Chapter Text
My phone rang in the back pocket of my jeans. Glancing at the name on the screen, I held it to my ear. “Simon!” I said.
“Where are you?” he asked. “I don't see you at the bar.”
I winced. “I just left work,” I told him. “I'm on my way home to change. I'll be there in ten minutes – twenty, tops!”
“Seriously?” he said. “You're going to be late to your own birthday party?”
“It's not a birthday party,” I said, “it's just drinks with my best friend. Besides,” I added, “I'm not very late.”
“Fine,” he grumbled. “But hurry up. I'm surrounded by attractive strangers and I don't know how much longer I can fight them off.”
“I'm at home now,” I said, unlocking the door. “Just hold out as long as you can.”
I hung up without waiting for a reply and dashed upstairs to the apartment I shared with my mother. The thick smell of oil paints hit me in a wave as I burst through the door of the apartment.
“Hey!” my mom said, not looking up from the large canvas she was working on at the far end of the room. “You going out?”
“Yup,” I said, pulling my strawberry blonde hair out of it's high ponytail. “I'm meeting Simon for drinks.”
“Drinks,” she sighed. “God, I feel old. Don't overdo it,” she called after me as I darted to my room, stripping out of my work clothes as I went.
“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered. I pulled out a dress from the closet and stepped into a pair of pumps. “How come you're still working on that?” I yelled.
“You know I work best after hours,” my mom called back. “Plus, the client wants it by the end of the week so I can't afford to take my time.”
“You cant rush art,” I said, slipping on a pair of earrings as I walked back into the studio.
She snorted. “You can if you're paying for it.”
My heels clicked on the hardwood floor as I hurried over to her. “It looks great,” I said and kissed her on the cheek. “I'm off.”
“Have fun,” she called. “Say 'hi' to Simon for me.”
I paused at the door to grab my bag, then slipped out of the apartment. Fortunately, the bar was only a few streets down so Simon didn't have to wait long. When I found him at last, he was chatting with a gorgeous brunet at the bar with a half empty class of beer in front of him.
“Fray!” he said cheerfully when he saw me. “You're here!”
“I'm here,” I agreed and grinned. “I'm going to go purchase some alcohol now. Legally and everything.”
He shook his head. “It's your birthday,” he said. “First round's on me.”
A few drinks later, Simon was engaged in what seemed like a lovely conversation with a dark haired girl I didn't recognize, her arms covered in tattoos, and I was debating whether or not it was time to call it a night. Simon was still going strong, but unlike me, he didn't have classes starting at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Lucky bastard.
As I was weighing the importance of a good nights sleep against the appropriateness of bailing on my own birthday celebrations, a man slid into the seat next to me. He looked about my age, maybe a little older, with a strong, clean-shaven jaw and striking green eyes.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, with a smile that emphasized the sharp angles of his face.
I smiled back helplessly. “I was just about to go home to be honest,” I replied, biting my lip. “But I suppose I could stay for one more drink.”
The man's eyes seemed to flash in the scattered light of the bar. He waved at the bartender and said, “Another of whatever the lady's having.”
“Thanks,” I said, when my drink arrived. “I didn't catch your name...”
“Call me Marcus,” he said, his eyes flashing again. “And you are?”
“Clary,” I replied. “Clary Fray.”
We chatted for a while, well after my glass was empty, but eventually I caught a glance at the clock and remembered I had an early start the next day.
Stifling a yawn I said, “Thanks for the drink, but I really should be getting home.”
“Home?” Simon whirled around with all the ferociousness of a cat about to pounce. “You can't go home!”
“I really can,” I assured him. “And I’m going to.”
“But it's only eleven!” he sputtered.
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah,” I said. “And I have to be up at six with a hangover.”
He batted that line of reasoning away with a disgusted wave of his hand.
“Good night, Simon,” I said, reaching for my bag.
He snatched it away from me defensively. “Nope,” he said. “The night's still young; you're not leaving me here by myself.”
I yanked the bag out of his grasp. “Didn't really look like you were by yourself,” I told him with a smirk. Then I frowned. “Where's your friend?”
He shrugged. “She just left with your 'friend',” he replied, pointing behind me.
I turned to see the two of them leaving, practically arm in arm. “Figures,” I said with a snort. “And now I’m leaving too. I'm sure you'll find someone else to talk to.” I leaned in to kiss him on the cheek and turned to go. “Oh dear.”
“What?”
“Marcus left his wallet,” I said, scooping it up from where it lay in on the counter. “Maybe I can still catch him.”
I hurried for the door, running awkwardly in the unfamiliar shoes. I stumbled out into the night just in time to see the two figures disappearing down an alley.
