwoods, and Magnus Bane, whom Clary can’t believe she didn’t notice before. He always did stand out in a crowd, after all, with his styled hair, love for glitter, and flair for dramatics.
She can’t help but feel relieved. If anyone could get them out of this mess, it would be Magnus…right?
“Magnus–“ she starts, but he holds up a hand to silence her.
“No, I don’t know you and no, I have no idea how we ended up here.” He sends her a placating, slightly condescending smile, and the relief Clary felt just a moment before disappears like air out of a ballon.
Of course, if this Magnus were from the same time as Simon, he wouldn’t care about her. He would know her, yes, but only distantly, and he would pretend not to, as per his agreement with her mother.
Clary tries not to feel too bitter about it.
And, speaking of her mother, Jocelyn finally seems to have regained her composure. She eyes the runes littering Clary’s skin with thinned lips, and it only gets worse once she notices the way her daughter clings to Jace as if her life depended on it. Clary is quite sure that it’s only Luke’s reassuring hand on Jocelyn’s shoulder that prevents her from exploding on the spot.
However, before her mother can comment on her appearance, the small brunette Clary had noticed with the group of Victorians clears her throat. “Excuse me. I am very sorry to interrupt, but it seems to me that we are quite a few…people…who find ourselves confused as to our current predicament. Magnus, do you know where we are? Do you know these people, or…?”
This woman– she even sounds like she’s from another era. And British, now that Clary thinks about it.
To Clary’s surprise, Magnus seems perfectly aware of who the woman is. And yet, he doesn’t seem remotely happy to see her, which in and of itself wouldn’t be too out of character for him – if not for the minute widening of his eyes and the slight parting of his lips, almost as if he were taken by surprise. Clary doesn’t think she’s ever seen Magnus surprised.
“Ah, Charlotte.” Magnus looks uncomfortable as he meets the woman’s – Charlotte’s – gaze. “As for your first question, then my guess is as good as yours. As for the second, well…I must admit that I am familiar with most of the people present, to my own misfortune.”
“Wait, so how do you know these people again?” Clary blurts at the same time as Maryse whispers, “Jocelyn?”
Maryse Lightwood has a firm grip on Max and Isabelle, Alec and Robert standing beside them. Isabelle and Alec watch Jace with wide, questioning eyes, while Maryse and Robert look from Jocelyn to Luke to Magnus and back again.
“Maryse.” Jocelyn dips her head in their direction, her demeanour polite, yet cold.
“This is very awkward,” Magnus mumbles in the silence that follows, earning looks ranging from puzzlement to exasperation from the people around him.
But the silence continues, and slowly, all attention is drawn to Magnus. He scowls. “Don’t look at me. This is not warlock magic – this is the power of the angels. Can’t you feel it?” He nonchalantly flicks a speck of loose glitter off his shoulder, raising a brow at the Shadowhunters gathered. “Or are you so far from your beloved Raziel that you can’t recognise the aftereffects of runic powers?”
“That’s impossible!” Maryse protests. “No runes could cause– this.” She beckons to their surroundings, impatiently.
“Wait, wait, wait–” Simon stares widely at Clary, then at Magnus, then at the other people gathered. “Warlocks? Magic? Runic power? Is this some kind of D&D convention?”
Several people stare at him.
“A mundane?”
“What’s D&D?”
“Why was he brought here?”
“What’s a mundane doing here?”
Clary never liked the way Shadowhunters used the word mundane, as if it were some kind of slur. She never liked it, and she doesn’t like it now. She opens her mouth to defend Simon, but to her utter bewilderment and surprise, Jace beats her to the punch.
“The mundane is with us,” he declares loudly, for everyone to hear.
Clary stares at him, and she isn’t the only one – Jace’s family looks even more shocked than she is. For once, the only people looking relatively calm about this entire ordeal are her mother and Luke. They merely nod to what Jace is saying, stepping closer to flank Clary, Jace, and Simon, to face the crowd of Shadowhunters staring at them.
Magnus, meanwhile, is now busy inspecting his nails – although Clary has a suspicion that he’s listening closely to every word of what they’re saying.
“Maybe, introductions are in order?” Charlotte suggests. Her voice cuts through the tension like a knife, and Clary can’t help but admire the way she holds herself. There is an aura of dignity and authority surrounding her. It reminds her a bit of the side she saw of her mother once all pretences dropped, and she learned that her mother wasn’t just an overprotective parent, but something much, much more.
