The Angel-Blooded One (Shadowhunters ff)

3 - The Date

Clary

Clary stared at the white ceiling, its surface a canvas for the phantoms of her dreams. Once, they were a chaotic blur, devoid of details, leaving behind only a trail of raw emotions. Lately, fragments had emerged – glimpses of shadowy alleys, otherworldly landscapes, a lake shimmering in a moonlit forest. The figures, once featureless smudges, were starting to take shape, some etched with strange black markings, others adorned with ethereal wings.

Last night's dream had been particularly disturbing – ethereal figures with skin like moonlight, their crimson lips bleeding a trail of scarlet down their chins. Clary squeezed her eyes shut, a cold sweat clinging to her skin. Was she losing her mind? Still, a peculiar ache settled in her chest, a yearning for something she couldn't grasp. These dreams felt oddly familiar, as if a part of her soul resided within those blurry images.

Some nights, when sleep would not come, she stayed awake thinking how different she felt now than she had before. For one, the changes in her body had been undeniable. Gone was the wiry frame she remembered. Now, lean muscle skimmed her toned arms and legs. Her posture was straighter, her movements more fluid, and an inexplicable urge to move, to push her body to its limit, gnawed at her.

Yoga and running had offered no solace. But last fall, during a mandatory self-defense course offered at the Academy, a spark had ignited. Blocking strikes, executing maneuvers – her body moved with a practiced ease that defied logic. It was as if her muscles had their own memory, whispering her forgotten instructions. For the first time in a long time, her body had felt familiar, a vessel she could finally control.

Muay Thai became her new obsession. There, amidst the grunts and sweat, she felt home. She had been moved to the advanced class, the group consisting mostly of men who had been doing this for years. But there was one girl her age, with obsidian hair and swirling tattoos. She seemed to watch her from the sidelines, a ghost at the edge of her vision. A nagging sense of recognition gnawed at Clary, but whenever she tried to approach her, the girl vanished. Was it just her imagination? A self-deprecating chuckle escaped her lips. Focus had never been her strong suit. Her mother used to call her imagination a gift, a boundless well of creativity. Now, it felt more like a curse.

Nine months. Dr. Cornell's weekly sessions were a monotonous litany of failed memory retrieval techniques. They had tried everything but no memories surfaced. The emotions, though – they persisted. In the beginning, the unexplainable emotions were only the overwhelming ones, and the triggers clear. But lately, they were accompanied with a constant feeling of unease, like a shadows of emotions she couldn't name. Dr. Cornell had called it a breakthrough, a sign of repressed memories finally surfacing. "It's a good thing," she had said. But Clary wasn't so sure. Why would she want to remember anything that hurt this much? Whatever she'd lost, maybe it was best left forgotten.

***

It was late February and she had been attending the Academy almost six months now. Thanks to Aria's relentless matchmaking, she now had a circle of people she sometimes spent time with. But she rarely told anyone of her life before the Academy. Yet, on a drunken New Year's Eve she had slipped and confessed to Aria that she had never dated anyone. "Really?" Aria had scoffed, a sentiment Clary half-heartedly echoed with a joke about her personality.

Ever since, Clary's dating life had become Aria's personal crusade. Clary had deflected for two months, using the Academy as a convenient shield. But now it was winter break and the vast expanse of free time had rendered all of Clary's excuses – deadlines, looming projects – useless.

Eric, the date, was Aria's acquaintance, a New York University spring semester visitor. At least it was nothing serious then, Clary thought with a sigh. She stood in front of a dubious looking place called "Hunter's Moon", an "up-and-coming" bar according to Aria. Underneath her wool coat, she wore her comfort clothes, a graphic tee, jeans, and a paint-stained flannel. The winter wind bit her skin and made her curse for forgetting gloves.

A flicker of movement across the street caught her eye. A figure, bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun, seemed to be staring at her. Blond hair, almost luminous, contrasted with his dark clothing. A hint of black ink peeked out from his collar, like a glimpse of a hidden tattoo. He seemed familiar, as if she had seen him before. Just as Clary took a tentative step forward, a voice startled her.

"Hi, you must be Clary," a man with startlingly white hair and sparkling blue eyes greeted her.

"Yes," she stammered, extending a hand that felt suddenly clammy. His touch was cool and electric, sending a jolt through her.

The man's smile widened, revealing a row of impossibly white teeth. "Eric," he announced, his voice tinged with a faint accent. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Clary. You look stunning."

A blush crept up Clary's neck. Compliments, especially from strangers, made her stammer. He ushered her into the bar, a dimly lit space with only handful of people scattered around. Yet, Clary couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, a prickle of unease crawling up her spine. Glancing back out the window, she caught a glimpse of the man from before. But as she focused, the figure vanished into the shadows.

"Losing it, Fray?" she muttered to herself, dismissing it as another hallucination.

Eric, oblivious, led her to a corner table. They settled in, conversation flowing surprisingly easily. He spoke of his studies – finance with a passion for game theory – and listened intently as she talked about art. The night was actually pleasant. Still, a nagging sense of unease persisted. When Eric excused himself for the restroom, Clary found herself drawn to the window again.

The street was deserted – or so she thought at first. There, across the road, stood the blond stranger, and though his face was obscured by the darkness Clary knew he was watching her. Her stomach clench and an inexplicable urge to flee, to escape from the bar and Eric's flirtatious banter, took hold of her.

"It's getting late," she blurted out when Eric returned. "I should probably go."

"Let me take you home" he insisted, his smile a touch too eager. "These streets aren't safe for a beautiful woman like yourself to be alone at night."

***

The drive to her apartment was a blur of traffic lights and Eric's enthusiastic explanation of game theory. He delved into zero-sum games, where victory for one meant absolute defeat for the other.

"Like a balance of light and darkness in the universe?" Clary blurted out, catching Eric's bewildered stare. "Sorry, bad Star Wars reference."

A tense silence stretched between them. Then, in a low voice, Eric spoke. "He said you had no memories of the Shadow World. But clearly, you do."

Clary's heart skipped a beat. "Who said?"

"Your grandfather, Oskar Morgenstern," Eric continued, his voice laced with a strange reverence. "The architect of the zero-sum theory – light versus dark, locked in an eternal struggle —"

"Grandfather? What do you mean?" She had never heard of her grandfather before. Her mother had always been secretive about her family, especially her father's side.

Eric tilted his head, studying her. "Oskar Morgenstern. Valentine's father."

The name ripped through Clary like a lightning strike. "Valentine Morgenstern", she mouthed. It felt eerily familiar, like a half-forgotten melody. A jolt of memory flickered – a man on a beach, the weight of a lifeless body in her arms, a blinding light erupting from a lake. Images flickered, agonizingly close to comprehension. But as she strained to grasp them, a wave of excruciating pain crashed over her. Instinctively, she let the memory go and the images receded, replaced by the familiar, gnawing emptiness.

Eric waited, anticipation etched on his face. But as Clary remained silent, a crease formed between his brows.

"Forgive me," he said, the practiced smile failing to reach his eyes. "A case of mistaken identity, I suppose. The resemblance is striking, though."

The rest of the journey passed in a tense silence. Clary desperately grasped for the memory fragments, willing them to stay in focus. Blackness threatened to consume them, but pushing against it ignited a searing pain in her chest. The agony was unbearable, and she relented, letting the memory retreat into the abyss. The emptiness that followed felt like a familiar friend, a constant companion since waking up in that park.