“Marcus!” I called out after them. “Marcus, wait!”
Neither seemed to hear me so I followed at a trot, the pavement swaying unnervingly beneath me. When I rounded the corner of the alley, I had to lean against the wall for a moment to steady myself. When I was certain I could stand without falling over, I finally looked up.
My hand flew to my mouth, trapping any sounds of surprise before they escape my lips. The girl Simon had been talking to had Marcus pressed up against the wall, a knife the size of my thumb gleaming against his throat. Two men hovered behind her. A pistol hung loosely at one man's side while the other, a blond, flipped a knife easily between his fingers.
Intent on their victim, none of them seemed to have noticed me and I took a careful step back into the shadows before any of them thought to look my way.
“Did anyone see you leave with him, Isabelle?” asked the man with the gun.
“It was a good lift,” she replied. “If anyone noticed, it didn't look like anything out of the ordinary.”
Marcus snarled something in a language I didn't understand and swung at Isabelle with a claw-like hand.
In a single, smooth movement, the gunman raised his arm and shot Marcus' hand away from the girl. As the crack of the gunshot echoed through the alley, he retrained the muzzle of the gun on Marcus' forehead.
My fingers twitched, wanting to reach for my phone. Would they notice the light from the screen? Would the cops arrive in time to do anything?
“He looks human,” Isabelle mused.
“They often do,” said the gunman.
“I know,” Isabelle replied. “It just makes it harder.”
The blond rolled his eyes impatiently. “Either kill him or get out of the way so someone else can do it,” he snapped.
“Jace,” said the other man, a faint warning note in his voice.
I bit my lip. They were going to kill him – me too, probably, if they saw me, but they were definitely going to kill him and soon. If it weren't for the haze of alcohol adding making the whole scene seem utterly surreal, I would never have considered intervening.
But I was decently drunk.
I let Marcus' wallet fall from my fingers and pushed myself into the dim light of the streetlamp. “Hey!” I yelled, my voice ringing hollowly through the street.
Four pairs of eyes fixed on me, gleaming in the darkness.
The blond leaned toward the other man and said, “Who's she?”
“That's this jerk's mark,” Isabelle replied.
“You can see us,” said the blond, the one with the knife. It might have been a question.
I frowned. “Yeah,” I said slowly. “What's going on?”
“We're going to kill this idiot,” Isabelle snapped. “You're welcome.”
“I'd actually figured that out already,” I muttered. “Why? If you want money he doesn't have any – his wallet's over there!” I pointed.
“She thinks this is a mugging,” sneered the blond.
“It's one explanation,” I said.
“You're drunk,” said the gunman sharply. “Turn around and forget about this.”
A tempting offer, to be sure. I hesitated, my store of irrational courage beginning to falter.
Before I could answer, Marcus took advantage of the distraction, surging forward, knocking Isabelle over. The gunman fired but his aim had slipped and his shot caught Marcus in the shoulder instead of between the eyes.
Marcus lunged at him, his green eyes glinting, bright and unnatural. His face was twisted into an inhuman expression of maniacal glee. His fingers biting, like steel cables, into the flesh of his opponent's neck as he bore the both of them to the ground.
The third man responded quickly. In a heartbeat he's had his knife against Marcus' throat. He didn't hesitate before jerking the knife upward in a spray of arterial blood. Black arterial blood.
Everything hung suspended for a moment, still and silent... then Marcus crumpled, collapsing in on himself in abrupt movements, until there was nothing left.
I stumbled back with a sharp intake of breath. “What the hell was that?” I asked, my addled brain desperately trying to make sense of what was happening.
“A demon,” the blond snapped, wiping the blade of the knife clean on the hem of his shirt. He turned to look at me. “What the fuck are you still doing here?”
“You killed him,” I said lamely.
“Yeah,” said the blond impatiently.
“Jace,” said the other man, getting to his feet, “leave the girl alone. It's time to go.”
Before anyone could say anything else, Simon rounded the corner, sounding out of breath. “Clary!” he said. “Are you alright? I heard yelling.”
I stared at him, dumbfounded. Shouldn't he have been a little concerned about the man with the gun?
“Did you find the guy?”
I blinked at him and looked back at the three behind me, their weapons in plain view. They were watching the exchange in silence.
“Yeah,” I said slowly.
“Then why are you still standing out here by yourself?”
I frowned at him in confusion, then looked back at the others. Isabelle favoured me with an apologetic shrug. Was I the only one who could see them? Was I imagining the whole thing?
Without another word, the three of them walked away, past Simon and out of the alley. I watched them go, at a loss.
“Fray,” Simon said, grabbing my attention. “Earth to Clary?”
“What?”
He shook his head. “Come on,” he said. “Let's get you home.