The Mortal Instruments: City of Past Ghosts (Book 1)

Chapter 5: Demon

Chapter 5: Demon

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Clary ran, her feet burning and her muscles protesting.

She didn't even stop to see if the blonde had followed her, just ran in the direction of her home.

She stopped momentarily by the corner of a busy street, not wanting or ever wishing to be squashed into a human pancake to the sidewalk by a passing SUV. It was not exactly a priority on any where on her to-do  list.

When a few decent drivers stopped for her to cross, Clary began running again, sweat running down her temple even though cool wind blew in her face frequently.

She was grateful that she had memorized the streets like the back of her hand. Every breath that she took in was like fire razing down her windpipe and into her lungs, quenching the thirst for air but agony at the same time.

The distance seemed to stretch endlessly before her and she felt as if she were in one those dreams where you would run for hpwhat felt like hours but ended up going nowhere.

Gritting her teeth, Clary told herself that each ringing sound of her shoes beating against the pavement or asphalt told her that she was really moving.

She skidded to a stop when she reached her house, bracing herself against the fence as she gasped.

The door was literally hanging open—by a single hinge. The wood was splintered here and there, sticking dangerously out.

"Mom? Mom?" Clary screamed at the top of her voice as she dashed into the ruined house.

Cautiously, Clary stepped in and nearly cried.

The windows were smashed and the pillows sliced open, stuffing spilling out like the insides of a gut. Her mother's much cherished coffee table was overturned and looked like someone had hacked at it with an axe or knife, the wood dented and cut. Black splotches of foul smelling liquid stained the carpets and frankly was burning holes through the cheap Persian carpets. Glass and wood splinters littered the floor.

"Mom?" Clary whispered, her insides feeling like someone had stuck it in a blender and put it on high.

Then Clary noticed the blood.

Fat drops of blood was splattered on the hardwood floor, resembling the house to a slaughterhouse.

Ice crawled up Clary's spine as she followed the blood that from drops had slowly morphed into smears, like someone's boot had slid and slipped on them. Maybe they had.

Her stomach churned and her head spun.

What had happened here? Did burglars break into the house?

Clary looked back into the living room.

These burglars, if there were any, be bloody stupid burglars then.

Not one expensive equipment had been taken.

In fact, the New Age LCD television had spiderwebbing all over the screen and was on the floor, faint wisps of smoke emitting from the ruined device.

"Mom!" Clary screamed, another wave of heart wrenching panic surging through her as she inched forward through the living room—looking like a mine had gone off in here. Her mother's room door was hanging open and Clary dared herself to entered.

The door was hanging ajar by only one rusted hinge, more blood—blood the color of oil slick and crimson alike—smeared on the once white painted wood. Clary slowly entered the room, her eyes on the black and red stains smeared in gruesome and grotesque patterns. She turned, hearing a thump.