Summary: (human au) When a masked figure attempts to end Clary's life, her mother goes to extreme measures. She hires an Jace Wayland to protect her until the threat has diminished, but Clary finds that when danger and desire mixes, the results turn to be more dangerous than the killer.

Disclaimer: I do not own "The Mortal Instruments".


When Clary walked into the room, the first thought to cross her mind was how numbing the cold was, completely ignoring the extravagance of the room. A spike of chilled bumps sprang on her bare arms, and she grit her teeth lightly, looking to the people surrounding her to see if they were as cold as she. They seemed fine, so she ignored the icy atmosphere and tried to focus on her surroundings.

The room was extremely wide, but the ceilings were low—they were as low as the ceilings in her house, but the room spanned to be ten times the size of the home she previously shared with her mother. The low roof seemed like it was caved in, but she was fairly sure that the sagging look of the ceilings was simply a trick the light was playing with her eyes.

"Clarissa?" The voice came from someone—a man she didn't know well, half a stranger—to her left, "Are you feeling all right? Your teeth are chattering."

"They are?" The redheaded girl put a hand to her cheek, feeling the vibrations of her teeth chattering against it, "I wasn't aware." She chose not to correct him on her name, not quite caring if the man she knew she would part with soon assumed that she went by Clarissa.

"Do you need a coat?"

"No, thank you. I'm fine." Clary offered him a smile, then walked a few quick paces to catch up to her mother. "Mom."

"Bored already, Clary?" Her mother's eyes landed on one of the paintings in the room, and her eyes lit up with a smile. She walked more closely, most likely to observe the finer details, and Clary followed.

It was some sort of art convention, and though Clary had accompanied her mother to plenty, this one in particular was strange. The room—and temperature—was strange enough to her, but the lack of paintings was surprising to her.

The walls were wide, but the paintings were spaced well, and Clary could count exactly twelve paintings lining the walls. The box of a room could easily hold thirty sixty paintings, possibly more, but she assumed that they were trying to focus on specific works of art rather than a massive amount of colors and textures.

Her green eyes floated over to the painting her mother was fixated on. A simple leaf was illustrated on the canvas, and though it was detailed brilliantly, she could not understand her mom's fascination in the work.

Clary tried to look at it more closely, tilting her head as though to look at it from a different perspective. She didn't find anything out of the ordinary at the angle, and opted for asking her mother, "Mom?"

"Hmm?" There was a lost tone in her mother's voice, and Clary knew that her mother had heard her speak, but hadn't grasped onto the words. She waited for her mother to turn to look at her for a few impatient moments before stepping closer to her mother, rubbing her arms in an attempt to warm herself.

"What are you—what is that?" Though Clary had changed the question at the last moment, the question that arrived prior wasn't her smartest. She could see by pure observation that her mother was infatuated by the leaf, but she had aimed more closely towards asking why her mother was staring at it.

"It's a maple leaf, Clary." Her mother spoke simply, "It's quite detailed, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is," Clary said quietly, stopping herself from adding 'for a leaf' to the end of her remark. Her eyes floated around the room, and she decided to play the more interesting game of 'count the people in the room'. She could spot more than eighty, but her objects persisted to move, so the game was harder than she intended.

"Something wrong, Clary?" Jocelyn finally brought her gaze away from the painting to set her eyes on her daughter, eyes skimming the flesh of goosebumps on Clary's arms before settling on her unamused face. "You're awfully quiet—you should smile. We don't attend showings like these every day."

Clary only nodded, and followed her mother to another painting.

Though the freckled girl was nineteen years of age, she often followed her mother simply because she believed her mother needed company. She believed that her mother wished to have someone similar to her by her side, so Clary followed her to the sort of events her mother loved.

Even now, she lived less than twenty minutes away from her mother—though, she was sure the distance would be much shorter if the streets were not so perpetually busy. The traffic-filled streets were a curse of living in New York, but she bore it with a simple grin and pretended to love the excess amount of people as much as all the other residents did.

She could easily imagine a life that was much more simple, but she didn't dare leave her life in New York—she had too many ties to the state. She had her mother, Luke, Simon, and her friends—though she didn't care for them as much as the main three—and was unsure who would have more trouble with her leaving: her or them.

"I thought Luke said he would come," Clary said casually, her thoughts reminding her of the man who posed as a father to her. "Is he running late, or did he decide against coming?"

"I'm not sure, Clary, but you know that Luke hates these events—there isn't enough excitement, and God knows how much activity he needs in his life." Clary caught some fond smile spreading over her mother's face, and Clary grinned in return.

Though Luke posed as a father, Clary never thought of him in that way—he entered her life too recently, and the fifteen years she had lived without a dad ingrained into her mind that she did not, and would not have a father.

She knew little about her biological father, but she knew that she would never call him her dad—the title held meaning, and she didn't care to give meaning to a man who had been absent from the day her mother became pregnant.

Clary knew little about her father, but she knew his name was Valentine. She knew that he loved Jocelyn more than she loved him—he was a jealous man. Clary remembered Jocelyn telling her that Valentine proposed to her the night he discovered she was pregnant, but she rejected the offer. The next day, he was gone without so much as a note, and Jocelyn rarely spoke of him.

Clary disliked her father, but she was curious—she had no pictures of him, and only knew his forename. The small information was not nearly enough to go by, and if she wished to, she would be unable to track him down—how could you track down a man who was a masked mystery?

She didn't know so much as his surname—Clary had obtained the name 'Fray' from her mother, and was happy with the name.

She was perfectly content; there was only a small part of her that was curious as to her father's identity.

She wondered if her true father, unlike Luke, liked to paint.


