Archive of Our Own ^beta

NEW YORK

She breathes in. And he breathes out.

SIBERIA

This is a resurrection, little sister, he says, and laughs. He looks like she’d always imagined he would. Valentine’s jaw and her mother’s hair, and maybe something of her in his eyes.

She looks at him and is not sure what she feels.

You should have stayed dead, she tells him.

.

She feels better with a knife in her hand. She keeps it tucked in her sleeve, pressed against the bone.

Jonathan’s eyes widen when she stabs it through his throat. For a moment, the two of them hang suspended in the moment, the metal pierced through his skin, and then blood comes pouring out of her mouth.

.

We’re one, little sister, he tells her. Don’t you see?

She raises a hand to her throat, healed now. I’m nothing like you, she says.

.

The snow washes everything in white. Inside, Jonathan watches her every move. When she shifts, he does too.

How long are you planning on keeping me locked up here? she asks him.

We’re both fugitives, he says. Looking at him still catches her off guard, as if every time she sees him she is expecting someone else instead. Where else are we supposed to go?

PARIS

Shedding her own clothes feels like a betrayal, the skin bared to the room raw, the brand on her chest a wound.

Lilith’s clothes go over it, silk and then wool. When she steps out from behind the divider, Jonathan’s eyes on her are a surprise. She’s reminded, unbidden, of that first party at Magnus’s, how Jace had looked at her like no one else had before.

You look beautiful, he says.

He does, too, a disconcerting thought. She thinks it might be easier if he looked more like the demon she knows he is, if he didn’t look just like the brother she’s always wanted.

.

Why are we here? she asks him. They’re walking the streets of Paris, side-by-side.

There’s something about the city, as if everything is familiar and foreign at once, that appeals to her. She’s always wanted to see Paris.

Can’t I take my little sister to Paris? he says. I thought it would make you happy.

She shoots him a disbelieving look, and he laughs. He looks happy, his hair tinted red in the sun, a scarf thrown over one shoulder. Happiness is a good look for him, brightening his eyes and softening his harsh features, the square jaw, the arch of his eyebrows. It makes him look like a boy who would want to take his sister to Paris. The lie pains her, an ache deep within her chest.

The truth this time, she says.

He grins, but acquiesces. There’s something I’m looking for. A gift.

.

The cafe is not the sort of place she would ever associate with Jonathan. It’s sunlit and pretty, and the owner greets him by name. He holds out her chair for her, while the owner brings them coffee and croissants.

Do you like it?  

She does. It feels like sort of place that only exists in books. If anyone else had shown it to her, Jace or Simon or Maia, she would have melted. With Jonathan though, it feels like a test, another layer to his facade. Still, two can play this game.

I love it, she tells him. The smile that spreads across his face is dazzling. She wants to claw it from his skin.

AMSTERDAM

What are you looking for? she asks him.

They’re on another errand, another shop of old things, cabinets and rusted jewelry and porcelain dishes. In this one, like all the others, he disappears into the back room with the owner while Clary waits outside. She could run, she supposes, has considered it, but she wouldn’t get far. And she can’t return to the New York Institute until she has something to tell them, some way to barter for her freedom. For now, the smartest thing is to stay put, to play the game out a little longer.

Can I trust you? he asks.

His eyes are intent on her in a way that makes her uncomfortable. He has an intensity to him that’s unsettling, all that crazed energy focused on her.

Yes, she tells him. She’s proud of how firm her voice sounds. You can trust me.

He steps forward into her space, grasping her by the arm. She makes to pull away, but he tightens his grip. This close, she can see the freckles spread across his nose.

Meeting his gaze is difficult, but she’s never backed down from a challenge before.

I’m looking for a weapon, he says, finally.

His smile is frightening. I’m going to destroy the demon world.

.

He takes her to the Rijksmuseum to tell her his plan. Walking the airy galleries, she keeps getting distracted by the paintings, flashes of vibrant color over his shoulder.

They stop in front of one of Lucifer falling from heaven. The angel’s face is anguished, his body a warped masterpiece.

