Mortal Instruments 1. Chapter 1

_**AN:** So I've been contemplating this for a bit, ever since one of my lovely readers suggested I start saving them so that I could someday post them. Let me backtrack. You see, when I write, if I don't like something or it doesn't fit with the direction later, I usually just go back and delete or rewrite whatever it was I originally wrote. I mentioned this to a reader while we were PM'ing and she suggested I start saving them. I was in the middle of writing the 10th chapter of CoH at the time. And then it happened. A bit I decided didn't fit. And so I saved it in a new file before deleting it. Since then, I have been surprised by how much stuff I apparently change or delete, and that new file has slowly been filling. So then I started to wonder if you guys would like reading it. First I posted this question on my profile page, and I was surprised with how many PM's I got from you guys responding enthusiastically. And then, when posting the most recent chapter of CoH yesterday, I asked again in the authors notes and got another positive response to it. So I decided to go ahead and do it. While I know that it is starting with the 10th chapter, it's what I got. _

_**Also!** **Please, please, please**, pay attention to the notes I write before the outtake. There may be some (one for certain) that might receive more than the T rating that I have given this. On those, I will definitely bold the **M** rating if I feel a particular outtake deserves it. _

_As always, I hope those of you who wanted this, enjoy. And if you didn't want this, but find yourself reading it anyway . . . happy reading. I hope you all get a kick out of it. _

* * *

**Chapter 10: Helpless**

_(This takes place after Jace talks to Max and enters his room to find Clary sleeping on his bed. I decided to not include this during editing. I figured that him not touching her or admitting anything out loud was worse than giving him that release. Yes. I'm mean like that, lol.)_

**_-xxxx-_**

Standing outside his door, Jace's heart thrummed painfully. He rested his hand on the doorknob, but couldn't actually bring himself to go in. She was asleep when he had left, but would she be asleep now? And if she wasn't . . . what was he supposed to say to her. She found him _sickening_ after all. Sighing, Jace opened the door and stepped into the room. He bit the inside of his cheek. The moon was shining through the window and casting it's glow across his bed, where Clary was still sleeping. In the pale moonlight, she looked peaceful and beautiful. He felt like someone was gripping his heart as he crossed silently to the bed. She was still hugging his shirt to her and at one point her nose crinkled to whatever it was she was dreaming. Reaching forward, Jace grazed her cheek with his finger and swept away a ruby curl that lay across her face. Would she find that sickening, he wondered.

Quietly, he lowered himself to his knees in front of his bed and stared at her intently. He didn't know if she was a heavy sleeper or not. His only experience with her sleeping had been when she was unconscious and near death. When she still didn't wake, he turned and sat on the floor with his back pressed against the mattress.

"I love you." His words were barely a whisper, but he still turned his head to see if it had woken her up. It hadn't, so he continued. "I know you say that I can't or that I shouldn't, but I don't know how to stop. I wish I did, Clary . . . tell me how to stop. Please—_please_ tell me how to think of you like a sister and not like—" Jace laid his head back on the bed and looked at her sleeping face once more. She was so beautiful. Every time he looked at her, he could feel himself falling even more in love with her, and now was no different. He couldn't do it, he realized. He would never be able to think of her like a sister. "It's impossible," he whispered miserably, dropping his head in his hands.

* * *

**Chapter 11: The Bro Code**

_(This was the beginning of Avoidance. After seeing Jace call Clary over and over again, Magnus decided it was time to intervene. Originally Jace would have ended up having breakfast with Magnus, but then I decided that Jace might like a shower more, so this got scrapped.) _

**_-xxxx-_**

"That's it!" Magnus swept elegantly into the room, his glittered eyes flashing and a crushed glass cape flowing out behind him. "Phone. Now."

Jace crossed his arms. "What the hell are you talking about? And don't you knock? And what the hell is that?" He pointed at the cape.

"Oh," Magnus smiled, spinning. "Do you like it? I created it myself."

Jace's brow ticked upward. "Just because you like to watch fashion shows, does not make you a designer."

"And just because you say you'll stop pestering Clary, doesn't mean you will." Magnus retorted without missing a beat. "It has been four days and you've called her how many times? Now, while I don't consider you and I bosom buddies by any means . . . I can only stand by idly for so long as you make a complete and utter ass out of yourself. I'm sure there is a 'bro code' somewhere that I am supposed to abide by."

Jace stared at Magnus. Was he serious? The warlock who contained more femininity than most women he knew, wanted to talk about a bro code? "What could you possibly know about the bro code?"

"Not much," Magnus shrugged theatrically. "Though I'm sure there is something in there about guys not allowing other guys to call their sisters and profess their undying love for them—"

"You're not funny." Jace snapped.

"Oh, I don't know . . . I have my moments," Magnus said, sounding bored. "But what you're doing—you're right, it's not funny." And then the warlock sighed. "Just give her time—give yourself some time. Come eat something."

Jace bit the inside of his cheek. "Fine." Turning he reached back for his phone, but just as he picked it up, it disappeared into thin air. He whirled on the warlock, his body tense. "Where is it?" He demanded.

