Chapter 1


I wake up to my phone screaming that obscenely annoying jingle that rang through my skull. Seriously, even though it's the "age of the smart phone", I love my reliable flip phone. But it only has about five ringtone choices. Shaking my head, I peer down at the caller ID on the little front screen. Hodge Starkweather—my publicist. I groan inwardly, flipping the phone open and pressing the green "call" button.

"Hello?" I mumble into the receiver. I love, Hodge, don't get me wrong, but he really does like to push my buttons.

"Clary—did you just wake up?" he asks in a very parental tone. I push myself out of the comforting embrace of my mattress and zombie-walk down the stairs leading up to my loft style bedroom and across the hard wood floor of my apartment to the large bathroom.

"Maybe," I garble around my toothbrush.

"Clarissa Fray! You are twenty-two years old!" he scolds while I spit my toothpaste into the marble sink, rinsing the brush under a stream of cold water. "You need to learn how to get your non-existent ass out of bed ON TIME!" I scoff, craning my head back to examine my butt. It really is non-existent isn't it? It's the same with my chest. My short, five foot, nothing stature and wild mess of flaming red curls don't help either—I look more like a twelve-year-old girl, rather than a twenty-two-year-old woman.

"What do you want?" I whine, hurrying back up to my bedroom to get ready for whatever event Hodge throws at me.

"Imogen called me," he says abruptly and I stop dead in my tracks.

Eyes wide, I ask cautiously, "What did she want?" My publicist audibly sighs from the other end of the line.

"She needs the last chapter of your book," he says, annoyance plain in his voice. I groan out loud this time.

"Ugh! I thought we agreed on Saturday!" I say incredulously. My editor, Imogen Herondale, is one of the coldest people I know. She's always negative and cynical and seeing her is definitely not one of my favorite things in the world. But she makes me a better writer, and that is why I went to her in the first place. Normally she would wait until I called her to update her on my progress with the book I was currently writing. But when she started calling my publicist, that meant she was angry—and when she was angry… she was scary.

"I know!" Hodge yells back, still annoyed. "I guess she got impatient!"

"Umm…" I say, my brain working furiously to find a way to appease the demon that is my editor. "If I work REALLY hard… I guess I can get it to her on Wednesday," I say letting out a long, slow breath.

"Oh!" the older man exclaims. "That's amazing! I'll see what I can do!" I smile, relieved that we might actually quell the beast.

"Okay, I'm going right now to write."

"Okay, Clary, girl. Love you," he says kissing into the phone.

"Love you too, Hodge," I reply kissing back and snapping the phone shut. I drop it on my disheveled bed, going over to rummage through my dresser for something to wear. I finally settle for a short sleeved, black cotton crop top that exposes my belly button and a pair of very expensive, yet super adorable and comfortable pair of denim shorts that hang low on my thin waist. After applying the necessities (deodorant, lip balm, and a little perfume), I wrestle my unruly hair into two French braids going straight down the back of my head. Stuffing my laptop into my frayed messenger bag and grabbing my car keys, I sling the bag over my shoulders and head downstairs into the main part of the apartment again.

"Isabelle!" I shout wondering if my roommate—and best friend of twenty years—were even awake yet. I find her contorted into a complicated yoga pose on top of her bright pink yoga mat in our beautiful, and newly remodeled, living room.

"Hey!" she breathes. "You're up!" She unbends herself and rolls the mat up, taking a large sip of her flavored water. Why was everybody already up! I think to myself, exasperated. It was nine o'clock, for Christ's sake!

"Yeah," I reply following her to the kitchen, "I was going to the park to finish writing my book." I grab a banana and a granola bar and stuff them in my bag for later—I'm really feeling that hungry. Izzy grabs another granola bar from the same box and rips the packaging off, hungrily devouring about half of it in one bite. She pauses only to sweep her silky curtain of long, black hair into a high ponytail.

"Kay kay," she replies, perkily. "I have to get back to the studio anyway. They want me to retake a few of the new shots," she finishes, huffing in a very annoyed manner. Isabelle Lightwood is an extremely amazing model who poses for pretty much any couture brand you could think of: Armani, Prada, Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Ralph Lauren, and Vera Wang— the list goes on. We are both extremely successful for people our age. Me being a best-selling novelist at nineteen and her appearing in every Marc Jacobs ad in the June issue of Elle magazine at the same age.