An hour trickled by, and the large room filled with countless bodies, all talking and laughing with easy words and gestures.

Everyone in the room was infatuated with themselves, ignoring everyone else around them. They seemed to be filled with a sense of self-importance—they cared too much about how they looked and who was looking at them, and they cared nothing about everyone else around them.

Nobody noticed the man in black, hidden in the frame of a window, but how could they? He was hidden in the shadows perfectly, and everyone was too focused on themselves to notice the masked man, or the gun he was holding with patient hands.

His lips curled into some look of disgust, some hatred for society, some hatred for the girl he was looking for. She was easy to spot, but he was too hidden to see the flash of her hair, and too distracted by the strangers that he already hated.

He found them to be pretentious, faking interest in the paintings that they truly ignored—he assumed that they were simply faking a desire to look upon the works so that they would look higher in the eyes of society, the eyes that he hated with some coal in his heart.

If anyone could listen to his thoughts, they would think him to be insane, and perhaps he was—who could hate a mass of people with such a fever by simply looking at them?

But it was possible to him, and it wasn't insanity—it was the only thing he truly knew, and the only thing that made sense to him.

He knew hatred like he knew the back of his hand. He had mastered the art of hatred, and perfected the act of revenge over the years he had spent basking in some half-mad weave of twisted thoughts. He had learned how to seek out the darkness in a person and twist it to something worse in his eyes, and he had mastered the art of seeking out goodness and turning it into some form of stupidity.

How could someone truly be happy in a society as fucked up as the one they lived in?

He had heard teenagers speak about how they hated the society they lived in, but the young souls had no clue how to hate someone the way he did—true hatred, in his eyes, was wanting to twist the light away from a person and leave them in a perpetual state of horror, and finding bliss in imagining their torture.

He had dreamed of killing her so many times—in his cold eyes, she was the root of his problems, his torture, his insanity.

He blamed his madness on her, and the idea of it only made him angrier, twisting his every day thoughts into ones of how beautiful it would be when her heart would stop beating.

And then, he saw it: a shock of flaming hair, and a blink of eyes as green as emeralds.

He lifted his gun, and placed his middle finger on the trigger of the gun, zeroing in on his target and smiling.


"Mom," Clary said, pushing past a group of laughing women to reach her mother. They treated her with annoyed glares, but their anger faded in a moment, and they returned to sipping the sparkling champagne in their hand. "Mom."

Jocelyn smiled at her daughter, pulling out a simple plastic bottle of water and hydrating herself—she had never cared much for alcohol, and didn't believe she needed the substance to enjoy art, "Are you having fun?"

I've been looking at the same twelve paintings for three hours, but they only get more and more interesting. Clary bit back the remark, and opted for smiling at her mother, "I'm about ready to leave, but if you want me to, I can stay a bit longer."

"All right, Clary; we'll be going in about ten minutes. I need to find someone." Her mother's voice was raised so that her daughter could hear her over the rapidly speaking mouths in the room. Clary didn't bother asking who her mother was looking for—she wouldn't know them either way—and settled for following her mother.

It took a while to navigate the crowded room, and finally, they stopped at one of the emptier spots of the room. Clary was glad to stop and breathe—she was glad that the room was no longer chilly. The extensive crowd had heated the room with their own body temperatures, but now the room was clouded with a plume of different scents of perfume. Clary lightly put a hand to her nose, not caring that the action was considered as rude, and wrinkled her nose slightly.

Her mom was speaking, and Clary tried to listen, ". . . now I can't find him for the life of me, and I'm sure he'll call tomorrow. I'm sure he's still here—he's looking for undiscovered artists—and he requested for me to meet him twenty minutes ago, but I can hardly remember what he looks like. Even if I could . . ."

For whatever reason, the redheaded girl had difficulty listening, and she nodded slightly to signify that she was still listening. Though the room was now uncomfortably warm, a shudder seized her, and her chest constricted with some feeling.

It felt as though a block of ice had wedged in her chest and blocked her breathing. Clary winced—she felt winded, but she hadn't exercised in any way to induce the lack of breath. She smiled at her mother, trying to keep her face plain, and let her eyes scan the room.

Her green orbs floated among the crowds, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and she tried to ignore the ice. The feeling was impossible to ignore, so she gave in to instinct, and let her eyes fly upwards to the windows.

One of the windows was open, and through the crack in the window, she saw a shadowed figure holding an instrument of death: a long gun, pointed at who she thought to be her mother—her lack of training with guns made her oblivious to the fact that the gun was aimed at her, not her mother, but she knew that there wasn't any time to assess the situation.

There was a finger poised on the trigger.

"MOM!" Clary shrieked, whipping herself to the side to knock Jocelyn to the floor in the same moment that the trigger was pulled.

A blinding pain dug into her shoulder, and Clary felt herself falling limp as the room emptied in a mass exodus of people, wishing to preserve their lives. As her eyes fluttered closed, she heard a few frantic voices calling the police, reporting a wounded teenager and the location, and she felt her mother trying to hold her up.

Clary's trembling hands went to her shoulder, and her fingers came back wet, covered in thick blood that looked almost black. A stab of pain raced through the teenage girl, and she cried out an unintelligible syllable before her vision went black.


Notes: How was that for a first chapter, and what did you think of the POV of the psychopath/killer?

Question of the day:

Who is your favorite male fictional character? I like Tate from American Horror Story, Tobias/Four from Divergent, Klaus from The Vampire Diaries, Magnus and Jace from The Mortal Instruments, and Finnick from The Hunger Games. (wow that's a lot)

Questions, comments, or thoughts? Leave a review c: