We're Called Shadowhunters. At Least, That's What

What’s That Poem Again?” Will, Who Had Been Twirling His Empty Teacup Around His Fingers, Stood Up Straight And Declaimed: “each Spake Words Of High Disdain, And Insult To His Heart’s Best Brother—” “oh, By The Angel, Will, Do Be Quiet,” Said Charlotte, Standing Up. “i Must Go And Write A Letter To Aloysius Starkweather That Drips Remorse And Pleading. I Don’t Need You Distracting Me.” And, Gathering Up Her Skirts, She Hurried From The Room. “no Appreciation For The Arts,” Will Murmured, Setting His Teacup Down.

Isabelle," She Said, Lightening Her Tone With An Obvious Effort, "your Loyalty To Your Friend Is Understandable --" "he's Not My Friend." Isabelle Looked Over At Jace, Who Was Staring At Her In A Sort Of Daze. "he's My Brother.

The Kitchen Was Just As Empty, Even The Refrigerator Gone, The Chairs, The Table--the Kitchen Cabinets Stood Open, Their Bare Shelves Reminder Her Of A Nursery Rhyme. She Cleared Her Throat. "what Would Demons," She Said, "want With Our Microwave?

Do You Really Wish To Disobey Me, Marbas? Do You Wish To Anger My Father?

I Have Mastered Many Things In My Life. Navigating The Streets Of London, Speaking French Without An Accent, Dancing The Quadrille, The Japanese Art Of Flower Arranging, Lying At Charades, Concealing A Highly Intoxicated State, Delighting Young Women With My Charms..." Tessa Stared. "alas," He Went On, "no One Has Ever Actually Referred To Me As 'the Master,' Or 'the Magister,' Either. More's The Pity.