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

Chapter 13: Painful

PART 2: Hell Hath No Fury

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Chapter 13: Painful

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Isabelle slept in her room, her hand pillowing her, her cheeks and the pillow below here stained with salty tears.

Fifteen minutes ago she had had a terrible, terrible fight. Her mother still barred Simon from seeing Clary, claiming she would when the time was right. Not really being able to do anything to sway her mother's decision or even let Simon in, she had tried to reason with Simon but it had somehow morphed into them yelling at each other and Simon stalking away.

Now, here she laid, eyes swollen and on the brink of sleep.

Everytime she was sure she was about to slip into the void of dreams and peace, a sense of uneasiness slipped into her, making her toss and turn in her bed, the springs creaking underneath her weight.

She tossed onto her back, staring at the ceiling.

"Ouch," she muttered, looking down at her collarbone. She had been unconsciously rubbing at the spot that was in between her shoulder and collarbone.  It was burning away dully, like someone was holding and butane flame to her skin.

She pulled aside her vintage white blouse, looking at the skin.

It was the patch where her parabatai rune was, still a silvery scar on her body but it was burning uncomfortably. Isabelle sat up, looking at the rune in puzzlement.

Her stomach churned uncomfortably, the burn reminding her of the time when she thought Clary had died as the rune had gone inactive.

Worry and panic slapped her in the face sharply.

Clary.

She jumped out of bed, pulling on a pair of jeans before slipping out of her room.

Isabelle started with a quick pace, her footsteps soundless against the soft carpeting but it quickly morphed into a jog which quickly accelerated into a run, her hair whipping behind her as she did. She flew up a the short flight of stairs that would lead her to the third floor, to Clary's room.

She slowed to a jog, stopping a few feet from Clary's room.

What if she was just being paranoid and slightly on edge? What if Clary was sleeping? What if—

Isabelle harshly shoved the unconfident and un-Isabelle Lightwood side of her down a mental dark abyss of the other crappy and mundane habits.

Gritting her teeth and without even bothering to knock, Isabelle placed her hand on the knob and twisted. Much to her surprise, it turned and clicked open, granting Isabelle access. She had expected to door to be locked but it being it open shocked her—and denied her the chance to break the door down.

"Clary?" Isabelle said, peeking in. The bed was still neat, the duvet still flat against the sheets, not even a crease to imply that someone had slept on the surface visible.

Odd.

Isabelle's eyes wandered and widened to the point where she could practically feel her eyeballs beginning to slip out and practically the whole world, sky and universe came crashing down on Isabelle.

The wardrobe door hung open slightly and Clary lay in an unconscious heap at the bottom, her fiery hair splayed in a mess around her face.

"Clary!" Isabelle shrieked, rushing to Clary's side. She fell to her knees, brushing Clary's wild hair aside. Her eyes were darting frantically behind her pale eyelids. A small trickle of blood ran from her nose and there were a few drops of blood on her shirt. A light sheen of perspiration covered Clary's forehead as she took quick, laboured breaths.