Why would you want to go to war with the demons? The, Aren’t you one of them? is implied.

He’s quiet for a moment, regarding the painting. Clary finds herself studying him instead. It’s rare that she gets to watch him when he’s not watching her. Seeing him look at the fallen angel, she wonders if he’s marking similarities.

I have my reasons, he says.

And what about Lilith?

He turns to her then. She doesn’t understand him at all in this moment. She’d thought she had him all figured out, but he keeps surprising her. What about her?

Isn’t she your family?

You’re my only family, he says.

.

The sun sets over the streets of Amsterdam, coloring the water in oranges and pinks. The beauty of it is striking, and she has the sudden urge to paint it. It’s been so long since she was an artist, not a warrior, that the thought is surprising.

Jonathan stops her on a bridge by the Rhine.

What? she asks.

His hands in his pockets, his eyes soft, he looks endearingly boyish. Don’t look at me like that, she thinks. Like you have a soul after all.

I wanted to say thank you, he says. For agreeing to help me.

I haven’t agreed to help you, she says.

He smiles suddenly. With the fading light on his face, he could be one of the paintings in the museum, something biblical.

You will, he says. Don’t you want to save the world, Clarissa?

IDRIS

The manor is a husk, the roof caved in, the walls blackened and crumbling. They both stand at the top of the hill staring down at it. Clary wonders if he’s imagining what she is, the impossibility of it all.

Should we go closer, he asks her.

Clary doesn’t want to see anymore. She wants to go home, to New York, to the apartment that she had once shared with her mom, to back before her life had become so convoluted she hardly recognized it. How was it that her entire family was dead except for the boy standing next to her? If she closes her eyes she can almost imagine him as the brother she had always wanted, not the monster she got instead.  

No, she says. Let’s leave this place.

VENICE

They find the sword in a second-hand shop in Venice. Clary feels like she should be used to myth coming to life, but the sword still looks like something from a fairytale to her, one of her drawings, not something she can touch. When Jonathan emerges from the back carrying it, for a moment he looks like a hero from a story. And then she blinks and he is her brother again.

In a rush, Jonathan pulls her to him, picking her up and spinning her around, releasing her before she can think to push him away.

Let’s go celebrate, he says, moving back from her and sheathing the sword. Soon, we’ll be heroes, little sister.

.

The lights of the club wash his face in neon lights. Clary thinks back to Pandemonium, where this whole thing started, where a whole world that she could never have imagined revealed itself to her.

Two drinks in and she feels loose limbed and giddy, the pound of the bass thrumming in her chest.

His gaze on her is tiring, and so she closes her eyes and just lets her body move to the music. Maybe it’s wrong to relax in his presence, but if feels good to dance, to pretend for a moment that she’s there for herself, that her life isn’t one endless farce.

Liquid rains down from overhead, and her eyes blink open. Silver streaks across her arms and face, matting in Jonathan’s hair. He looks pretty like this, streaked as if with paint.

Fairy drugs, he says, swiping a finger across her cheek, smearing the liquid. He watches her as he raises that finger to his lips.

She wets her own lips on instinct, and her tongue floods with the taste of the drug. Her eyes widen, but he just laughs, tipping his head back, the line of his throat long and vulnerable.

Don’t worry, he says. It’s harmless.

.

The night trips by strangely after that. She remembers laughing, her hair a whirl of orange around her face, dancing close enough to Jonathan to touch, everything a blur but his face in close up.

She remembers sitting by a fountain in a piazza, her feet bare now, him turning towards her, her voice, soft and strange, saying, Why are you doing this? and him looking at her, an intoxicating blend of defiant and vulnerable, and saying, It’s what you do, isn’t it? Save people.

You’re not like me though, she says, reaching to touch his face. His hand closes on her wrist, keeping her palm pressed to his cheek.

But I want to be, he says. You can teach me.

.

Who do you belong to?

I belong to you.

But of course, she dreamed that one up.

MADRID

She finds him in the kitchen, cooking a full breakfast, eggs and french toast and fresh-pressed juice.

I was going to bring you breakfast in bed, he says, not turning around. I’m assuming you’re still feeling last night.

He’s right. Her head is pounding.

Who do you belong to?

What’s the next step, she asks him.

He turns to face her, and she feels self-conscious suddenly in the too-large t-shirt she had woken up in. It must be his, she realizes with a flush. His eyes linger for a moment on her legs, and then he’s turning back around, and flipping the toast on the skillet.

He clears his throat. Well, he says, First we’re going to need a warlock.

.

He takes her with him to the meeting this time, a display of trust. She wishes she understood if she trusted him. She shouldn’t, she knows, but she wants to with a strength that surprises her. How much simpler her life would be if he wasn’t lying. Still, it seems too much to hope for.

Well look who it is, the warlock says, leaning against the doorway to her apartment. She’s unfairly pretty with teal hair and the kind of slinky grace Clary could never manage. I thought I told you I never wanted to see you again.

Aw, don’t be that way, Mal, Jonathan says, grinning.

Clary looks between the two of them, appraising. It wouldn’t be surprising if Jonathan had dated people, not really. He’s handsome, and charming when he wants to be, but the thought still makes her uncomfortable.  

Who’s this? the warlock asks, gesturing to Clary.

My sister, Jonathan says.

Her eyebrows raise. Clarissa Fairchild?

Morgenstern, Clary says. Actually.

.

You think she’ll do it? Clary asks, shucking her jacket.

The fabric of her shirt stretches with the movement, revealing her shoulder. Jonathan pauses, staring, and she follows his gaze to the bared rune, healed now, but still dark against her pale skin. The hunger she sees in his eyes unnerves her. She pulls the shirt back up to cover it.

Probably, he says, turning away. She owes me one. Still, we need to wait for the blood moon for the ritual. There’s plenty of time.

.

Jonathan is pacing the apartment, a frantic back and forth. His mania is frustrating Clary as well, a hum beneath her skin.

Spar with me, he says, suddenly, turning towards her.

Clary looks up from the book she’s reading. It’s strange how easy it has been to fall into a routine, to accustom herself to living with a monster.

Getting antsy after not killing anyone in awhile? she asks.

Something like that, he says, rolling his shoulders. Scared?

She responds by setting down her book.

.

Her first punch surprises him and he staggers backwards with the blow. The resounding sting on the side of her face is worth it.

Good, he says, coming towards her.

He swings out with his right leg and she blocks it with her left. And then their arms meet. She can feel the ghost of her marks on him on her own skin. It distracts her, and he knocks her legs out from under her, and they both tumble to the ground. For a moment, he hangs over her, and then she’s rolling them so that she’s the one pinning him down. She wants to mark him, to tear into his skin, to destroy, no matter the consequences. The urge is surprising, and so overpowering she is not even sure it is her own.

Do it, he says.

Jonathan’s eyes are blown wide, his hands coming up to grasp her hips where she’s straddling him to press them closer.

Do it, he repeats.

Her hand pauses mid-air. She rolls of of him, disconnecting them, her breath caught in her throat.

She flees the room, unsure why it is she feels as if it’s him who won.

.

Why don’t we go to the Clave with this, she says. Jonathan is laying out the details of the ritual for her, though he keeps enough back that Clary’s not sure she could describe it to the Clave herself. I’ll only stay a little while longer, she thinks. Just until I know for sure.

Jonathan scoffs, pausing where he’s chopping vegetables. She’s sitting on the counter watching him work.

What? It’s a good idea.

You think they’d allow it? Our father was wrong about many things, but the ineptitude of the Clave was not one of them.

My friends think I’m dead, she says. She’s been thinking about it a lot recently, why she hasn’t called them. She’s had plenty of opportunity to steal a phone or to run. But she hasn’t. And the longer the time wears on, the more she wonders what it is she would say. How would she explain this to them?

It’s necessary, Clarissa, Jonathan says. They’d be obligated to turn us into the Clave. And the Clave would just hunt us down and stop us. Once we’ve done it, we’ll be celebrated for stopping the demon threat.

He goes back to chopping.

Don’t call me Clarissa, she says. It’s what Valentine had called her.

The silence settles between them for a moment. And then.

Clary, he says, softly. The reverence in his voice shocks her, though she supposes it shouldn’t. He’s never made it a secret how he feels about her.

Will you let me go, she wonders, once the demon threat has been stopped, once you no longer have any claim on me?

.

As the blood moon approaches, Jonathan’s mania grows. The feeling lives in her own chest, and she wonders, not for the first time, what all the bond entails, how much of him is pouring into her.

You’re driving me crazy, she tells him.

Do you want to help me burn off the energy? he asks. His gaze is appraising.

Fuck you, she says, but it doesn’t have the vitriol it would have three months ago.

He smiles. I didn’t think so.

He shrugs on his jacket, tucking a fearsome looking knife into a sheath across his chest.

Don’t stay up, he says, moving towards her and pressing a kiss to her cheek before she can think to protest.

She waits up for him anyway, unsure if it’s obstinance or curiosity. When he finally arrives back home, blood-spattered and satiated, at first he doesn’t see her. He looks a mess, red streaked across his face, and his clothes riddled with tears. When she stands up from her spot by the fire, his face twists with surprise and delight.

You waited up for me, he says, pleased.

She should ask him who it is he’s killed this time, but she finds she doesn’t want to know. She has more than enough blood on her hands.

Reconsidering my offer? He pulls his torn shirt over his head. The skin of his back is smooth, unmarked by Valentine or Lilith. She thinks of the burned monster he’d been before, and shudders.

Don’t be disgusting, she says.

.

A week before the ritual, Mal sends them to the farmer’s market for supplies. It’s full-summer now and the market is sun-dappled and pretty, full of squalling tourists and natives haggling over prices.

They’ve been in Madrid a month now, on the road for three.

Jonathan talks to the merchant, a half-demon, in lilting spanish, while Clary shields her eyes from the sun and watches the crowd.

For you, he tells her when he finishes, presenting her with a rose.

For what? she asks, eyebrows raising.

His smile is sardonic, A token of my affection. He reaches up and tucks the rose behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her jawline.

Clary! she hears, and turns, startled, jolting away from him.

Jace, Isabelle and Alec are advancing towards them. Seeing them is a shock to her system, and a wave of shame washes over her, though she can’t say for what.

Jonathan steps between them, putting his arm up to shield Clary. She’s not sure what the point is. Whatever hurts one of them will hurt the other.

Don’t you touch her, Jace says, fiercely. When he meets Clary’s eyes over Jonathan’s shoulder though, he looks confused and off-balance. Why aren’t you running? he seems to stay.

The rose is still in her hair.

Alec draws his bow, and Clary cries out, tugging Jonathan back. He makes to start towards the other Shadowhunters, and Clary pulls on his arm.

Let’s just go.

Clary, he says, a warning.

Let’s just go, she repeats.

He looks back at her. There is anger brewing in his eyes, and something else, something unnameable and vast. After a moment, he takes her hand, and they run.

She doesn’t look back.

.

We were fucking betrayed.

He’s stalking the streets so quickly that she has to run to keep up with him.

We don’t know that.

How else would they know exactly where we were going to be?

He takes the stairs two at a time, slamming a shoulder into the door when they get to the top so that it blows open.

The apartment is stripped clean, nothing left but a giant wooden table too large to move. Jonathan lets out a howl, bringing his hand down on the table hard enough that the wood splinters. Pain blossoms across her palm.

Jonathan bends over the table, breathing heavily.

She comes up behind him, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. He shudders where she touches him.

We’ll find another warlock, she says.

He turns to her in a swift movement, pulling her into him. He’s still shaking and his grip on her is  too tight, his fingers digging into her back.

Jonathan, she says.

You stayed, he says. A revelation. A prayer.

It’s just so that I can monitor his plan, she tells herself, but she doesn’t make him let go.

NEW MEXICO

They find their warlock in a dive bar outside of Santa Fe. Everyone in the place is already drunk when they arrive, mainly tourists in cowboy boots and raunchy shirts. The warlock isn’t there yet, so Clary and Jonathan settle into a corner booth to wait.

Jonathan spins his bottle around and around, not drinking.

Why didn’t you go with them? he asks. Your friends. He says “friends” as if he’s reluctant to admit any connection.

Clary has her excuses at the tip of the tongue, but none of them seem right.

I said I would help you, she says, finally. We do this together.

Jonathan is watching her with such intensity that she feels her face heat, and she takes a sip of her beer to avoid meeting his gaze. He makes as if to say something, but then sits upright, distracted.

He’s here, he says.

.

I can do it, the warlock says. He’s leaning against the doorway to the backroom, somehow managing relaxed instead of ridiculous even though he’s wearing a bright red kerchief and matching boots. There are little horns peeking out of his curly black hair. I have my price, of course.

Which is?

A night, he says. With the girl. He gestures to Clary.

Jonathan starts forward, knocking the warlock back against the door, his hand to the warlock’s throat. A joke, the warlock wheezes, hands raised in surrender. Jonathan looks reluctant to let him down, and it’s only when Clary sets a hand to his arm that he surrenders, stepping back and rubbing a hand over his face.

I think you’ll do it for free, Jonathan says. For the insult.

Warlocks don’t work for free.

How about for your life?

The warlock looks as if to object. How about a travelling apartment, Clary says, stepping forward.

The warlock looks intrigued. Those are hard to come by.

So is an end to the demon realm, she says.

Jonathan shoots her a sour look, but doesn’t disagree.

Alright, the warlock says. You have a deal.

Good, Clary says, and then draws her hand back, punching the warlock hard enough that blood spatters across his face. His nose must be broken.

I didn’t think your joke was funny, she says, smiling.

.

Jonathan keeps the sword in his room, on the hooks above his bed. Clary stands in the doorway to his room, hesitant. In sleep, Jonathan curls in on himself, small and vulnerable. She has to crawl over him to reach the sword and every placement of her hands and knees feels like a challenge.

She pulls the sword from its hooks, holding it for a moment in her hands, exalting, before she feels a hand on her ankle.

What are you doing? Jonathan’s eyes are bright specks in the darkness.

Nothing, she says.

He pulls on her ankle so that she falls onto her back, and swipes the sword with his other hand. She huffs a breath, staring up at the ceiling but doesn’t make a move to go. He puts the sword back in his cradle before settling over her, pinning her down with a leg over both of hers. In the moonlight, his face is pale and strange. He doesn’t say anything, just stares down at her.

Promise me you’re not lying to me, she says. It feels too intimate to be talking to him like this, like lovers whispering in the night.

I’m not lying, he says, softly. I would never lie to you. If he is lying, he is very good at it. He moves her hair back with his hand, his fingertips brushing against her face.

Jonathan, she says in warning.

I’m doing this for you, Clary, he says. Everything I do, I do for you.

She wants to believe him so badly it’s a physical ache.

She twists, arching, so that she can roll him over. He goes without a fight, letting her hold him down with her body weight. Her hair falls between them, blocking out the rest of the world. If you betray me, she tells him. I will destroy you.

He smiles, then. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

.

The ceremony happens in the middle of the New Mexico desert, all around them the beautiful emptiness of the sandy plane. The warlock, Federico, draws symbols with salt and ash on the ground, while Jonathan paces.

Jonathan had explained it to her several times, though the theory had involved a little too much interdimensional science for it to make much sense to her. Essentially, the Morningstar sword controlled the rift between the two worlds, Edom and Earth. They would open it and then let it feed in on itself so that it would implode.

Some demons might slip through, he’d said, reluctantly. That’s why we’ll be there to stop them.

The fact that she might just be helping him unleash a new wave of demons on Earth has been haunting her. She’s armed herself with so many blades she feels as if she is made of metal now. She won’t go down without a fight.

It’s beginning, Federico says.

The rift opens in the night sky and she can see the skyline of Edom, red and burning, reflecting in the blood moon. Jonathan’s face tightens. And then the dimensions begin to fold and they can hear screaming.

The breath rushes out of Clary.

It has begun.

.

Fighting side-by-side with Jonathan is like nothing she’s ever experienced before. She thinks back to what Jace told her about him and Alec, that there was no human bond that could compare to them, that in battle their hearts beat as one. Clary had never really understood, but she can now. She can feel him. The pass of his blade through demon flesh. The turn of his head to the left. The contraction of his stomach as he ducks to avoid a stinger.

He breathes in. And she breathes out.

.

And then it is over. The bodies don’t disappear, but stay, rotting and bloody on the ground. Clary is covered in blood and ichor, and there is an aching wound on her arm from when a demon tore into Jonathan, but the rush of the fight is still coursing through her, and she feels giddy and unlike herself.

We did it, Jonathan says, coming towards her.

The steps he takes are large and he is upon her in a moment, his hands going to either side of her face as he lifts her up and kisses her. He tastes like blood and metal, and kisses like he wants to lose himself in her.

She pushes on his shoulders and he pulls back, though not far, keeping his forehead pressed to hers.

I’m yours, he says. And you’re mine, aren’t you?

A strange, tumultuous joy is rising within her, a buoyant, overwhelming feeling that cannot be her own. It terrifies her.

Let’s go home, she says.

NEW YORK

Clary feels as if she is returning to the city as someone else. Not Clary Fray. Or Clary Fairchild. But Clary Morgenstern, someone she is not sure she even knows.

Jonathan takes her hand as they are walking up the steps to the Institute. She looks down at their hands and then up at him.

For luck? he says, grinning.

She rolls her eyes, but lets him keep her hand.

.

You’re saying that all the demons are dead? Alec says, looking skeptical. All of them?

It hadn’t been the reunion Clary had been imaging. Really she’s just counting it as a success that the Shadowhunters hadn’t murdered Jonathan on the spot. For his part, Jonathan has mainly stayed behind Clary, letting her do the talking.

All of them, she says.

Even the Greater Demons?

Clary turns to Jonathan and he nods.

You killed your own mother? Isabelle asks in disbelief.

Jonathan’s smile spreads across his face slowly, overtaking it. With pleasure, he says.

The other three Shadowhunters look unnerved. Jace pulls Clary to the side, glancing back at where Jonathan is watching them.

Clary, he can’t be trusted, he says. He killed dozens of Shadowhunters, men that I trained with.

And he just helped to eradicate the demon threat forever, she says, whispering. I think that allows him a little leeway, don’t you?

Jace narrows his eyes at her. This is Jonathan we’re talking about, he says. He’s too dangerous to be allowed to live.

Clary recoils. We’re bonded, Jace, she says. She pulls aside her shirt to show him the rune. It’s so seamless now it feels like her own skin. Whatever his fate is, it’s mine as well.

Clary, Jace says gently, taking her by the arms. He’s looking at her in an unfamiliar way, as if she is fragile and needs protecting. She doesn’t need anyone to protect her. We don’t know how the rune is affecting you. We need to monitor him, and you.

You’re not locking him up, she says, shaking her head.

When she looks back at Jonathan, he is still watching her. He tilts his head, as if to say, I told you so.

He can’t be allowed to leave.

.

Jace comes to see her in her old room. The moving apartment has been her home now longer than than this room had been, a strange thought.

Hey, he says, gathering her to him. She lets herself melt into him . I thought I had lost you, he says into her hair.

I know, she says. She knows he has a right to be angry with her. She could have told him she was alive, and she didn’t. She could have come with him back in Madrid, and she had chosen Jonathan. I’m sorry.

Don’t be sorry, he says. His smile is rueful. Just don’t leave again.

He moves towards her slowly enough that she has time to move away, but she doesn’t. She lets him kiss her, lets him press her back towards the bed, lets him press bruising kisses to her neck, lets him, lets him, lets him. Tries to close her eyes and pretend that she’s still the same girl he fell in love with.

.

