Dancing with Strangers

"Jace," Isabelle says quietly, "you're not—going to tell Alec, are you? Or my parents?"

They're in a dim, dank little alley, and she's wearing a short skirt and impractical shoes and she's going to throw up, oh God, she's going to throw up.

Filthy Downworlder, she thinks with a brave stab at disgust, even though she's still so shaken, horrible, filthy Downworlder. She'd never been as vehement as her parents in her contempt for those the Nephilim policed, had actually thought Downworlders, while still inferior, were kind of fun and exciting and—

And that's what had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

Jace had been staring in the direction the warlock had gone, intent and predator-still. He turns to look at her now, but she can tell he burns to chase after the Downworlder. He stays with her, though, and distantly she realizes how much that means.

"No point," he says at last, and crouches down to where she is huddled on the pavement. "I expect you've already learned from your little misadventure."

Isabelle doesn't respond, but her silence is indication enough. Oh, how clever she'd thought herself, sneaking out her window to see a young, handsome warlock she'd met. Her parents are gone and Hodge stays in his library, so she hadn't expected anyone to notice her absence for a few hours.

Then again, she'd been thinking in terms of her dear, self-involved elder brother, when she should have been thinking in terms of Jace.

Jace, her brother-not-brother, with his gold hair and flippancy and winter-cold eyes. Jace, who smiles and banters and kills demons without batting an eyelash. Jace, who had noticed she sneaked out and tracked her down, found her struggling with her warlock suitor in this horrible little alley, and promptly sent the half-demon running like hell.

Not that she'd needed his help. Because she'd been handling the situation, once she'd realized the object of her affections had a grudge against Shadowhunters and a thing for breaking pretty girls. But feeling so sly and invincible had stalled the realization, stalled it until it was almost too late, and she'd had trouble fighting in her stilettos…

Never again, she decides grimly. Other girls would have taken the incident as a reason to wear sensible shoes, to sacrifice fashion for functionality, but—

Isabelle is a person unto herself, and she is set to dedicate her whole life to killing demons. She is a child-soldier already, with all the hardship and restrictions that entails, and she'll be damned if she'll let her job dictate her footwear as well.

So she'll learn to fight in stilettos and pumps and boots, and she'll look fantastic while she kills demons left and right, and she'll never need anyone's help, not ever again.

But.

She rises to her feet, brushes herself off. "… Thanks." She tosses her hair as if the word doesn't tear at her pride, but she knows Jace sees right through her. He never seems to quite see her, but somehow he's always aware of the things she tries to hide.

It's really, really obnoxious.

He tilts his head, considers her expressionlessly, and she wonders if there will ever be anyone that can figure out what goes on in that blond head.

And then: "Want to go get some waffles?"

Isabelle smiles her damn-the-torpedoes smile. "I thought you'd never ask."

AND THEN THEY ATE WAFFLES.

And it was beautiful.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Mortal Instruments.