“I couldn’t help but overhear your earlier conversation,” Charlotte continues. “What date did you say it was?”
Despite the calmness she exudes, Clary can’t help but notice the tense set of her shoulders. When no one seems inclined to answer, Clary speaks up. “2007.”
Shocked whispers and muttering can be heard, like a wave of sound travelling through the room.
“2007, you said?” the ginger-haired man asks, a mix of awe and intrigue lacing his voice. “Are you absolutely certain?”
“Of course we’re certain!” Isabelle suddenly blurts, ignoring her mother’s and Alec’s warning looks. “How can’t you know which year we’re in?”
“With Henry, it wouldn’t surprise me,” someone mutters.
Henry’s lips part in protest, but before he can answer, Magnus holds up a hand, effectively silencing the Shadowhunters.
Clary is still new to the Shadow World, but even she can see the hypocrisy of the situation. By now, she has learned that Shadowhunters, consciously or subconsciously, like to view themselves as above Downworlders. Yet, when it suits them, they still run to Downworlders for help – most notoriously, the Warlocks.
“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” Magnus starts diplomatically, sending Isabelle that impersonal smile he’d sent Clary just moments before. “I think we should follow dear Charlotte’s excellent suggestion and introduce yourselves – and the year we came from.”
More muttering breaks out, but before it can turn into full-on arguments, Magnus speaks again. “Allow me to go first – I am, as you probably already know, Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn. 2007.”
People in the room might know Magnus, but Clary can tell from their confused expressions that his title is new to at least half of them.
Jocelyn speaks up next, her voice ringing clearly through the room. “Jocelyn Fray, 2007.”
Luke clears his throat. “Luke Garroway, 2007.”
Clary notices Maryse and Robert frown at the names, but she doesn’t let them comment on them before she speaks up herself. “Clary Fray, 2007.” Clary doesn’t know why she didn’t say Fairchild, but something stops her from uttering the name. After a moment, she adds, “September 2007.”
She can’t recall the exact date, but she somehow has to tell them – she has to tell Simon, her mother, and Luke, that she’s not the same Clary they know. That a lot has changed in the last month – that she has changed.
Her mother’s eyes widen, but she stays silent as Simon introduces himself. “Simon Lewis, 2007.”
Jace goes next. “Jace H–“ He stops, almost choking on the name. Clary wonders if something is stopping them from telling certain things – things people from the past (the past, she thinks hysterically), shouldn’t know. “Jace Wayland, September 2007,” Jace finally says, before pressing his lips together, brows furrowing.
Wayland, Clary thinks, frowning. Sure, that’s the name his family knows him as, if they are indeed from a month back, but it’s been very long since she thought of Jace as a Wayland.
The Lightwoods introduce themselves next. If they noticed Jace’s strange behaviour regarding his last name, they don’t show it.
“Maryse Lightwood, 2007.”
“Robert Lightwood, 2007.”
“Alexander Lightwood, 2007.”
“Isabelle Lightwood, 2007.”
“And this is Max Lightwood, 2007,” Maryse adds, her grip on her youngest child tightening.
The beautiful, black-haired man Clary had taken notice of before scoffs, casting a disdainful look in the direction of the two men beside him. “Seems like you did manage to procreate after all. I wonder who–“
But the silver-haired man places a light hand on his arm, sending him a look that Clary recognises as the kind only exchanged by the closest of people – the kind of silent communication exchanged between people who know each other so well that words often become superfluous.
She has seen Jace and Alec communicate the same way multiple times before.
Charlotte sends the men – or boys, as they might as well be – a pointed look before introducing herself. “Charlotte Fairchild-Branwell, 1878.”
“What?” The Shadowhunters of the present eye the foreign people with renewed wariness.
“You’re from the past, you say?” Robert asks, frowning.
“Or you, ladies and gentlemen, are from the future,” the black-haired man rebukes, raising a single eyebrow in that way Clary has seen Jace do, to her great ire.
Robert purses his lips, but doesn’t argue back. Maybe, he can see the truth in what the man is telling him, even if he clearly doesn’t appreciate his attitude.
“Shall we go on? Or do we have to spend all day exchanging names?” Magnus says, yawning exaggeratedly and glancing at an imaginary watch on his wrist. “I for one, would greatly appreciate getting this farce over with so we can figure a way to get out of here.”
