Better in Black

One

Instead, I woke to swathing cream sheets and mahogany furniture, all twisted to face the smouldering embers of a dwindling fire. Weak sunbeams teased their way through gaps in the heavy curtains, tickling my face until my eyes fluttered open.
I'll save you the prolonged explanation of my confusion as you can imagine how I felt. I could have sworn that I fell asleep in my own tired bed in a tired little room in a tired old house in the middle of a sleepy English village.
My heart beating so fast that I felt nauseous, I assessed the room. One of the doors led to an ensuite bathroom, well-equipped with miniature toiletries, and the other opened onto an airy corridor complete with high stained-glass windows.
I remained in the room for a short while before I eventually ventured forth, acutely aware that I was wearing nothing but a pair of too-small pyjama shorts and a vest top. I continued my survey of the room and, although the dresser was as bleakly empty as a vampire's soul, the wardrobe contained an array of clothes in various shades of black, from charcoal grey to the deepest obsidian. I ran the strange fabrics through my fingers, the majority felt like leather but tougher and much more supple. After a little deliberation, I changed into the closest approximation of leggings and something resembling a tank top. On my feet I wore the lightest and plainest of the boots on offer.
In sconces poking out of the opulent wallpaper, there were orbs of milky white stones and on the bedside table was a pouch of the leather-like material containing an oblong prism of a crystalline substance and some other objects that I struggled to identify. The most alarming thing was the chest under the bed that was bulging with wicked-looking weapons, from knives and stakes to bows and catapult/gun contraptions. To be on the safe side, I slid a knife into each boot, two throwing stars down my bra and another, larger knife in the waistband of my trousers.
I felt both terrified and exhilarated. I was drowning in the feeling of deja vu and I was beginning to understand why. But it couldn't be true, could it?
I looked into the mirror in the marbled ensuite and was actually surprised by how I looked exactly the same as I had before I fell asleep, except for one major difference. My hair hung in auburn ringlets, framing my teardrop face. My sea grey eyes watched me, creased with indecision. I wiped away the smudged mascara under my eyes and then washed my face and brushed my teeth. Afterwards I felt refreshed, invigorated, and scared myself with how excited I was at breaking out of this strange building.
There was one thing that I saw when I looked in the mirror which intrigued me. Words, like a tattoo, were printed backwards in a small type across my right cheek. No matter how hard I rubbed then or how much soap I used, they wouldn't budge. I reeked of sandalwood by the end of it but had achieved nothing, word removing wise.

I tiptoed down the corridor to the winding staircase, wincing every time a floorboard creaked in protestation. The building rested on a foundation of whispers and, in my mind, they began to intensify, hissing until the noise became to much and every single inhabitant knew of my whereabouts. No one came.
It was too easy to reach the gargantuan doors. That was probably because the door itself was the only security that anyone would ever need. I had no idea how I would get past the labyrinth of locks, pulleys and intricate metalwork. It was like a door to the deepest vaults at Gringotts.
I was so engrossed in discovering which mechanism to turn that I didn't notice that I wasn't alone until he cleared his throat. My heart leapt into my mouth and I spun around, slamming into a boy who was at least half a head taller than me. His light hair, seemingly edged with gold in the filtered sunlight, crashed over his forehead in an evangelical wave, glowing with a heavenly taint. My heart slid back down my windpipe and my breath took it's place, bundling up in my throat, trapped.
A flicker of recognition fluttered across my memory. This could not be happening.
A smirk flitted across his full lips and his eyes, pools of molten gold, twinkled with amusement. When he spoke, his voice was rich and deep, but not so deep that it betrayed his youthfulness. Without breaking eye contact, he called, "Clary, she's awake."

A freckly redhead bounded in, green eyes atwitter, and looped her arm through that of the golden boy. Another girl, with ebony hair slicked back into a severe ponytail, sauntered in her wake, her eyeliner applied with the precision of a surgeon and her heels resembling deadly weapons in themselves.
The redhead elbowed the golden boy teasingly. "Did you introduce yourself, then?"
"Don't think I need to." The golden boy shrugged.
She turned to me and smiled encouragingly. "I'm Clary and this is Jace and Izzy." They really were who I suspected they would be. I twisted my hands behind my back and pinched myself. Hard. To my surprise, I felt it. This was real.
"I can introduce myself." Jace huffed. "I do know my own name."
"Are you sure?" Clary jibed. "I guess, if you forget it, you can always use one of your other ones!"
Jace sighed, affording Clary the barest of smiles in return. "Don't start."
"I'm Avariella." I interrupted, scooping my curls from in front of my eyes and tucking them neatly behind an ear.
"Do you shorten that, it's kind of a mouthful." Izzy said. Their accents were unrecognisable, I had never heard anything like it before.
I do shorten it, to Ella. I've always been Ella. So I said, "Avary."
"Come to the kitchen, Avary, you must be hungry." Clary offered.
I then realised that I was.

Whilst I sat on a stool in the kitchen, everything felt surreal. A shouting match between two floors ensued over the disappearance of the cereal which was the only food left in the kitchen except from a bag of flour and some wilted lettuce. Names I had only ever read before were yelled backwards and forwards whilst Shadowhunters surged around me, a roiling sea of steles and gear and witchlight.
Eventually, everyone settled and I was promised food later because, to quote Izzy, it "looks like it's going to be a takeout day again."
Cradling a mug of steaming coffee in my hands, I asked, "Why am I here?"
"I found you in the street." Jace answered. "Was going to leave you in a church or a hostel or something but you started muttering. You mentioned Shadowhunters and the Downworld, you even mentioned some of us by name. You were pretty far out, I'm not surprised you don't remember."
"Sorry." I murmured, taking a tentative sip of my coffee. It burned like a poker dipped in jalapeños but I didn't let it show.
"Don't be." Clary smiled reassuringly.
"And this?" My hand went to my cheek where the backwards words clung, "What happened?"
"Nothing to do with us." Izzy dismissed.
Clary added, "We don't make a habit of tattooing strangers in their sleep."
"I guess that kind of thing only happens in Vegas." I reasoned, shoving my worries to the back of my mind.
Clary grinned, looking to Jace knowingly.
"That line is so overplayed." He muttered.
"So where are we?" I queried, tugging distractedly on one of my curls.
"London Institute." Izzy stated.
"We're here for the week, covering for the Branwells. It's kind of a rite of passage, to see if we can be trusted to do something right without going AWOL." Clary provided.
"We're doing great," Jace said sarcastically, "one day in and we've only picked up one random mundane!"
At that moment, a lanky boy with a tousle of chocolate curls joined us, loitering in the doorway to straighten a pair of crooked glasses.
He jumped up onto the counter and slapped down the thick volume he had tucked under his arm. I recognised it instantaneously. "Avary, isn't it?"
I nodded. "And you're Simon?"
Simon searched Clary for help, "How does she know that?"
"We haven't got that far yet."
He slid the book to me. "You had that with you. Don't know if it's important."
"Of course it's not important, Simon." Jace provided. "It's just blank pages."
My brow furrowed in confusion. "It's a book, can't you see it?"
"Blank pages, blank white cover." Jace clarified.
"City of Heavenly Fire. It's a book."
"What?" Jace asked. "I heard the 'it's a book' bit, but before that you slipped into another language."
"Jargon." Izzy agreed.
But I hadn't, I swore I hadn't. They couldn't see the book. They couldn't even hear it's name. What was I doing here?

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