"Eat without your phone." Magnus said. "I'm going to leave it in here."

"Are you serious?" Jace asked, throwing his hands up. Already he was feeling anxiety at not having his phone. What if she called? What if she needed him?

"Not usually," Magnus said, checking his nails for defects. "But this time, yes."

"But—"

"Has she answered any of the times you called?" Magnus cut him off.

"No, but—"

"Has she called you back?"

"Well, no. But—"

"Then chances are you'll be safe for the next half hour while your boney ass eats something," Magnus said, stepping aside.

Jace glowered at the warlock. "I knew you were staring at my ass," he grumbled pushing past him and out the door.

"Don't flatter yourself, cupcake. I've seen better." Magnus called after him, and Jace laughed despite himself. Turning, he looked at the warlock who was close behind him now.

"You remember what happened last time you said you saw something better?" Jace asked, a grin spreading across his face. "Don't make me pull down my pants in order to prove the magnificence of my ass. And don't think I wont."

"Oh, I've no doubt you will," Magnus retorted with a raised brow and still looking unimpressed. "But I will have to ask you not to. I like my eyes and the idea of having to gouge them out is not something I would like to have to do."

Jace stared at him. _So I sicken Clary and I can't attract a gay warlock—good thing I'm so damn good looking, _he thought sardonically.

* * *

**Chapter 11: The Beard **

_(This small excerpt was from when Jace was looking at himself in the mirror of the bathroom.)_

**_-xxxx-_**

This was the one area Jace failed miserably at. It's why he kept himself shaved. He couldn't grow a full beard. All the charm and looks in the world, and yet, he couldn't manage to keep it from coming in patchy.


	2. Chapter 2

_**AN:** Yeah . . . **M.** Definitely . . . definitely **Rated** **M. **Please read with caution, and understanding that this chapter contains very mature content._

* * *

**Chapter 11: The Shower**

_(So I wrote this while Jace was in the shower thinking about Clary. And then I decided that no, I probably shouldn't include it. While I did not think that it was completely out of character for Jace at the time, which was why I wrote it, it was during editing that I remembered that my story was Rated T and I should probably keep it that way. Yeah, it didn't originally end with him deciding that he just needed to spend a while longer in the cold shower, lol. **Again,** **t**_**_his outtake is rated all kinds of M!_**_ Please do not read if you should not be or if you do not like sexual situations.)_

**_-xxxx-_**

Despite the icy water, Jace felt hot—his body like a live-wire. He knew he shouldn't be thinking about Clary like that. Knew that it was wrong. _She's your sister! _And yet, he didn't care. He couldn't care. He loved her—was _in love _with her. And so he did think of her. And he did so in all the ways he knew he shouldn't be. He thought of sitting there in that greenhouse, watching her face light up at the midnight flower. She had kissed him not long after that. Her body had pushed hard against him, and he had felt every part of her tightly pressed to his body. She had molded to his perfectly as he tasted her lips. It had been tentative and new for both of them. Sure, he had kissed other girls before that moment—but it was during that moment that he knew he would never want to kiss another girl again. Jace dipped his head forward into the shower, the icy water sluicing down his naked body. Chills that had nothing to do with the freezing shower rippled across his skin as his chest heaved heavily just at the memory of her. He bit the inside of his cheek as the desire he felt warmed the pit of his stomach. _This is wrong, _he told himself as that warmth spread across his skin. He shouldn't be allowing her to cause this reaction in him, and yet she did. He had no control over his body's response to her. But then, he also knew the blatant truth. If loving her was wrong, then he would never want to be right. Jace laughed dryly at the cliché. He never thought he would think it. But then, he never thought he would someday meet a fiery haired girl with eyes like the Idris meadows and a mouth that could stop him with one breath.

He groaned, his hand slipping down his thigh. He didn't even feel the cold water anymore. He only felt her—her body pressing against his in the Seelie Court. Her desire for him had imprisoned her, and his desire for her had insured it. Only his kiss could save her. That had to mean something, right? Even after all that had happened—all they had been through—that was the truth of it. Only him. Because _his_ was the kiss she desired. Try as she might to deny what she felt now; avoid his calls, refuse to talk to him—it didn't matter. She would never be able to take away from him the fact that she had wanted him. In that moment. She wanted _him._

Wrapping his fingers around his shaft, he squeezed it gently. He remembered how the kiss that had started out slow, careful because of onlookers, had escalated quickly. Remembered how her fingers had traced up his chest, creating chills and driving his need for her. How she had held him just as tightly. She hadn't wanted to let go of him as their lips met and their tongues danced— Jace expelled a sudden breath as he caressed himself harder, his stomach tightening. He threw his other hand against the shower wall for balance as his body convulsed— He wanted her. He would always want her. And he imagined it then—imagined what it would be like lying alone in bed with her unhindered by trivial facts that in the real world would always keep them from being together. In this world, he was able to touch her. Able to hold her supple body to his. He would be gentle as he showed her how much he loved her. He would see how much she loved him in return and it would be right and perfect and . . . and . . . and that was all he wanted. To be _allowed_ to love her. His pace quickened as he felt the orgasm building—his breathing becoming hitched. The more he thought of her, the faster he went. He couldn't help it. Dear God, he wanted her. He wanted her so badly. And then his body spasmed and he shuddered as his body released itself.