Robert’s cheeks flush, but no one says anything as the introductions continue.
“Henry Branwell, 1878.”
“James Carstairs, 1878. But please, call me Jem,” the silver-haired man adds.
“Will Herondale, 1878.” The beautiful young man grins arrogantly, his deep blue eyes roaming the room.
“Cecily Herondale, 1878.”
“Theresa Gray, 1878. Please, do call my Tessa.”
“Sophie Collins, 1878.”
“Jessamine Lovelace, 1878.”
“Gideon Lightwood, 1878.”
“Gabriel Lightwood, 1878.”
As they introduce themselves, Clary observes the reactions of the other people in the room closely. The Lightwoods show mild curiosity towards their ancestors, and her mother’s gaze is fixed on Charlotte.
When Charlotte’s group have finished introducing themselves, attention is turned towards the rest of the people present.
The young, beautiful man with dark hair and golden eyes (eyes like Jace’s, Clary thinks), steps forth. “James Herondale, 1903.”
Oh. Well, that explains it, she guesses.
Surprised muttering breaks out, but it seems like they have finally accepted that people from multiple years – timelines? – are present, as strange as it might be.
“Lucie Herondale, 1903,” the girl beside James says.
“Cordelia He– Carstairs, 1903,” says the pretty girl with dark red hair. Clary swallows a jab of jealousy at her beauty – why couldn’t Clary’s hair be like that, lush and deep red, instead of frizzy and the colour of old carrots?
The handsome young man beside her smiles as he introduces himself. “Matthew Fairchild, 1903.”
“Charles Fairchild, 1903.”
“Thomas Lightwood, 1903.”
"Eugenia Lightwood, 1903."
“Christopher Lightwood, 1903.”
“Anna Lightwood, 1903. And this is Alexander." She gestures towards the small child holding her hand.
“Ariadne Bridgestock, 1903.”
“Alistair Carstairs, 1903.”
“Grace Blackthorn, 1903.” The girl is petite and beautiful, and her cheeks are stained with tears as she clings to an older boy beside her. Clary notices the venomous glares James sends her, as well as how both Cordelia and Matthew are pointedly ignoring her, but for some reason, Clary doesn’t think that has anything to do with her crying.
“Jesse Blackthorn, 1903,” the boy beside her says before he goes back to comfort Grace – his sister, Clary assumes.
As the last people introduce themselves, Clary looks between Henry, Charlotte, Matthew, and Charles, trying to see if there’s any resemblance to herself and her mother. Apart from Henry’s ginger hair, Charlotte’s small, slender stature, and Matthew’s green eyes, she can’t find really find any. In fact, even Charlotte and Matthew don’t look alike at all.
Clary also notices how the group from 1903 keep glancing towards Charlotte’s group. She wonders if they are the children of some of those people – it would make sense, what with the last names and the years, and she can sympathise with how they must feel, looking at parents who don’t even know who they are.
It seems like Charlotte and the others have come to the same conclusion, because suddenly, her eyes turn intense as she stares at the group from 1903. Charlotte presses a palm against her chest, her eyes wide as her gaze darts between Matthew and Charles. It is nothing compared to the shock evident on Will’s face, however, as he glances between James and Lucie, then towards what Clary assumes must be his sister, Cecily.
“You married a Shadowhunter?” he says accusingly, ignoring the confused looks sent their way.
Cecily throws her hands into the air, glaring angrily back at Will. She suddenly reminds Clary of Isabelle when she’s angry. “How would I know? And how do you know they’re not your–“
“They’re not,” Will says firmly.
Clary doesn’t know if he’s trying to convince his sister or himself. From the corner of her eye, she notices Tessa’s pained expression, and the way both James and Lucie wince. But she doesn’t think anyone else noticed.
Lastly, everyone turns to look at the last group of people who have yet to introduce themselves.
The blonde girl squares her shoulders, meeting the crowd of Shadowhunters with a dignified look. “Emma Carstairs, 2012.”
Clary notices the way James – no, Jem – tilts his head, his silver brows furrowing. What is it with the people from 1878? She supposes it is a bit weird to be meeting the future generations of your family, but the way both Will and Jem react makes it almost seem like they don’t expect there to be any future generations at all.
“Julian Blackthorn, 2012,” the boy beside her says. His gaze turns wary as not only the Blackthorns from 1903, but also James, Matthew, Cordelia, Gideon, and Gabriel turn to look at him.
Clary wonders what the name Blackthorn means to them, since none of them are Blackthorns themselves.
Julian continues, “And this is Livvy, Ty, Dru, and Tavvy Blackthorn. All 2012.” He gestures towards the children flanked by him and Emma, pointing at them in turn as he names them.
“Kit Rook,” a boy standing by himself says. His back is straight and his shoulders squared, but beneath that confident exterior, Clary thinks he looks more like a deer caught in the headlights.
“We are Helen and Mark Blackthorn, 2007,” Helen announces next.
They are the only Shadowhunters from her time Clary doesn’t recognise and for a moment, she wonders what they’re doing with the people from 2012. But then, she realises that they’re all Blackthorns.
What she doesn’t get, however, is why Julian ignores them. The younger children all peek behind his back, trying to get a glimpse of Mark and Helen – but Julian gently pushes them in the other direction, sending wary looks over his shoulder towards the Blackthorns of 2007. Clary doesn’t know what to make of that.
“Cristina Rosales, 2012,” the last girl introduces herself.
Barely has she uttered the last syllable when Magnus claps his hands together, startling several people, including Clary. “And now,” he says with a dramatic flourish, “let’s get to the point. Does anyone have any idea of how we all ended up here?”
Silence so thick you could choke on it settles over the room. Clary feels her heart thrum loudly in her chest, her palms turning sweaty. She has a suspicion that she had something to do with this whole farce, as Magnus had called it. She doesn’t know how, and she’s not arrogant enough to think she has this much power, but she’s also not naïve enough to think that her meeting with Raziel, her creation of a new rune, and bringing Jace back to life – all right before they all ended up here – are completely coincidental.
When no one says a word, Clary straightens her spine. She takes a deep intake of breath as she braces herself, before saying in a loud, clear voice – the same voice she’d used when she spoke in front of the Clave before Alicante was attacked – “I think it was me.”
The silence turns impossibly even thicker. Everyone’s attention is on her, expressions of scepticism, shock, and even outrage evident across the faces in the room. The only people who don’t look at Clary as if she’d suddenly grown an extra head are Emma and Julian. Instead, they slowly nod to themselves, as if Clary’s explanation makes perfect sense to them.
Clary doesn’t get it. Even she can barely believe that she had something to do with this. And she was there when it happened.
Jace is the first person to react. Slowly, he reaches up to cup her jaw, gently raising her chin to make her meet his gaze. “Clary, what do you mean?”
To her relief, he doesn’t sound angry, or even sceptic. Instead, he sounds merely curious.
His reaction makes her confidence grow. “I created a rune,” she says, ignoring the disbelieving looks. “When Valentine summoned–“ She chokes on the words and they get stuck in her throat, making it feel like she can’t breathe. She tries again. “When Jace di– when I brought back Jace after–“ only for the same thing to happen.
She clenches her fists in frustration.
“Ridiculous,” Robert scoffs. “Firstly, Valentine is dead. And secondly, no one can create runes. Whatever you did, I doubt it has anything to do with–“
“Brought Jace back from what?” Isabelle cuts him off, her eyes darting between Jace and Clary. “What happened to him? Whose blood is…” She trails off, a worried look crossing her features as her gaze falls to Jace’s blood-stained clothes.
Jace, however, sends her a grin. “Aw, you’re worried about me, Izzy?”
Isabelle scowls, but Alec speaks before she can start arguing. “Jace, what happened? We were chasing that Eidolon demon when suddenly, everything went white and we were here instead of that storage room and–“
“Eidolon demon?” Jace asks sharply. He tilts his head, making his hair catch the dim light of the room. Lumps of mud and blood stain his curls, but Clary still admires the golden colour peeking through the grime.
She quickly pulls herself back to the present as she remembers where she is. “Storage room?” Clary echoes, wondering if Jace is thinking the same thing as she is.
They exchange a glance.
Alec clicks his tongue impatiently, sending Clary an angry glare before addressing Jace again – as if she weren’t even there. Jeez, does this mean she has to start over with Alec? When he finally seemed to find her somewhat tolerable?
“C’mon Jace,” Alec says. “It was your idea to go demon hunting at Pandemonium Club after we received that–“
“Pandemonium Club?” Simon blurts. His cheeks flush red when everyone turns to look at him instead. He gulps before steeling himself, a slight tremble to his voice as he continues. “I mean, you were at Pandemonium Club too?”
“What’s it to you?” Alec spits, making Simon recoil from the hostility.
Angrily, Clary pulls Simon back, opening her mouth to tell Alec off. She doesn’t notice the way Charlotte’s group tenses at the name Pandemonium Club, because just then, they’re interrupted by a voice cutting through the room.
It is a very strange voice indeed. It’s unlike any voice Clary has ever heard before – neither male nor female, neither young nor old, but something in between and at the same time, everything at once. It sends a chill running down Clary’s spine, and several of the Shadowhunters reach for their weapons only to find that, like Clary and Jace, that they are all unarmed.
“Welcome, Shadowhunters, Downworlders, and Mundanes,” the voice says silkily. Although the voice is far from loud, it is clearly heard, coming from all directions at once. “The child speaks true. She was the catalyst – although do not blame her for your predicament, as it was I who summoned you all hear.”
Clary holds her breath as the strange voice speaks, and she senses that she’s not the only one.
“Past, present, and future Shadowhunters, Downworlders, and Mundanes, of this I ask you: Watch, listen, and learn. To witness what has already happened, what has yet to pass, and some things which may never take place – if you act accordingly.”
Frowning, Clary tries to make sense of what the voice is saying. To her, that almost sounds as if– as if it wants to show them the past? Or was it the future? Or both?
Why couldn’t this divine entity just talk normally, so people from the 21st century could follow?
“Galadriel wannabe,” she can hear Simon mutter beside her.
“The price will be high, but it will be worth it,” the voice continues. “Use this knowledge wisely. Your futures are in your own hands. Good luck.”
A pause follows, wide eyes and renewed shock rippling through the people in the room. It takes a moment before they start gathering their wits and the silence is broken.
“What does it mean, good luck?”
“Does this mean we’ll see the future?”
“What’s this price? What price was it talking about?”
“Who brought us here? Who was that? Or is it an it?”
“By the Angel, do you think–“
A loud bang and flash of sparkling light shoots into the middle of the room, immediately shutting everyone up as they again reach for weapons not there – a habit, Clary assumes, which will be hard to get rid of for the Shadowhunters. She has only been one herself for barely a month, and even she feels the constant urge to search for a stele or a blade by her hip.
Magnus marches from the kitchen (when he had gone there, Clary has no idea) and into the middle of the room, more light sparkling from his palms as he snaps his fingers to get the attention of the Shadowhunters. Now, at least Clary knows who shot that beam of light from before – although, now that she thinks about it, she should probably have known from the start.
“There’s food for at least a couple of months, if not more, in the pantry back there,” Magnus states, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “The bathroom amenities are also quite satisfactory. There are no exits or windows, or any means of escape, either physical or magical, from this place.”
That piece of knowledge seems to unsettle quite a lot of Shadowhunters, Clary included.
“Unless,” Magnus continues casually, “Clary Fray knows how to bring us back, I’m afraid we’re stuck here until we’ve served our purpose – which I believe might take a while.” He flashes Clary a blinding smile.
Clary frowns at him, reluctant to be put in the spotlight again – even if it isn’t entirely Magnus’ fault.
“Are there clothes too?” Jace asks, snapping her out of her annoyance.
Magnus eyes both Clary and Jace critically, his nose wrinkling at the state of their clothes. “I can see why you would ask that. Well, you can go look – and maybe take a shower too, now that you’re at it.”
Clary didn’t know it was possible to feel offended and grateful at the same time, yet here she is. Again, she calms down once she feels Jace’s presence. He starts tugging her towards the bathroom.
From the corner of her eye, Clary notices her mother stepping towards her, mouth open in protest – probably to make objections about her daughter seemingly going off to shower with a boy.
Not that Clary can blame her. Well, objectively, she knows that she can’t, but it still annoys her – she’s gone through a lot and without her mother controlling everything in her damn life, so hasn’t she deserved a break from all the helicopter parenting?
Before her mother can say anything embarrassing, Clary sends her a warning glare. Jocelyn looks torn, but again, Luke’s hand on her shoulder seems to calm her down.
Relieved, Clary follows Jace towards the bathrooms.
She doesn’t notice the way Simon’s and Alce’s eyes bore into their backs as they close the door after them.