Running Away From Jace

Impossibilities

It took two drawn out breaths for her to push open the carved doors. She could just see the elevator, and for whatever reason, found herself wondering whether or not it still made that faint squeaking noise when it ascended.

Stepping into the metal crate, as Allison often referred to the contraption, Clary found a teensy voice in her head, reprimanding her for her lazy posture and quickly straightened herself; as if an icy shiver had just crawled up her spine. And perhaps one had, for all the things going through her head, she would've had half a mind to notice.

She knew it was impossible, but—she felt the glamour, on her skin, like a costume meant to be skin-tight, though in reality it was a little loose-fitting. It was a feeling she didn't want to get used to, a feeling she didn't plan to get used to.

Seeing her reflection, however—albeit a blurry version in the metal walls within the elevator—startled her, and made her somehow feel even more sober. She was herself, but...different. She looked vaguely familiar to herself, but Clary didn't think anyone would recognize her—it was too much of a risk. This wasn't a wicked nightmare she was having—she had to face her fears, and that was that. Even if those fears were no longer of the boogieman hiding in her closet or residing under her bed.

The elevator lurched as it came to a stop, and she jumped a little in surprise. She was used to all these things, yet it felt as new and strange as if she were walking on her legs for the very first time.

The echo of the soles of her shoes hitting the impeccably clean floors was the only sound within the seemingly confining walls of the Institute. It was an eerie sound, but not quite as unnerving as the feeling of emptiness that had sank to the pit of her stomach, that swirled about like ribbons in the air.

It felt—it felt as though not a person had inhabited the place since she had been there last.

XXX

The Consul was as Clary remembered her, just with perhaps a few more white hairs streaking her black hair and lines creasing her delicately crafted features. Jia Penhallow, however regal and refined looking she may have been, still radiated an aura of warmth and kindness.

She could not say the same for Robert Lightwood—who's once-black scruff had turned gray-ish white, and his eyes held the kind of crow's feet that did not seem like they came from smiling so heavily—who looked much colder and distant. And that was saying a lot.

Clary couldn't help but wonder if he even talked to his children nowadays. The redhead highly doubted it.

"There is no need for glamours in the Institute." Robert informed her curtly, his voice deep and gruff—as though it hadn't been used in quite a while.

"Will the head of the Institute be present?" Clary shot back, though not unkindly. She knew how she needed to act here, how she needed to hold herself to be allowed to head back to LA as quickly as possible.

"Not that we're aware of," Jia responded, pushing a graying strand of clipped black hair back behind her ear. "Though if it makes you more comfortable, Miss Fairchild, you may keep your glamour about you."

"Thank you, Consul—though I'd prefer if my name, or the issue at hand, not be brought up with the head of the Institute. Or the inhabitants."

Robert scowled, looking away from Clary, the mother of his granddaughter—not that he would ever know, if all went the way she was hoping—as if he couldn't say what he wanted if he looked directly at her. "You cannot ask such a thing—it is the responsibility and duty of the head of an Institute to know what is happening within the walls of—"

Jia raised a hand to silence the Inquisitor, folding together her hands together and resting them upon the oak desk beneath her. "I will not deny her of the request, Inquisitor. The least we can do is offer privacy to Miss Fairchild, considering the matter at hand." The man who might have one day been her father in-law grunted a low response, which she didn't hear.

"Now, we only wanted to meet with you today to discuss...to discuss the terms of your observation." Jia began, Clary watching her carefully. If she knew the Clave as well as she liked to think she did, then she knew that there were some terms and conditions that would be listed in the fine print—a fine print she would not be aware of.

She gestured for Jia to continue on. So the elder woman did. "There has been necromantic activity and suspicious murders in the area, and we..."

"We have our suspicions," the Inquisitor finished in a grunt, his toned arms crossed over his chest. Once, Clary thought, Robert might not have been so hardened and weathered by the years...like the blond man she suspected wasn't far. Not with the Consul and Inquisitor visiting.

The redheaded woman straightened in her chair, folding her hands in her lap, attempting not to wring them and fidget. She couldn't show her nerves, could not allow them to read her like an open book. Not if she wanted to go home unscathed and as soon as possible. "I'm sorry, Consul, I don't know—I'm not sure what role I'm supposed to play in this."

"To put it bluntly," it was Jia who was wringing her hands atop the table, her black-silver hair falling in her face with the motion. "The Council suspects you of the necromantic activity, despite the fact that you have been low on the Clave's radar this past decade or so. This fact, however, has made a few members of the Council plenty more suspicious that it is you."

Her jaw felt as if it had been unhinged and she swore she could feel it brushing the delicately crafted tiles that formed the stunning image of the Angel Raziel rising from Lake Lyn that one could only view from the library's top floor.

"Who—who does the Council think I would risk my neck to resurrect?" Clary breathed, feeling her heart slam itself over and over again against her fragile-feeling rib cage.

"Sebastian Morgenstern," Robert grunted out through clenched teeth. Clary feared that if he ground them any harder together they'd break all together had he'd be left with sharp stumps in his mouth.

"As far as we know—"

"Consul"—Robert's voice was gruff, a little coarse as he swallowed—"we have disclosed quite enough information—"

Jia held up a hand to silence him. His mouth shut slowly, his lips thinning until there was but a slice of pale pink across his face for lips. "We traced the necromancy back to Los Angeles, and found no signs that the attempt was unsuccessful."

In that moment, Clary felt like she might have been sucked back in time, a whirl wind of thoughts and emotions clouding her vision and all she could think was—was that her brother was back. For better or for worse. But naive as she wanted to be, the redhead knew that no one would raise the greatest criminal in Shadowhunter history to help old ladies cross the street.

This was a declaration of war.