But that night she goes to Jonathan.

He’s sitting on the bed, head in his hands, his skin washed white by the moonlight. She can see the harsh marks of Jace’s kisses on the side of his bare neck, going lower, and a flush of shame washes over her.

How are you? she asks.

He looks up at her through his lashes. There is an angry intensity to him now, like he is just waiting to be set off.

A cage by any other name is still a cage.

It’s temporary, she says. They’ll come around.

He comes towards her, pushing himself off the bed. He walks forward until he’s caging her against the door. Her heart pounds heavy in her chest.

Clary, he says. Just her name, but he sounds anguished. Like she’s tearing apart. Tell me you don’t feel this too.

She wishes she could understand what it is she feels, but it’s all a tangled up mess inside her, every emotion rolled into one. Pain and anger and longing and a fierce sort of protectiveness. And above it all, this vast and endless need that could belong to either one of them.

She kisses him instead of answering. He goes limp against her for a second, and then he is kissing her back, hungry, pressing her to the door and plastering himself against her. She finds she can feel him like this too, a different kind of battle, his hands on her waist, her thighs, her throat.

She spins them so that he is the one against the door, and it is her rising up to meet him. His hands dig into her back like he could keep her there.

When she pulls back, his pupils have swallowed his eyes, and there is a slack-jawed and shocked reverence to his expression that is humbling. He runs a thumb over her lips, swollen as his are. She must have bitten his lip, or he had bitten hers because there is blood on their mouths.

Clary, he says again, as if he has nothing else. Clary, Clary, Clary.

.

I think there’s a way to get rid of the bond, Isabelle says. While you were gone, we looked into all the ways Lilith could have been trying to bring Jonathan back. And we found out about the story of Michael and Lucifer...

Isabelle keeps talking, but Clary has already stopped listening. It makes sense to break the bond, she knows, on a practical level. A life tied to someone else’s is dangerous. Even if she does trust Jonathan. Still, the thought of destroying it horrifies her.

What would happen to Jonathan? Clary asks, frowning.

Isabelle’s expression tells her enough. No, Clary says, firmly. You’re not going to hurt him.

Isabelle’s voice is soft when she comes towards Clary. This is the rune talking, she says. Jonathan is manipulating you.

Clary pulls her hand from Isabelle’s grasp. Believe it or not, Izzy, she says, shaking with fury. I can make decisions for myself.

.

Was this your plan? she asks Jace, storming into the training room. To kill Jonathan?

Jace turns from the punching bag, unwrapping his covered hands. To protect you, yes.

I don’t need your protection, she says, moving forward and clawing at him. He grabs her by the wrist and then they are grappling. She feels wild and out of control, as if Jonathan has unleashed something inside her that has remained coiled for too long.

Look at yourself, Jace says, shoving her off. You’re not yourself, Clary. Not with him haunting you.

Fuck you, she says, landing a punch to the side of his jaw. She expects to feel the responding pain on herself, and it is almost a surprise when he just stumbles away from her. She feels as if she should apologize, but she’s not sorry.

I won’t let you hurt him, she says, breathing hard. That’s who I am.

.

The door to Jonathan’s room bangs against the wall. He looks up in surprise from where he’s reading on the bed.

We’re going, she says. Right now.

His eyebrows raise, but he stands up. Alright, he says, pulling on his coat.

No one’s going to hurt you, she says, coming forward and grabbing him by the collar. He doesn’t seem bothered by her manhandling him. Not while I’m around.

His eyes flutter closed, as if her statement were overwhelming to him, and he leans into her touch, pressing his forehead to hers. I belong to you, he says. It’s what he’s been saying all along. Everything I am is yours.

Come on, she says. Let’s go.

She takes his hand and moves to pull him from the room, but he pulls her back into him for a moment, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to her mouth. I knew you’d come around, he says, releasing her. The sun has turned his eyes clear and pale. I knew you’d come for me.

Her gaze softens. Always, she says. I will always come for you.

.

Where to now? he asks her once they hit the streets

She smiles up at him. Anywhere we want.