Izzy was extremely popular in high school and was always asked to attend parties, raves, and what-have-you. She dragged me every single one. Partying wasn't really my thing, but I got slightly more into it during college. After we had graduated, we started going almost every weekend.

"We're still going out tonight right?" she asks as I grab a water bottle from the cabinet and begin rinsing it out.

"Of course, Iz! It's your freaking birthday!" I exclaim, looking at her as if she had lost her mind.

"Well, I never know with you!" she exclaims right back, gracefully hopping up on the counter and sipping her flavored water again. I laugh filling the newly clean bottle with ice and then water and stuffing into my bag along with the rest of my crap.

I look at the clock on the wall and swear. "I gotta get going. The beast wants the last chapter by Wednesday now," I say slipping into the sandals that were left by the bench in the corner of the room.

"Oh, Jesus Christ!" my raven haired best friend exclaims, recognizing right away who I'm talking about. "She really is a demon, isn't she?" I roll my eyes at the thought of how annoying Imogen is and sprint toward the door.

"Clary! Wait!" I hear Isabelle call as I slam the apartment door behind me. I'm halfway down the hall when I realize I'm without a very important part of me—my phone. Rushing back and banging the door back open, I find Izzy holding it in her grasp, her free hand planted on her hip, and tapping her toe looking a cross between amused and annoyed.

"Thanks," I reply sheepishly grabbing it back and shoving it into the black abyss that is my messenger bag.

"Ya-huh," she replies, smiling and rolling her eyes playfully. I shake my head, smiling and make my way back out the apartment door.

After an excruciatingly slow drive due to unexplainably heavy traffic, I arrive at Central Park. Parking along the side of the road and killing the engine, I grab my bag and make my way toward the picnic tables in a secluded corner of the park. I already have the idea of the direction I want the end of my new book to go in, so the words flow easily from my mind.

After eating my sorry excuse for a breakfast, I get back to work. I'm in the middle of an extremely important thought when my computer is snatched away before my eyes.

"Hey! Give that back you jerk!" I scream whipping my head up to see who the thief is. I start. Standing in front of me is an extremely attractive man, not much older than myself, with pale skin and jet black hair that hangs slightly in his eyes. He's staring at me with a pair of obsidian eyes that have a wicked glint in them and his mouth is turned up into an equally wicked smirk. My MacBook is clutched lazily in his fingers.

"Hey pretty thing," he says huskily, "I'm Sebastian,"

"Well, hello, Sebastian," I say, my voice full of disgust. "Now, how about you give me back my laptop before I call the police," I finish, pulling my phone from messenger bag.

"Hey, baby, there's no need for that," he says stepping around the picnic table and closer to me. "Why don't you tell me your name?"

I scoff. "Why don't you just give me back my computer and leave me the hell alone." My cheeks are burning. Who does he think he is? He was already painfully close and was getting closer. Something about this guy scares me even when he wasn't in close proximity.

Snatching my computer back from his grasp, I take a few hasty steps back, only to have my lower back impaled with the edge of another picnic table. Sebastian is closing the gap between us, coming closer and closer. I start to panic, grasping the edge of the wooden table.

"Please," I gulp, "just—leave me alone."

"Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you are going to come home with me," he replies, closing the small gap between us now. Shivers run up and down my spine and I turn my face away from his hot breath. I can feel his lips turn into a cruel smirk.

I take a shuddering breath and squeeze my eyes shut. "Get off me," I whisper feebly. I feel his smile widen.

"No," he breathes. I flinch and—Sebastian is wrenched from my body.

Author's Note: Okay, so there's chapter one. Sorry if it sucks (this is only my first fanfiction). Yes, I hate Sebastian, so I don't think he will be in here too many times. Hmm... I wonder who came to Clary's rescue? Fortunately you won't have to wait to find out because I'm posting another chapter right after this. Please review my lovelies? (It would mean a lot ;)

Disclaimer: The Mortal Instruments and all its characters belongs to the magnificent Cassandra Clare