Sitting on the closed toilet with a towel wrapped around his waist, he dropped his head in his hands and sighed. That was probably really, really bad. And morbid. _What the hell is wrong with me? _Without warning, his body was wracked with a fit of silent laughter over the question. It was either laugh or cry, because the answer was—_everything. _Everything was wrong with him and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. And then he jumped as a sharp rapping pummeled the door.

"What are you doing in there?" It was Magnus. Of course it was Magnus, Jace thought irritably. Who the hell else would it have been? All the same, he raised his brow as he looked at the door. And then he looked around pointedly at the bathroom—not that the warlock could see him.

"What do most people do in the bathroom?" He called toward the door.

"Most people, or you?" Came the warlock's dry response. "Because those could be two different answers."

"Leave me alone," Jace grumbled, dropping his head back in his hands.

There was silence for a moment and he thought that maybe the warlock had heard him and gone away when, "Fine. I just came to tell you your phone is ringing, but I can see you don't want to be disturbed."

Jace's brows furrowed. His phone was ringing? But who could be—_Shit!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 14: Alec's Thoughts**

_(So when writing this chapter, I had not originally planned to write it in the Inquisitor's POV. Because she scares me. So the chapter had actually been a LOT shorter, and all in Alec's POV. This is what I had written for that before deciding that I was going to give the crazy psycho woman a try.)_

**_-xxxx-_**

The ride back to the Institute was a silent one, and Jace and Alec made sure not to look at one another the whole way. He was surprised with how easy it had been to lie back there at Luke's. Usually the idea of lying terrified him. Which was why he sucked at it. Even then, he knew that Jace saw right through it. The Fearless rune really was something else. And then Alec's eyes narrowed, though it had nothing to do with what he saw out the window. It was because of what he had almost told his parents. What he had almost admitted to Jace after denying it so adamantly the night before and this morning on the porch. Absently, he touched the Mark on his shoulder at the same moment that Jace bumped into him. He looked at his _parabatai _who was sitting in the middle of him and the Inquisitor in the back seat, but Jace was focusing straight ahead. The Inquisitor had insisted that Jace sit in the middle, and that she and Alec sit on each side of him. His plan had worked. The Inquisitor trusted him. Right now, she had her blade trained on his brother, waiting—maybe even hoping—that he would make a break for it. But Alec knew that while Jace may be a lot of things, stupid wasn't one them. At least not all the time. Not when it mattered. No one spoke as his father drove. Not many Shadowhunters knew how to drive cars, and living in New York really made it easy not to have to learn what with the subway systems. But Alec's father had been determined to learn. Guess it came in handy now. Back at the Institute, they had barely made it through the front doors when the Inquisitor stopped.

"Stele, if you please," she said holding her hand out to Jace. Her tone was laced with cold amusement. Giddy almost. It made Alec shiver. "Can't have you trying to free yourself with it later."

"While I would love to acquiesce to your request," Jace said smoothly. "I can't. You see . . . I'm a bit tied up at the moment." He held up his bound hands. "But if you'd like to take these off, I would love—"

The Inquisitor turned away. "Alexander?" She called politely, but Alec still cringed inwardly with irritation. There were very, _very,_ few who were allowed to call him by his full name. Outwardly, however, he simply raised a bored brow. "Would you remove his stele please?"

"Sure," Alec shrugged moving forward. Jace glared at him as he approached but said nothing. Good. Unzipping his jacket, he reached into the inside of Jace's pockets. Usually his heart would be pounding at such closeness, but this time it was still and calm. This made things so much easier. He found his brother's stele in his third pocket and removed it. He wanted to give Jace a look of apology, but he knew better than to blow his cover. And Jace might hit him if he did. So instead he just nodded at his brother, who returned it with a perfectly timed look of irritation.

"I have another stele in my pants pocket if you want to reach for that one, too," Jace quipped, his tone a razor edged feather.

Alec might have blushed if it weren't for the Fearless rune. He might have sputtered and asked what he meant, and then bumbled on about how he was being ridiculous. Instead he only smiled cooly. "Nah, I think you'd like that too much." Taking a step back, he handed the stele to the Inquisitor, who was eating this up. He could see the pleasure on her face as she looked between the two of them. Alec had to bite back on asking her just how stupid she was. Did she really think that he would turn on Jace? That the two of them would hate one another so suddenly?

"Thank you, Alexander," she said pocketing the stele. Together, the five of them crammed into the elevator. Alec noticed that his parents seemed to be avoiding his eyes as well, and he wondered if his lie had fooled them, too. Surely they knew him better than that? But no one spoke as the lift rose. It wasn't until they piled out that the Inquisitor turned to Alec's parents. "If you'll excuse us, this is where we part ways. I have some things to discuss with Jonathan and quite frankly—" her eyes fell on Alec's father. "—I don't trust that you wont try to intervene."

"But where are you going?" Alec's dad asked.

"All in good time," the Inquisitor grinned maliciously before turning to Jace. "Let's go, Jonathan. And don't, for one second, think that I have lowered my blade. So any attempt to run would be foolish."

Jace looked at her like he was bored. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Alec watched silently as they walked away from them. And then his parents left. With nothing else to do, he headed to his room. Some way or another, he needed to get Jace out of here.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 15: The Escape**

_(This was how I originally envisioned Jace getting out of the training room. Usually, I read a few chapter ahead in the book before writing new chapters—and this time was no different. But I didn't get to write this chapter until a week after I had reread it. Because of this, it wasn't until I was writing further into the chapter that I realized this part didn't make sense based on Jace's sweaty arrival, and would require a rewrite.)_

**_-xxxx-_**

Alec cast a look of caution at him, and Jace hung back and watched as he pulled the door open slowly and stuck his head out of the room. It only took seconds, but Jace's heart hammered nervously as he waited. And then his brother looked back at him and nodded before leaving the room. Looking at the door, it fully occurred to him that Alec—his honest, truthful, and Lawful, _parabatai—_was assisting him in a prison break. Man, shit was getting weird. Shaking his head, he followed his brother out of the room and—_what the hell was he doing? _

Up ahead, Alec was strolling casually down the hall with no regard for who might be nearby. He ran forward quickly and grabbing his arm, pulled him into one of the shadows. "I completely understand that _you_ are not a wanted criminal," Jace said pointedly. "But if you can remember that _I am,_ that would be great." But Alec only looked at him with confusion. Did he really not realize what he was doing wrong? While he couldn't be sure, he was almost certain that they were supposed to be trying to be stealthy when breaking out of prison. Moving from shadow to shadow maybe? Jace sighed. "Can we at least try to keep to the shadows?"

At this, Alec laughed—though Jace didn't understand why. In fact, he completely failed to see the humor at all in his logic. "Yeah, I guess," His brother said turning away from him. And from there, they were much more cautious about moving through the Institute. As they rounded a corner, Alec froze and then spun around on Jace with wide eyes. Before he could ask though, his brother shoved him back hard and then jerked open a nearby closet and began stuffing him unceremoniously inside.

"What the hell?!"

"Shut up!" Alec hissed and then slammed the door shut leaving Jace in the dark, annoyed. It wasn't a tall closet so he was forced to crouch awkwardly amongst the unused winter jackets. _Where the hell did this closet even come from?_ he wondered irritably. Seven years and not once could he ever remember seeing it before. And the longer he waited, the more agitated he became. It was stuffy and miserable and he was going to punch Alec when he open the door again. Yep—if _'Inquisitor' _wasn't the first word out of his brother's mouth, he was definitely punching him. He knew they needed to be careful, but he hadn't heard anything even though he had a permanent Audio rune. So what the hell had Alec seen? It seemed like forever before the closet door was opened again, letting in a cool breath of fresh air with it.

Alec pushed his hair back. "Sorry—"

_Wrong word. _Jace snapped his fist forward, catching his brother in the arm. "Some warning next time?" He said, making his tone casual. "That'd be great." As he made his way out of the tangle of jackets, his foot got caught on something under him and he nearly tripped but caught himself on the door frame. He looked up at his brother, who had his arms crossed and looked like he wanted to laugh cruelly at him _Shut up, _he thought irritably disentangling himself and stepping out of the closet. His skin prickled as the cool air hit it. Now that he was out, he could feel Alec's angry glare on him, but he ignored it and looked around. "So who was coming? Why was I shoved so _rudely_ into the closet?"

"Church." Alec said flatly, and Jace rounded on him.

_Tell me you're joking. _But he wasn't joking, and Jace looked at him with growing incredulity. "The cat? You shoved me into a closet because of the cat?"

At this, Alec's lips began to quirk upward as if involuntarily. "It's not like I left you in there."

Jace threw him a withering glance. "Oh yes, and if we could all come out of the closet so smoothly—" His stomach dropped at seeing the look on his brother's face. It was as if he had been slapped. _Fuck! _ That wasn't how he meant it. That— "Alec, I didn't mean—"

"We should keep going," Alec said pushing past him. And then he stopped and spun on him, punching him hard in the arm without warning. Jace stumbled backward holding his bicep. "That's for hitting me," he said, his voice tight. "And for the record, you did not _'come out of the closet'_ smoothly. If I recall correctly, you stumbled and tripped, jackass." And then he grinned and turned to make his way up the hall, leaving Jace staring after him. Biting the inside of his cheek, he shook his head and then followed after him. Luckily, he was not shoved into a closet again.

While it took longer than it usually would, they still got to Isabelle's room rather quickly. Standing outside the door, Jace raised a brow. "What are you waiting for?"

"You want me to knock?" Alec asked surprised. "What part of 'jump out a window' didn't you hear?"

"Oh come on," Jace persisted leaning casually against the wall. "It's not exactly like I can do it." He said logically. "I'd have to call out to get her to hear me, and then I might be heard. The Inquisitor might come running, and personally, I don't think my wrists can take anymore abuse." He held up his burnt wrists for added effect. "I have no clue what my poor hands did to her to offend her so, but she has a serious grudge against them. Surely, you don't what to see them suffer her unfounded hatred—"

"Shut up." Alec rolled his eyes and Jace flipped him off with a grin. "That right there is why she hates your hands," his brother said pointedly with a grin of his own. How many times did you do that to her while she was sticking you in that box of death?"

"Once . . but that was _only _because they were upset over the atrocity done to my beautiful wrists. _Look!" _And Jace made a point to frown down at them sadly. "They'll never be the same again."

"By the Angel, you're ridiculous." Alec sighed.

Jace smiled, looking at him dubiously from under his lashes. "Did it work?"

Taking a breath, Alec said nothing but turned to his sisters door, his hand poised to knock. He hesitated and looked at Jace. "Did you really flip off the Inquisitor?"

Jace snorted. "I may be stupid sometimes, but even I'm not _that _stupid." Well he was—but only when it came to a certain redhead. And the Inquisitor was not a redhead. So there was that. He hoped. Alec on the other hand just smiled and then began to pound on the door. Lowering his hand, he waited. But when no answer came, he looked at Jace expectantly. Maybe Isabelle really was pissed at him.

"I told you this happened last time," he said pointedly.

"Yeah, but I didn't believe you." Jace lied with a shrug. Oh he had believed him, alright. He was fully aware of the tantrums Izzy could have. Also the grudges she could hold. All the same he grinned at Alec. "Prove it."

Shaking his head, his brother turned back toward the door. "Isabelle!" he shouted, pounding again. "Isabelle, open the door. I know you're in there." Just as he began to pound again, the door creaked open, much to Alec's surprise, and Jace took a step away to hide himself. He really was curious about how they would react to Alec if they didn't know he was with him. His brother looked down, but at what, Jace couldn't tell.

"She doesn't want to talk to you," came the voice of Max, and Jace grinned. Alec hadn't mentioned that the youngest Lightwood was involved in the 'Alec Sucks' club. Good kid.

"Max." Alec tried sounding light and persuasive, though Jace noticed that he looked like he might be about to duck. "Come on, little brother, let me in."

But Max seemed to be having none of it. "I don't want to talk to you either." With that, the young Lightwood tried to shut the door smartly in Alec's face, but his older brother was quicker. Jace watched with amusement as his _parabatai_ kicked out his foot, wedging it in the door and stoping it from shutting.

"Don't make me knock you over, Max," he said through gritted teeth and looking at Jace, who took this moment to look up and down the hall to make sure no one was coming.

"You wouldn't." Max called back, and Jace could envision the young boy pushing hard on the door, trying to keep it shut. He was cute, but there was no way he was going to win. Alec didn't seem to really be trying now. He was holding the door with one hand lightly, a look of bored irritation on his face.

"No," he said after a pause, "but I might go get our parents, and I have a feeling Isabelle doesn't want that. Do you Izzy?" He called out a bit louder to ensure that his sister heard him.

From inside, Jace heard the angry screech of Isabelle. "Oh, for God's sake," she cried out lividly. "All right, Max. Let him in."

Alec gave Jace an _'I told you so'_ sort of look followed by a _'Now watch this' _kind of glare, before stepping in and closing the door only halfway behind him. A perfect vantage point for Jace, who moved to the door. From where he stood, he could see Alec's back that was too him, but out of sight, was Isabelle "What the hell are you doing?" Alec yelled, suddenly angry. He strode away and Jace couldn't see him anymore. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?" Judging by the direction in which his brother strode out of view, he guessed Izzy must be near a window. Well, she _did _say she would jump, Jace thought with amusement. And Izzy was nothing if not dramatic.

"Don't come any closer to me, Alexander Lightwood," Isabelle hissed, and Jace had to keep from laughing out loud. By the Angel, she was pissed! He would hate to be Alec right now. "I'm not feeling very charitable toward you at the moment."

"Isabelle—"

"How could you just turn on Jace like that?" She demanded furiously. _Yeah! _he cheered her on. "After all he's been through—" _I've been through so, so much. _"And you swore that oath to watch out for each other too—" _I know! The Audacity! Fucking parabatai's. _

"Not," Alec cut in sounding not nearly as amused as Jace was. "if it meant breaking the Law." _Liar, liar . . ._ he was sure there was more that went with that tune. If he remembered correctly it involved lighting his trousers on fire or some shit. But he didn't have time to try to remember because at that moment Isabelle screamed at Alec.

"The _Law!" _Revulsion colored her voice. "There's a higher Law than the Clave, Alec. The Law of family! Jace is your family!" At this, Jace felt a swell of affection for his overly emotional and loyal sister, and he smiled at knowing that she cared for him as much as she did. _The feeling's mutual, Iz. The feeling is definitely mutual. _


	5. Chapter 5

_**AN: **So as promised, I said I would post this in the COH: Outtakes if you guys were interested, and you were! It really was a big chunk of the original chapter that I had removed. And by "removed", I mean cut and pasted back in so many times I lost count as I struggled with whether to keep it or not. Ultimately, my desire to stay (at least partially) true to the books won out. But I hope you all like it! Let me know . . . should I have kept it in?_

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

**Inquisitor's POV**

He had said no . . . no! What kind of person—what kind of parent—declines to save the life of their child? She had been so sure that Valentine, regardless of his obsession with the Mortal Instruments, would have chosen his son. Jonathan had told her that would happen, though. Not that she had listened. Why would she? What reason could she have possibly had to believe the son of Valentine Morgenstern? And then, as if to add insult to injury, she had arrived on the hellish deck of the demon ship, to find Jonathan bloodstained and battle worn fighting against his father's demons. _Against, not with._ She had grabbed him the moment she could reach him, but the more she pulled, the more Jonathan pulled back. Didn't he realize how hard this already was, what with the fighting going on around them and the blood painted deck? He probably did. And he was probably doing it on purpose, something she found really quite irritating. It was bad enough that he had been right without him making it difficult for her to try to tell him. But the boy kept jerking away. "I need to get to Luke. He's been hurt." And then yanked his arm out her grip. "Let go of me."

Spinning on her heels, she glared at the boy who was staring angrily back at her. "Oh, for the Angel's sake—" Reaching up, she grabbed her hood and ripped it back to reveal her face. "Now will you do what you're told, Jonathan?" Imogen watched him take in her appearance—watched as the realization of who she was hit him—but if she had expected to frighten him into obedience with her presence, she had just been disappointed. Instead, Jonathan's golden eyes narrowed, his jaw setting in that way that was familiar to her . . . She shook it away abruptly, just as she had done the very first time she noticed it. Jonathan crossed his arms, giving her a look that said that she was the last thing he really wanted to see and or deal with right now. She could not blame him for that.

"I don't do what I'm told," Jonathan said, almost as if he were reminding her. He could rest assured that she did _not_ need the reminder. "But," he continued, "I might do what you want if you ask nicely."

Imogen stared at him, trying to decide if he was being serious. It was always so hard to tell with Valentine's child. He had his father's infuriating ability to mask his emotions well, using humor and sarcasm. When Stephen was a child, she used to flick his ear when he smarted off to her or his father. This was the first time since his death, that she felt the strong urge to do it again. She took a breath, surprised by the sudden memory. But then . . . it wasn't the first time that this boy had brought up memories of Stephen in a way that she couldn't understand. "I need to talk to you." Her fingers itched.

Jonathan looked incredulous. "Now?"

"Now."

Reaching forward, she grabbed his arm again, but he kept his ground. Shaking his head, he looked up the ship to where everyone was fighting. Imogen stared too, but only briefly. Casting her eyes back down to the boy, he saw his face go blank as he watched the Shadowhunters that were fighting. "You're insane," he finally said without looking at her. "There's no way—we're in the middle of a battle—"

Anger flooded her. She knew they were in the middle of a battle! She had been the one to call the reinforcements in—not that he would know that. The moment Valentine chose the Mortal Instruments over his son, she had realized her folly. But she had been so sure that he would choose Jonathan—he was his son, for Christ's sake! No parent—no real parent—would put objects before their child! And then when Alexander and Isabelle came running into the library to tell them that the boy had escaped and what he was foolishly planning . . .

She shoved Jonathan back, tired of arguing. He was going to listen one way or another. _"Now."_

_You could have been killed!_ She wanted to shout at him, unsure of why she cared. Valentine certainly didn't seem to care, she thought with painful disbelief. Again, she wondered how someone could not care about what happened to their child. Jonathan looked shocked at having been pushed back by her—and she used it to her advantage. With each step forward, he took another step back. As they went, she fully took in the boys disheveled appearance. He was coated in blood and ichor, his clothes ripped and torn. And there was a deep gash on his arm. How could Valentine had let him fight? He had to know that his son was here—she was sure of it. Why would he not call off his demons? _Because he truly doesn't care what happen to him,_ She realized. The fact that Valentine didn't care whether Jonathan lived or died must have been the reason Imogen had a sudden, overwhelming desire to keep the boy alive. Valentine had told the boy that the Clave would turn against him simply because of who he was . . . and he had been right. She was really tired of making Valentine right. Now she would prove him wrong.

Jonathan backed against a wall, being able to go any further, and Imogen stopped. Reaching into a deep pocket on the inside of her dark robes, she removed two seraph blades and ran her fingers along them. She whispered their names and watched as they shot to life. Then she began to speak the words of binding as thin blue streaks snaked around the blades. Looking down at Jonathan, she saw that he was watching her with confusion and irritation. She wasn't an idiot. She knew that he would get out of any trap she set—he had gotten out of the Malachi Configuration, after all. No, she was merely doing this in order to be able to speak to him without having to chase after him. And with the hopes that it would slow him down and possibly save his life.

With a flick of her wrist she sent the blades sailing, one on each side of him, and watched as they stuck forcefully into the deck. A blue-white wall of light shot up between them, trapping Jonathan between it and the recess of the ship. He looked absolutely furious now. "Are you locking me up again?"

"This isn't the Malachi Configuration," she said flatly. Not that it would matter if it was. "You can get out of it if you want to." And then she sighed, suddenly very tired as she stared at the boy in front of her. The boy that looked so impossibly like . . . Clasping her hands together tightly, she jerked the thought out of her head and tried to focus on the him. She wasn't sure how to start. Jonathan narrowed his eyes. That was where he was different, his eyes. and not just in color, but in shape. She had noticed that right away too, the first time she met him. Not that she had been about to admit that. Why would she? But the fact that he had come waltzing in looking just like . . . it had infuriated her. Now she took a breath. "Jonathan—"

"You mean Jace." Jonathan cut her off irritably, as he refused to look at her. Instead he looked past her, and then off to the side. She followed his gaze out over the water where the Conclave boats sat waiting. "What are you doing here, Inquisitor? Why did you come?"

Imogen had to bite back on a retort. She knew that Jonathan—Jace—had every right to be skeptical of her. And while she didn't do well with insubordination, she would endure it this once. Valentine might have been right about her in the beginning, but he was wrong if he thought she was unable to admit fault. She looked at the boy in front of her. Took in his familiar features that shouldn't be familiar.

"You were right about Valentine," she sighed, meeting his golden eyes now. He looked at her like he couldn't believe what she had just said. He wasn't the only one. She still couldn't understand it. She looked at him, her eyes searching. "He wouldn't make the trade."

"He told you to let me die." The words were flat, but Imogen saw the first honest emotion shadow Jonathan's face. It was brief, but it was there. Painful acceptance. And Imogen was surprised by how much that quick look into his true feelings affected her. She had to bite back on it—she couldn't let her own emotions get in the way. She had done that enough already.

"The moment he refused, of course, I called the Conclave together and brought them here." Her hands began to ache from how hard she was squeezing them together. "I—I owe you and your family an apology."

"Noted," Jonathan retorted, his cavalier mask firmly back in place. And then he was looking past her. "Alec and Isabelle? Are they here? They won't be punished for helping me?"

Imogen took a breath. "There here," she exhaled. "And no, they wont be punished." Jace met her eyes and she shook her head slowly, her own eyes never leaving his face. _He's your son!_ She wanted to scream at Valentine. How could he not care what happened to his son? The thought wouldn't leave her . . . it just replayed itself over and over. Because she knew the pain of losing a child . . . her only child. "I can't understand Valentine," she found herself admitting then. "For a father to throw away the life of his child, his only son—"

"Yeah," Jonathan cut her off with hardly contained annoyance. "It is a conundrum, all right." _Not a conundrum,_ Imogen thought immediately. But it wasn't right either. She would do anything to have Stephen back. Anything to touch his face again. She stared at the boy in front of her. The boy that made her so angry by having the audacity of reminding her of her own son—the boy who teased his very existence just by standing there. How could Valentine not want his son? Her eyes traveled over his face and then down to his torn shirt. What possible reason—he was his blood, was he not? And then she stared at him.

_Was he his blood?_

"Unless . . ." Was it even possible that . . . but no, surely not. She knew that Jocelyn and Valentine had had a son. And she had believed him dead in that house fire just as everyone else had—another trick of Valentine's obviously. But . . . what if that hadn't been a trick? What if his son _had _died in the fire? Would that mean that the boy in front of her now . . . and then her eyes popped open, shock flooding her every limb as she stared at Jonathan's exposed shoulder, stared at the small white star shaped scar set there.

Everything she ever thought she knew . . . _everything she had been sure was the truth_ . . . it all crumbled around. It wasn't possible . . . she looked up and met his gaze with wild eyes, her heart cracking. _That wasn't possible._ He said something, but all she heard was the blood pounding loudly in her ears with each rapid beat of her heart. Stepping through the wall of light so she could see him better—see the scar better—she pointed at it. "When did you get that?" She felt out of control, fear and denial and an aching need slamming into her like a tidal wave.

Jonathan looked down at his ruined clothing, as if noticing the damage for the first time. He looked back up at her, his brow raised. "The shirt? At Macy's. Winter sale."

Imogen shook her head irritably. She was in no mood for his jokes. Not when . . . "The scar," she corrected insistently. "This scar, here on your shoulder." _The Angels Mark._ She could not stop staring at him—studying each of his features hungrily. It just couldn't be possible. Another trick . . . _it had to be another trick._ Only one family—_her_ family, carried the Mark of the Angel.

"Oh, that." Jonathan looked at her like she was crazy. She felt crazy. "I'm not sure. Something that happened when I was very young, my father said. An accident of some kind. Why?"

_His father . . . _Imogen released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "It can't be . . ." her voice was a whisper. How many times had she thought it though? How many times had she struck out angrily at the boy for reminding her of—but Celine was dead! She had died before giving birth, the baby dying as well! "You can't be—"

"I can't be what?" Jonathan's irritated voice reverberated through her head, throwing her into the far corners of her mind and forcing on her a memory she had tried so hard to forget.

_Stephen was so angry, but she had to make him see. He had to understand that joining Valentine was . . . she grabbed his arm and jerked him back. "You can't do this!" she shouted at her son. "You can't be—"_

_But he was already yanking his arm forcefully from her grip. "I can't be what?" He screamed back. "A monster? Is that what you think I will become?"_

But she had never thought Stephen a monster. Not even when he had stopped talking to her. As the memory faded, she looked at Jonathan—the boy she _had_ treated like a monster. The boy who impossibly bared the Angels Mark. The boy who she had never thought really looked Valentine at all, no matter how much she had tried to insist that he did. He looked like Stephen. _I didn't know._ But how? How could that be? "All those years," she began, still in shock as she remembered the story he had told her the first time they had met. The story she had been so sure was a lie. But it _was_ a lie. A much deeper lie than even he realized. "When you were growing up—you truly thought you were Michael Wayland's son—?"

"By the Angel," Jonathan hissed angrily, cutting her off. His fists were in tight balls at his sides. "You dragged me off here in the middle of a battle just to ask me the same goddamned questions again?" Imogen opened her mouth, but he cut her off quickly. "You didn't believe me the first time and you still don't believe me. You'll never believe me, despite everything that happened, even though everything I told you was the truth." And then he thrust his arm out, pointing at the battle that was still taking place. "I should be out there fighting," he spit. "Why are you keeping me here? So after this is all over, if any of us are still even alive, you can go to the Clave and tell them I wouldn't fight on your side against my father? _Nice try."_

Imogen's mouth dropped open, and she could feel as the blood drained from her face. That wasn't what she was—is that what he thought she was trying to do? She could see by the look on his face—a face that she suddenly had the strong desire to touch—that it was. And she had only herself to blame for that. _I didn't know!_ But she knew now. She knew with every aching breath she took that it was true. He was, impossibly, Stephen's son. "Jonathan, that's not what I—"

_"My name is Jace!"_ He screamed at her now, causing Imogen to jump at his outburst. _I'm sorry!_ she wanted to say. Never had she ever been as sorry as she was in that moment. But he was already shoving forcefully past her and kicking hard at one of the seraph blades, the white-blue wall dissolving instantly. She turned, panic gripping her as she watched him stalk away. And all too clearly, she saw Stephen walking away again while she had stood there, too stubborn to go after him. She would not make that mistake again. And he was unprotected! He would get himself killed . . . he . . .

Imogen grabbed up the seraph blades as she bolted after him. She wouldn't lose him. _Not again._ "Jace!" She cried after him. "Jace, you don't have weapon, at least take—" her voice cut off, a gasp replacing it as a large shadow suddenly stood in front of him. The demon, a Scorpios—with its wrinkled face, grotesquely large hands, and deadly stinger—glared down at Jace with hunger. It happened so quick then, Imogen watching with abject horror as the demon's stinger struck out. There would be no way for Jace to block it.

NO!

Imogen propelled herself forward, throwing herself between the demon and Jace—_her grandson_—shielding him. The pain was immense, and she couldn't stop herself from crying out as the barbed tail buried itself in her chest. Through sheer determination she stayed on her feet as the demon whipped it back out of her chest, sending her blood spraying as it did. Meeting the demons hateful eyes with her own protective ones, she grinned . . . the seraph blade still tight in her hand. The Scorpios roared, ready to strike again, and Imogen sent the blade sailing toward the demon. She could feel the blood soaking her clothes, feel the dizziness that usually accompanied mass blood loss, but she forced herself to stay on her feet—to watch as the blade sliced cleanly through the demon's throat. And she continued to stand protectively over Jace as she made sure the demon was dead. It wasn't until after the demon vanished completely, that her legs folded under her.

She could see him now. _Stephen._ He was smiling at her, bright light blazing around him. She wanted to ask him if he knew that his son was alive, but she couldn't find the words. Just looking at him, his golden blonde hair, his blue eyes . . . her heart ached with longing and her body felt like it was spinning. She missed him. _By the Angel, she missed him so much._

"Inquisitor?"

Imogen blinked at the unsure voice. And then she blinked again—a ridiculously exhausting task. Stephen was kneeling over her now—no, not Stephen—Jace. Jace was gripping her arm as he stared down at her. She tried to push herself up, but she was too heavy. She could barely move. And so she stared at the boy. She knew the truth now. She wasn't the last one . . . and her son was not truly dead. With great effort, she raised a hand and beckoned her grandson forward. To her surprise, he came—his ear practically touching her lips so that he could hear whatever it was she had to say. Imogen took a painful breath and released it slowly—using it to get her words out.

_"You're father would have been proud."_

And then she gave in to the exhaustion, but not before she smiled knowing that her sacrifice would allow her grandson to live. Because_ that's_ what family did.


End file.

Mortal Instruments, Drama, Humor